Flim night was gorgeous as usual if you are Manchester based make the next one at Three Minute Theatre. I today wrote a sculpted poem as usual using a secondary source. I highly recommend reading this interview in full because it is hilarious. Ten years after the film Withnail and I was made the writer/director and Paul Mcgann and Richard E Grant got together to discuss the film. http://www.richard-e-grant.com/archives/withnail-and-i-ten-years-on-2/
I isolated the text from Paul McGann and Richard E Grant and cut out words in order to make the following poem.
He never told me anything we were all feeling around, it was my invidious task I was so upset.
I did “Fork it!”I was lunging at him. He asked me did I generally attack I said, “Not to my knowledge,”. Fuck, I’m going to be used as a kind of stooge I had been out of work for nine months, so I though Oh I’ll order absolutely everything on the menu. I was so knotted up that it was sort of like eating dog bones.
Down the escalators in an increasing state of depression, started blubbing thrashed round my house, I was levitating to the ceiling, jumping on the furniture, screaming, shouting.
Oh it was a physical thing – he had that imperious bearing and looked down his nose at you.
Wanted me to have a “chemical memory” a whole bottle of champagne in one night. The next morning gallon-sized jars of vodka. I remember them laughing I was falling around and crying, completely out of my head. All in one room banging out all the speeches. I knew I had to get out of the French windows, a Persian carpet came out of my mouth.
Look at his eyes, he shouts out, “Scrubbers” to schoolgirls. He has that madness in his eyes. It wasn’t him. He dictated the pace, he was the soul. He was fantastic when used well, and basically got what he deserved.
We had adjacent rooms in a hotel It’s six, seven in the morning. I can hear next door, bottles clinking, ashtrays shuffling. Then these low growls, honey rose tobacco smoke the door opens and it’s like Boris Karloff, and I’m in absolute hysterics.
He’s telling you a total lie. I was on a different floor. I’ve kept a diary on whatever I’ve done, they’re in for a big surprise when it comes out.
There were times when I wanted to kill him and I’m sure there were times when he wanted to kill me as well. He’d seen Uncle Monty as this fat cartoon character.
His memory’s fucked; it was the first day. I had a quiet nervous breakdown over lunch, thinking that comedy couldn’t be done in the dark. “We’ve come on holiday by mistake,”
I’ve had enduring respect. And on a personal level, complete satisfaction.
Unless the stupid fucker drops dead.