Pussycat Dolls, Kelly Brook and a Bloody Chin

I had signed with a new manager, whilst living at the Beverly Hills based W Hotel, in Westwood many moons ago. During lunch time, my newly acquired LA literary manager and I were sat pool-side, chomping on a delicious burger, served to us with sheer elegance and a sparkling smile by that of Bonnie.

My manager wore a ridiculously bright colored Bluetooth ear-piece for his cell phone. He resembled a type of cyborg and detached the device, strategically placing it on the table by the sauces. He’d wince every so often, tugging at his fingers on his left hand. Once we had finished our meals, my manager retrieved his unused knife, held it horizontally and grit his teeth, moving it slightly. “Hollywood secret.” he said, checking his teeth for signs of stray food.

I sneered and believing we had struck an early bond and in a foolish attempt to mimic him, I took up my fork, and raised it, however my elbow slipped on the table and I accidentally stabbed myself in the chin with the prongs. I instantly clutched my jaw, widening my eyes with fright.

“What the hell did you do?” said my manager.

“I tried to copy you.” I replied.

“With a Goddamn fork?” he blurted. “It’s bleeding. You chin is bleeding.” And so it was. Lowering my eyes, I could plainly see, let alone feel, blood. “Idiot.” he said, passing me a napkin.

I held the napkin to my pierced chin and noticed the manager’s eyes widen. I frowned, wondering whether he’d stabbed himself, too, as he arched his back, clutching his fingers, wincing once again. 

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Trying to take my wedding ring off.”  he struggled.

“Why?” I was confused, but he gestured, with a nod of his head, for me to look ahead.

“Two Pussycat Dolls coming this way.” he was sweating as he leaned back on the chair, desperately tugging his fingers.

I squinted to see two members of the famed singer dancer troupe strutting towards us, but no doubt making their way to pass us.

“Two Pussycat Dolls. Two Pussycat Dolls. Up ahead.” he chirped excitedly, yet somewhat flustered.

“And you think you have a shot at them?” I quipped.

“Not with this ring on, but you might. One of them for sure.” he continued as the two girls stopped by the table, looking at the painful smile upon my manager’s face.

“Hey.” said one PCD, with a faint look of recognition on her immaculate face.

“Hey back. This is my new client, Ben. He’s British.”  An odd introduction, but an introduction it was at least. I received two brilliant white smiles. Teeth like a row of fridge doors, but mouths soon pouted to an ‘ooh’ as their glistening eyes fixed on my face or more precise, my bleeding chin.

“Your chin is bleeding, honey.”

“Idiot.” mumbled my manager.

“What are you doing there?” one asked, pointing at my manager’s peculiar posture.

“Oh, chair exercises. I put my back out, just stretching.” he bluffed, deflecting the fact he was actually trying to remove his wedding band and with that, the girls continued their swift glide across the terrace and inside.

My manager straightened, checked his wristwatch and eyed his Bluetooth ear-piece by the sauces.

“OK. I’ll drop you off to Paradigm, then I’m gone.”  he said, standing up, towering above me. 

I had a meeting with British actress and model Kelly Brook and her agent. Kelly, who I had championed for Lara Croft a few years prior had expressed interest in a female spy character I had written.

With my manager behind the wheel and me riding shotgun, I was still holding my bloodied napkin to my punctured chin.

“Dab it. Dab it. Idiot.” he blubbed, as he dialled a number on his cell. “Hi, this is ‘Mister Manager from Mister Manager and Co, who am I speaking with please? – Hi Bonnie. Mister Manager from Mister Manager and Co. How are you? Good. Good. I had lunch with a new client of mine, who is a guest at your hotel and I accidentally left my Bluetooth device on our lunch table. – Well, if you’re able to get it for me personally, Bonnie, then that would be most appreciated. Thank you. Thank you. What I’ll do is drop my client off and I’ll come by the hotel at say.. Well, when do you finish your shift, Bonnie?”

Yes, my manager, it seemed, was hitting on one of the restaurant staff. He had actually set this up from the moment he sat down at the table to have lunch. “Nice. Nice. See you then, Bonnie.” he completed his call and scowled at me. “It’s still bleeding! It needs to dry. The blood needs to dry, stick your head out the window.”  he instructed, scrolling the window down.

I leaned my head out of the passenger window and was instantly yanked back into position. “What are you? A dog? Get back in here, idiot!” he yelled.

We pulled up outside the Paradigm Agency and as soon as I stepped out of the car and closed the door, it sped off.

Inside, after talking with the reception staff about a party which I had actually been to and described in equally bizarre detail here, I was met by Mr Young Handsome Agent.

“Ben! Why are you here? Man, your chin’s bleeding.” said Mr Young Handsome Agent.

