A sprinkling of stardust
There’s more excitement in the village than there’s been since the last informal running of the bulls. Discreet yellow signs point the way for ‘cars’ to go to ‘base’ and, intriguingly, ‘set’. It would appear that that crazy old business we call show has come to the village and judging by the plethora of vans, lights, gaffers, best boys and cables, we’re not just being sprinkled with stardust, we’re having it crapped all over us.
There appears to be a film unit at the Vicarage. The Vicarage is no longer the abode of the vicar, it was sold off years ago by the local church to raise money for either charity or to finance the vicar’s somewhat expensive tastes in fine vestments and booze, depending on who you believe.
Actually, I rather liked the old Vicar, he was an ex-RN type who could have come straight out of central casting, looking as he did like an aged version of the jolly mariner depicted on the front of a packet of Player’s Navy Cut. Word had it that the church thought so highly of his work in our delightful corner of a leafy shire that they packed him off to some inner-city parish. Apparently his beard covered most of the expression of shock he wore in his last months, but by no means all.
Whoever occupies the Vicarage, the finest house in the village, has obviously decided to supplement their income by hiring it out as a filming venue. The film unit have been there for a few days now and so I am assuming they are not taping a porno, although the way that films are made these days, maybe they are filming the original ‘Dirty Doinking’ and the sequels ‘Dirtier Doinking’ and ‘Filthy Doinking’ back to back. If they are filming back to back, it’ll be a pretty dull porno.
In fact, the presence of blokes in puffa jackets grunting into walkie talkies, that staple of the film industry, indicates the sort of production likely to end up actually on the box rather than on youhootube. It has gathered remarkably little attention. When I were a lad it would have been the subject of considerable interest, now everyone has a video camera and puts their own film together to broadcast to their mates, even if this is just happy slapping a rotweiller until it comically savages them (I’d give that three stars, four if the dog eats the camera after eating the tormenter).
Or maybe it’s just the wrong type of entertainment. With interior filming in an old house, this is likely to be something that means tight breeches on the men and plunging necklines on the women, Jane Dickens or similar. Of more interest no doubt would be a talent show. Indeed, I’ve worked out the perfect talent show formula – acts are not even allowed to perform, they simply turn up in a room and have abuse hurled at them and their dreams shattered for the entertainment of a baying mob who can, by pressing the red button, activate a hose that shoots liquid shit at the hapless soul at 800psi until they stop screaming. Surely that is kinder than the seconds of suspense that come between the host saying ‘the result of the vote is that you are…’ and the word ‘fucked!’ or ‘Coming back next week’.
For my generation at least, seeing local views on telly is still a bit special. For many, the glamour fades when the view is partially obscured by a BBC reporter in a flak jacket, or a line of riot police, but there’s something about seeing something familiar treated in an unfamiliar way that fascinates, like when they put straw down in front of an old building and, hey presto, it’s the Victorian age, marred only slightly by the double glazing and the satellite dish.
Of course those desperate to break into the business could just hang around the set hoping that the leading man meets with an accident like ‘being bludgeoned by an ambitious local’, or try to get a part by giving the director a blow job. If it’s a porno, that’s the audition.
There appears to be a film unit at the Vicarage. The Vicarage is no longer the abode of the vicar, it was sold off years ago by the local church to raise money for either charity or to finance the vicar’s somewhat expensive tastes in fine vestments and booze, depending on who you believe.
Actually, I rather liked the old Vicar, he was an ex-RN type who could have come straight out of central casting, looking as he did like an aged version of the jolly mariner depicted on the front of a packet of Player’s Navy Cut. Word had it that the church thought so highly of his work in our delightful corner of a leafy shire that they packed him off to some inner-city parish. Apparently his beard covered most of the expression of shock he wore in his last months, but by no means all.
Whoever occupies the Vicarage, the finest house in the village, has obviously decided to supplement their income by hiring it out as a filming venue. The film unit have been there for a few days now and so I am assuming they are not taping a porno, although the way that films are made these days, maybe they are filming the original ‘Dirty Doinking’ and the sequels ‘Dirtier Doinking’ and ‘Filthy Doinking’ back to back. If they are filming back to back, it’ll be a pretty dull porno.
In fact, the presence of blokes in puffa jackets grunting into walkie talkies, that staple of the film industry, indicates the sort of production likely to end up actually on the box rather than on youhootube. It has gathered remarkably little attention. When I were a lad it would have been the subject of considerable interest, now everyone has a video camera and puts their own film together to broadcast to their mates, even if this is just happy slapping a rotweiller until it comically savages them (I’d give that three stars, four if the dog eats the camera after eating the tormenter).
Or maybe it’s just the wrong type of entertainment. With interior filming in an old house, this is likely to be something that means tight breeches on the men and plunging necklines on the women, Jane Dickens or similar. Of more interest no doubt would be a talent show. Indeed, I’ve worked out the perfect talent show formula – acts are not even allowed to perform, they simply turn up in a room and have abuse hurled at them and their dreams shattered for the entertainment of a baying mob who can, by pressing the red button, activate a hose that shoots liquid shit at the hapless soul at 800psi until they stop screaming. Surely that is kinder than the seconds of suspense that come between the host saying ‘the result of the vote is that you are…’ and the word ‘fucked!’ or ‘Coming back next week’.
For my generation at least, seeing local views on telly is still a bit special. For many, the glamour fades when the view is partially obscured by a BBC reporter in a flak jacket, or a line of riot police, but there’s something about seeing something familiar treated in an unfamiliar way that fascinates, like when they put straw down in front of an old building and, hey presto, it’s the Victorian age, marred only slightly by the double glazing and the satellite dish.
Of course those desperate to break into the business could just hang around the set hoping that the leading man meets with an accident like ‘being bludgeoned by an ambitious local’, or try to get a part by giving the director a blow job. If it’s a porno, that’s the audition.
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