Monday, December 13, 2004
The Bar Of Dead Celebrities
Insomnia has returned with vengeance. Last night was a nightmare as I struggled to sleep lying with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, the curtains, my hidden reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Each one of Laura’s coughs from her bedroom brought me more and more into a state of being fully awake, but when sleep finally did come, it lasted what seemed like the length of your average dream. But the dream I had was anything but average.
I was having a meal with Gail, my pal Dave and his wife Isla. We were all suited up in our glad rags in a beautiful and expensive Mediterranean style restaurant. Isla wasn’t as pregnant in the dream as she is at this moment in reality and was tucking heartily into the vino along with Gail, while Dave sucked on Olives and I puffed on a Montecristo No. 1.
It came time to leave and we decided to go to a bar for a drink. We walked through a very warm and humid city – British, but more like a holiday resort – maybe Torquay or somewhere who knows. Anyway, the point was we came to a hotel and as the rest went to get a seat in the bar, I ran and dived head-first into the hotel outdoor swimming pool; fully clothed and in the darkness of the evening light.
I pulled myself through the length of the pull not once coming up for air, feeling my body become immersed in the safety of the water, the outside world a million miles away. It was peaceful and it was soothing, but very soon I had to come up for air. When I climbed out the pool people were staring at me in disgust, then amazement when they say how dry I was; the water it seemed, had not been able to touch me.
I couldn’t find where the rest had gone so I walked into a bar I thought they might be. It was trendy with big glass windows, brightly lit in opaque and crystal decorations with what looked like diamonds hanging from the roof. A woman I recognised was at the near end of the glass-top bar, turning with the drink she had just ordered and our eyes met. It was Gwynneth Paltrow, though her hair was dyed black and much shorter in length, she still looked stunning. She smiled suggestively and I winked, then realised Chris Martin might be in the bar too so walked further on before queuing for a drink.
I ordered a pint of lager and as I waited for it to be poured I looked to either side. To my left, Bruce Forsyth and Natasha Kaplinski – to my left Noel Gallagher, Robbie Coltrane and Billy Connolly all laughing away. Maybe this is the Met Bar or some other celebrity hangout, I remembered thinking to myself.
I went through to the back of the bar to see if Gail, Dave and Isla were about but still could'nt see them. The décor changed as I advanced through the establishment; from sophisticated and modern to your typical drinking men’s club with smoky air, high raised windows over maroon leather surrounding seats, an old carpet and brass fittings to all the wooden facades. All around loads of famous faces seemed to be talking about the old days. In a booth chatting quietly to each other were Bob Monkhouse and Tommy Cooper – both much younger and slimmer, and both drinking malt whisky.
I made my introduction and joined them. Then it hit me.
“Hold on,” I said to Bob. “You died a few months ago!”
He smiled as if I had uncovered a big secret, stepped into his world not meant for mortal audiences.
“So are you!” I said to Tommy, realising I had watched him die, like millions of others on live TV in 1984. “What’s going on?” I asked and looked around the room.
There were tables dotted around the room with famous people - who were all dead - but here they were having a drink and smoking in their younger years. Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., John F Kennedy, John Peel, Freddy Mercury, Phil Silvers, Les Dawson, Larry Grayson and Bob Hope – they were all there.
It was all extremely weird but I adjusted to it quickly, feeling right at home in their friendly company. I decided I would probably never get this chance again and started a conversatrion.
Bob and I recalled how his joke book had been stolen and I told him how much he was missed doing his stand-up routines. He used to be able to charge £20k for an after-dinner speech and his quality meant people paid for it. He was surprised I knew this about him.
I spoke to Tommy about how as a child, and still as an adult watching the repeats, how he still has me in stitches with his genius magic acts and funny one-liners. I thought it best not to mention when he died live on stage in front of millions of TV viewers, and how at first some people thought it was part of the act, but I did tell him how amazed I was to learn he suffered from stage sickness, and would nearly always get himself so worked before he went on he would physically vomit.