“Yeah, I stabbed myself with a fork. Why shouldn’t I be here? We’re meeting Kelly Brook, right?” I said, with a beaming, excited smile.

“Well, you should be meeting her, Ben, but not here. She’s at your hotel, dude! Did you manager not pass on the message?”

My heart sank, especially at the thought that my pest of a manager was making his way back to the world of Bonnie, Pussycat Dolls and Kelly Brook without me!

“Man, seriously, maybe we can get you a cab back, but it’s like half hour away. Ah, dude. She has the script and everything. She’s at your hotel, Kelly Brook is at your hotel!”

He only had to say it once.

And so, I got a taxi back to the W, with the Armenian driver telling me he had written a screenplay, asking if I could do anything with it. I informed him that I couldn’t really do anything with my own, but wished him luck with his. It was mostly a silent ride back, until he added the fact that my chin was smeared with blood. At least it wasn’t bleeding anymore.

A friend who worked the pool bar at the W approached me.

“Brother, there was a super hot chick asking for you for like twenty minutes, man. ‘Are you Ben? Are you Ben?’ She seemed so disappointed you weren’t around. Shame she didn’t stay. Ah, man, I so wished I was you, but like, without the blood-stained face. Kelly Brook! I’ll never forget that name.” he chuckled as he poured me a beer.

Bonnie tussled my hair and gently wiped my chin.

“Look at you, Hollywood Ketchup face.” she said, passing me a blinding smile. 

With the sun going down, I tasted my beer and knew that I would never again use a fork in pretending to mimic someone using the side of a knife for a mirror, as not only did it take an age to stop bleeding, it also prevented me from meeting Kelly Brook!

The Golden Goose Shower Commandos

A friend of mine got married in Hawaii recently. She’s awesome and has married an awesome guy, too. He’s one of the main dudes behind the Call of Duty games and has some amazing stories. She was an actress and a bar tender.

There was a time when I was practically living in the W Hotel in Westwood, Los Angeles. I like the neighbourhood. It’s bordered by Beverly Hills and Bel-Air and such like. It was at this hotel where I first met my friend. She was prepping some mojitos and cutting up some limes. One morning, when I headed pool-side for breakfast, she was doing her usual prep, but asked if I would mind the bar for half hour or so. “Just cut a few limes. It’ll be OK.” she instructed. I naturally obliged as she headed out for an audition. Whilst cutting some limes, one of the managers approached. “Morning, Ben. Howya doin’.. uh, behind the bar?” he said, frowning curiously. As he was a good bloke, I told him the truth of the whereabouts of my friend who I was manning the bar for. “Ah, yeah, I forgot. I’m due for an audition on that show, too later.” He said, casually. “I don’t think we’ll get away with you covering me though.” He quipped as he took up behind the bar and assisted me with my lime chopping.

Nearing my two-month stay at this particular hotel, I became a known face and I got to know some of the regulars who frequented there. It was also quite a trendy hotspot at the time, so said regulars were often privy to some top secret information. Some took pity on this pale Brit and kindly offered me some money-can’t-buy things. One money-can’t-buy thing was an invite to a party.

“OK, just be yourself. Well, kinda. Maybe a better version.” He chuckled, though with more than a touch of seriousness to his tone and in his eyes. “Here’s the address and listen up.” he said, resting a hand on my shoulder, firmly and moving his mouth closer to my ear. We were stood at the side of the bar. It was early evening. A healthy number of people were milling around. The well-groomed and beautiful, sipping their desired beverage through a straw and there was me, with my whatever-it-was on-tap beer. Then there was this fifty year old suited guy about to whisper in my ear. “It’s not a password, it’s a pass phrase. You understand? That’s how you get in. You understand?” he told me a pass-phrase, the all-important pass-phrase that would apparently enable me access to a party up in the Hills. The Hollywood Hills. I curled my lip when he told me, frowning as I did so, accompanying it with a sneer. He gripped my shoulder, clasping it as he drank his Scotch and lime. A lime stuck on the side of his glass. A slice of lime, one I had bizarrely cut that day. He even turned his back on me to speak with somebody else, all the while grasping my shoulder. It was quite uncomfortable, however my mind was thinking more about the pass phrase he had just whispered discreetly into my ear.

The following evening, I got ready and asked one of the doormen I had befriended to get me a cab. “Whoa, seriously cool. I’d drive you there myself, buddy, but I gotta stick here tonight. Shame you have to arrive in a damn cab.” he said.

“It was?” I thought to myself.

