My porn ownership runs to two well loved mpgs and a DVD. I haven’t managed to get past the first five minutes of the DVD, because I really like the opening scene, and it seems a shame to skip it. So I watch it, just for old time’s sake. And five minutes later, with a soggy palm and a wilted parpus, it suddenly seems more important to waddle upstairs before my flatmates wake up.
So porn is still a semi-mystery to me. I know they get up to all sorts, and I know they’re capable of enjoying it twice as fast and five times more hammery than myself. Which is why, when I was introduced to a porn director at a birthday party, my eyebrows raised, my mouth opened slightly, and my brain went absolutely dead.
All I could think was… for Christ’s sake, don’t say the obvious thing. I’ve had those kind of jobs myself…
Barman…
“I’ll come in for a free drink then, shall I? Laugh!”
Comedy Writer…
“Go on then, tell us a joke. Aggressive Laugh!”
Computer Programmer…
“Let’s have hot Viking sex! Scowl!”
So, what were the obvious things for Porn Directors? I cycled through the first few things I wanted to say, knowing that I shouldn’t say them;
- Porn, eh? And they pay you for that, do they? Laughs!
- Hey, porn! Porn, eh? Phwoar! PORN!
- What’s the biggest fanny you’ve ever seen? Was it like… you know… a folding chair?
- So, everyone’s wanking on set, right? I mean, everyone’d have to be wanking on set.
- CAN I STAR IN EVERY FILM YOU’VE EVER MADE PLEASE
- Why don’t you make cloud porn? I’d watch cloud porn.
- You know those remakes? Like Ghostbreasters? Why don’t you do Boxing Helena? You could call it… er… Dirtboxing… Bellenders!
- Hubba! Hubba! WHOOP! Gnnnrrrr. Gnnnnrrr. Snibba snibba!
- Pornography. That’s nice. Did you nail Jesus’ palms into the cross yourself? I’m just asking. I mean he did fucking die for people like you. I just wondered if you wanted a more hands-on approach than most other people.
- Have you seen Animal Farm?
My internal inspiration was exhausted – I glanced desperately to the buffet table.
“Nice hoummous,” I said. It was nice hoummous. I’d eaten quite a bit of it. “Do you think it’s home-made?”
Having just arrived, he looked a little helplessly at the table. “I… I’m not sure,” he replied, and I smiled. And every word tearing jigsaw pieces of my skull away, I went on – “Well, with hoummous this nice, who cares who made it?”
He moved into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. I went for a shit.
will possibly be faced with a similar problem in the immediate future. Have discovered that Rebecca ‘Hannah Martin’ Ritters [former neighbours starlet] works at a waitress in a london restaurant which we, ergo, intend to frequent. How to coolly slip into the conversation the fact that we are aware of her Antipodean ‘celebrity’ without appearing like the world’s worst examples of ‘a bunch of shitbricks’?
maybe she would enjoy ‘the alternative angle’ of us informing her that we used to affectionately refer to her as ‘clitty’? [her nickname within the show was ‘Button’, it was evolved {by us} to ‘Love-Button, a tiny leap of faith away from ‘clitty]
plus on an unrelated yet related note, my ‘microsoft access breast size extrapolation programme’ [little TM as a superscript for added authenticity] informs me that, bearing in mind their rate of growth on-screen and speculating as to what they may have done over the last few years even factoring in the archetypal celebrity’s sloppy attitude towards sustenance consumption, they are now more than likely ‘absolutely enormous’.