Then Laura came into the room. It was 7am. The dream was gone.
I was having a meal with Gail, my pal Dave and his wife Isla. We were all suited up in our glad rags in a beautiful and expensive Mediterranean style restaurant. Isla wasn’t as pregnant in the dream as she is at this moment in reality and was tucking heartily into the vino along with Gail, while Dave sucked on Olives and I puffed on a Montecristo No. 1.
It came time to leave and we decided to go to a bar for a drink. We walked through a very warm and humid city – British, but more like a holiday resort – maybe Torquay or somewhere who knows. Anyway, the point was we came to a hotel and as the rest went to get a seat in the bar, I ran and dived head-first into the hotel outdoor swimming pool; fully clothed and in the darkness of the evening light.
I pulled myself through the length of the pull not once coming up for air, feeling my body become immersed in the safety of the water, the outside world a million miles away. It was peaceful and it was soothing, but very soon I had to come up for air. When I climbed out the pool people were staring at me in disgust, then amazement when they say how dry I was; the water it seemed, had not been able to touch me.
I couldn’t find where the rest had gone so I walked into a bar I thought they might be. It was trendy with big glass windows, brightly lit in opaque and crystal decorations with what looked like diamonds hanging from the roof. A woman I recognised was at the near end of the glass-top bar, turning with the drink she had just ordered and our eyes met. It was Gwynneth Paltrow, though her hair was dyed black and much shorter in length, she still looked stunning. She smiled suggestively and I winked, then realised Chris Martin might be in the bar too so walked further on before queuing for a drink.
I ordered a pint of lager and as I waited for it to be poured I looked to either side. To my left, Bruce Forsyth and Natasha Kaplinski – to my left Noel Gallagher, Robbie Coltrane and Billy Connolly all laughing away. Maybe this is the Met Bar or some other celebrity hangout, I remembered thinking to myself.
I went through to the back of the bar to see if Gail, Dave and Isla were about but still could'nt see them. The décor changed as I advanced through the establishment; from sophisticated and modern to your typical drinking men’s club with smoky air, high raised windows over maroon leather surrounding seats, an old carpet and brass fittings to all the wooden facades. All around loads of famous faces seemed to be talking about the old days. In a booth chatting quietly to each other were Bob Monkhouse and Tommy Cooper – both much younger and slimmer, and both drinking malt whisky.
I made my introduction and joined them. Then it hit me.
“Hold on,” I said to Bob. “You died a few months ago!”
He smiled as if I had uncovered a big secret, stepped into his world not meant for mortal audiences.
“So are you!” I said to Tommy, realising I had watched him die, like millions of others on live TV in 1984. “What’s going on?” I asked and looked around the room.
There were tables dotted around the room with famous people - who were all dead - but here they were having a drink and smoking in their younger years. Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., John F Kennedy, John Peel, Freddy Mercury, Phil Silvers, Les Dawson, Larry Grayson and Bob Hope – they were all there.
It was all extremely weird but I adjusted to it quickly, feeling right at home in their friendly company. I decided I would probably never get this chance again and started a conversatrion.
Bob and I recalled how his joke book had been stolen and I told him how much he was missed doing his stand-up routines. He used to be able to charge £20k for an after-dinner speech and his quality meant people paid for it. He was surprised I knew this about him.
I spoke to Tommy about how as a child, and still as an adult watching the repeats, how he still has me in stitches with his genius magic acts and funny one-liners. I thought it best not to mention when he died live on stage in front of millions of TV viewers, and how at first some people thought it was part of the act, but I did tell him how amazed I was to learn he suffered from stage sickness, and would nearly always get himself so worked before he went on he would physically vomit.
Then Laura came into the room. It was 7am. The dream was gone.
Colin 11:28 pm
1 Comments:
Gwynneth Paltrow? Man you WERE dreaming! Now get back to writing teflon man!
Brenda
Brenda