And so, the Beverly Hills Cab, with its blue and white colors glistening in the light of the hotel, pulled up outside and the door was opened for me to clamber inside. Across Beverly Hills and West Hollywood and up into the Hills I was driven, right up, weaving this way and that, into the night and to a set of gates. “Exactly half an hour.” said the Armenian driver. I paid him and as soon as I had got out and closed the door, he was already backing up. I was stood alone. In the night and not really knowing where exactly I was or who I was supposed to be invited by.

Actually, I wasn’t completely alone, for there, stood by the large gates, blocking any kind of view of beyond, was a well-built guy who could only be described as being SWAT-like. Decked head to toe in black, complete with cap and earpiece, he acknowledged my arrival with a quick jut of his head. “Can I help you?” he asked.

I eyed my surroundings. Pitch black. The sound of the taxi cab’s engine becoming more and more distant. The sound of crickets.

The sound of me swallowing as I stepped up to the guard and I randomly said; “I have a golden goose, would you like to see it?”

The guard in black stared at me for a few seconds. It seemed like minutes. He tightened his mouth into a thin, rock hard smile and nodded his head. “I would very much like to see that golden goose, Sir. Please, step this way.” He depressed a button on a device held within his hand and the gates slowly opened to reveal an extremely long driveway.

I think I was more fearful as to what was beyond the gates than when I had to say my pass-phrase to the modern-day Ninja looking dude stood near me.

As soon as I had passed the gates, a golf cart pulled out of the shadows, squealing to a halt in front of me. The driver was a young woman. She was dressed similar to the guy I had just seen, but had a Sonya Blade from Mortal Kombat feel about her. “Hi. Please get in the cart, Sir.” she said, with a somewhat robotic smile on her face. It was like being in Westworld or something. I gestured to a glimmer of lights fifty feet or so ahead. “I can walk, it’s no problem.” I replied.

“No, Sir. Please. Get in the cart.” she said more forcefully, complete with a Terminatrix stare.

I got into the golf cart and she accelerated up the driveway. Within a second of our journey, a black limousine passed us. I caught my reflection in the shiny black metal but it was gone in an instant as another vehicle traveled past. An orange Lamborghini Gallardo. I wanted to say ‘wow’, but before I could even pout my lips to say ‘w’, the cart had stopped by a fountain and the Terminatrix whipped her head round to me. I frowned, looked at a set of grand steps, then eyed the fountain and thought it must be the end of the short ride, so I got out.

I looked up at the steps, exhaled and was about to set foot up them when I heard a voice cry out; “You there! You! Hello?” I turned around and saw an incredibly slim, well-groomed suited young man and very, very camp. I approached him in the shadows of the fountain. In his hand was one of those bulky looking devices you use to electronically sign deliveries in with. “I’d like you to put your name and zip code in here, please.” he commanded. “I don’t really live here.” I replied.

“It’s OK, we have a list of all the hotels in the US”. he quickly responded, holding up his electronic pen. I asked him what this was for and he snapped at me his reply, like it was the most obvious thing on Earth. “It’s for you to state you haven’t seen the actor producer ‘X’ at this party.” he held his look on me, awaiting me to take up his pen and sign on his LCD. “That I haven’t? I haven’t seen my mate Rob either, have you got a form for him?” I quipped, only to receive a more harder, more camper stare back at me, accompanied by a hand on hip motion. “I’m serious. Your name and hotel, please.” I was about to pinch his pen when another voice hollered out; “Would you leave my goddamn guests alone! Everybody knows your client is gay. Who cares! Stop lurking in the shadows, damnit! I want you to leave. Now. NOW!”

The voice belonged to a man I won’t describe. I didn’t recognize him, but he was extremely welcoming and as he escorted me up the steps to the mansion - his mansion - I halted us both and naively said; “’X’ is Gay?”

“Of course! You just worked on their movie, didn’t you?” he replied.

“Yes, I still am.. working on it.. I guess..” I said.

“Not what I heard. You were fired a while back. Still, party on, right.” the guy responded. 

I didn’t know what I was more taken aback with, the A-list talent I was requested to sign to say I hadn’t seen at this particular party as well as being informed was Gay or told I had been let go from a big Screenwriting break. Of course I went with “Hang on, didn't they recently get married?”

“So! Their other half is Gay, too!”

“What? But they’ve just had a baby!” I blurted.

“It was a sponge baby!”

“I got fired... Pardon? What? A what baby?” I was more confused now than ever.

“A sponge baby. A sponge baby! The woman wore a suit. Three different prosthetic suits each trimester. The woman gave birth to a damn sponge baby.”

“So who did have the baby?” I asked, being led up the steps once more.

“Who gives a damn? This is Hollywood. You can buy anything and anyone. If you want a baby, but don’t want to have a baby, then you pay someone else to have it, but some people want their cake and to eat it, too, so go through the most insane.. listen, I need to speak with other people. Let me introduce you to coupla guys.”

