The redecoration of the public areas of Fleming Towers continues apace with comedian and prop maker par excellence Martin Soan up ladders painting. (I have a fear of overbalancing induced by a childhood trauma on a rope-and-plank bridge in Scotland when I was around nine.)
Late yesterday afternoon, Martin came downstairs and said:
“I’ve just been asked to play a vagina. This woman’s rung me up and asked me to play a vagina. Which is OK. Alright. I can accept that there’s a vagina in a play. I’m quite open and liberal about it. But then she told me she wants me for the BIG vagina. There is another part in the play for a SMALLER vagina.”
“Who’s playing that?” I asked.
“I’ve got no idea,” said Martin.
“Have you met this woman before?”
“No,” said Martin. “Someone just gave my number to her.”
“Obviously,” I said, “she was asking around for someone who could be a cunt and people suggested you.”
“It must have been Boothby Graffoe or someone like that,” mused Martin. “She did mention it was so-and-so but she was talking fast and… someone has just passed my number on…
“She was reading through the whole play over the phone for about five minutes,” he continued in disbelief. “She said: Hang on a minute! Hang on a minute! I’ll just open the curtains to let some light in the house. I mean, it’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon now and she’s just opening her curtains to let some light in her house.”
“But you have no idea who the small cunt is?” I asked.
“I did suggest Andy Linden,” said Martin. “I’d play the big vagina if Andy Linden was playing the small vagina.”
“Would you be a talking vagina?” I asked.
“I presume so,” said Martin. “There are lines. It’s a play.”
“Vagina lines?” I asked. “What lines?”
“I’ve got no idea,” Martin replied. “She was reading the script to me, but my head was swimming.”
“Where would this play happen?” I asked.
“At The Lost Theatre in Vauxhall,” said Martin. “That’s a good place to do a play if you’re straight, isn’t it? It’s the gay capital of the world.”
“It’s not the Vauxhall Tavern?” I asked.
“No,” said Martin, “but every pub round there…”
“That’s where MI6 is!” I interrupted. “Vauxhall… James Bond can’t be gay!”
“But,” explained Martin. “MI6 is on the other side of the road. They’re separated by the one-way system. They call the bit opposite Gay Village.”
“Do they?” I asked. “I haven’t lived, have I?”
“No, you haven’t,” said Martin.
“Didn’t you build a vagina for someone once?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Martin. “I’ve made two vaginas.”
“For…?” I asked.
“I can’t remember,” he said. “One was for a dead-straight stand-up. He wanted an all-singing-and-dancing talking vagina. I used silk. It had hair and eyes that one. It was really scary.
“And I did another vagina for someone else, but I can’t remember the name.”
“Honestly!” I said. “Your life is so full and complicated that you can’t remember who you made a talking vagina with eyes for?”
“No,” said Martin. “I block all these things from my memory.”
“I suppose that’s possibly wise,” I said.