“Are they Gay, too?” I chirped, mockingly, as we stood by the door to a grand hall. The man looked me in the eye, seriously and frowned.

“No. Actually they’re ex-Special Forces.” he replied, introducing me to two Australian guys before he left the room.

The Aussie guys advised on weapons and tactics for movies and took me back outside to a massive pool area. To say it was a stereotypical movie pool scene is an understatement. It was that and so much more. Bikini-clad babes equaled the muscle-bound guys in ill-fitting, tight shirts and all with teeth whiter than fridge doors. 

“What beer d’you like?” one of them asked me.

“Er, I don’t know. What have they got?” I asked, as I continued my stare at the walking-photoshopped beauties on parade before me.

“Everything.” he replied, gesturing to a jacuzzi literally filled with every type of beer imaginable. 

“You can drink yourself around the world, buddy, here.” the other commando said, tossing me a bottle of beer and sitting down. “We're on beer letter 'E'."

Swigging my Elephant Beer from Denmark and talking about the past ten minutes of my arrival, the Australians laughed and pointed his beer towards the pool, gesturing for me to turn.

“Go to bed with me! Bed me! Bed me! Go to bed with me! I’m hot. I need to cool down! Bed me! Cool me down! Cool me down!” shouted the A-list talent, (the same talent I was supposed to sign to say I hadn’t seen.) I couldn’t believe my eyes. The A-lister was chasing, in an extremely aggressive manner, around the pool, another person, who looked quite fearful. What was weirder was the fact that nobody was really taking a blind bit of notice, except for me, of course. 

I turned to my new-found Special Forces friends. “Isn’t that..?”

“Yep.” answered one, swigging his beer.

“Been doing that all night. It's really quite annoying.” added the other, swigging his beer.

“Who’s the other one being chased?” I quizzed them.

“That’s their partner. They’re [insert totally cool profession, unrelated to media or the arts here]. Been with them for years. Had an argument or something. Crazy how we were all forced to sign that weird electronic form to say we haven’t seen squat.” one reeled off.

“I didn’t sign anything.” I said, explaining why I hadn't.

“No way! Awesome.” said one, swigging his beer, before telling me some of his gung-ho tales of old, with the occasional aggressive tone of the A-lister not too far away yelling; “Bed me! Cool me down! I’m hot! Cool me!”

It was then that one of the Aussies sighed, exhaling his breath louder and with more force than a twister. He dumped his bottle of beer to one side and turned to me. “You gotta phone?” he asked. I nodded. “You gotta wallet?” he asked. I nodded. “Hand them over.” he demanded. I did so, without question. “Take ya shoes off. Quick.” he ordered and I once again did so and as soon as I had, he stood up and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m sorry, but I’m getting really hacked off. He wants to cool down. I’ll cool him down.” the ex-special forces beefcake said before literally picking me up off the ground, twisting, pivoting and then hurling me four meters through the air like a sandbag. Before I could complete my thought of whether I looked like Superman learning to fly for the first time, it was touch down time.

SPLASH!  

I had made contact with the water of the pool with such accuracy and precision that the water, which was ejected from the force of my impact, rained down all over the A-lister, soaking them right through, stopping them still in their stride.

Despite being underwater for what was only around two seconds, it was enough for me to realize what situation I was now in. What facial expression should I emerge to the surface with? I decided it was to be a grin. My pleasant, smiling face gently broke out to the night air and my eyes locked onto the A-lister’s own stare, along with my ears experiencing dead silence, until the star’s lips slowly curled into a brilliant smile and released a; “I’m cool! I’m cool! Yeah! Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! I was hot, now I’m cool! You are crazy and we need to hang out! Yeah! Now THAT was a shower!”

Whoops and cheers erupted and a couple of bronzed good lookers leapt into the pool. A gigantic, welcoming hand then reached down to my wet face. It was the Aussie who hadn’t thrown me. “You can stop smiling now, mate.” he said, yanking me out of the pool and to my feet, with ease, like I was the weight of a toddler. 

I trudged back to the ‘beer jacuzzi’ to where the other Aussie patted me on the pack and handed me a beer. “Had to be done, fella. You’ll dry off in a couple of hours. No worries. Cheers.” The three of us clinked bottles and continued to enjoy our night, without a single interruption of annoyance or muttering from the A-list talent I had drenched. 

“We're now onto 'G'. I think your beer is quite an apt one, buddy." said the Aussie commando who threw me into the pool. He smiled and winked. 

I frowned, rotated my bottle and saw the name of my new beer. 

 NOTE: I have of course naturally changed the pass-phrase used in this blog, but my undisclosed beer still matched it nonetheless.