London Boulevard Page #2

She has a studio upstairs.

The papers would say she daubs.

See, you're not allowed

to do more than one thing,

which is why a polymath,

such as myself,

prefers to do nothing.

It's all about privacy, you see.

This day and age.

Privacy.

I fancy celebrities

rather like the Olympians of old.

They do wonder out there,

the little people,

what their gods are doing,

who they're f***ing,

who they've chained to a rock,

or turned into a f***ing ass.

All this could be yours, later,

if you haven't nicked

any Screaming Popes.

Are you fixed up?

For now, I am.

It's a nice day,

if you like that sort of thing.

Everything you could possibly need

is in here. Tools, ladders, paints.

If there's anything else,

we have an account, down the road.

You've seen her in films?

Getting her kit off.

If it wasn't for Monica Bellucci,

she'd be the most raped woman

in European cinema.

And all before the age of 30.

Of course, she's also

very serious about her acting.

Apart from not wanting to do it,

she's incredibly serious about her craft.

Her husband's a fuckwit.

His cars.

He hasn't a call for them.

He's in Spain. Drunk.

They should be covered.

They need to be taken care of.

Yes.

Well, if we could find the f***ing titles,

they'd have all have been sold.

You will arrive promptly at 7:30,

work commences at 8:00 sharp.

At 11:
00, you'll have a tea break.

At 1:
00, lunch for one hour.

- Monday's you'll do painting...

- Jordan, I'm not sure of this...

Please, bear with me.

I'm making all this up.

I'm a model of efficiency.

Wednesdays, the roof.

Thursdays, windows.

Friday, the patio. Saturday, party.

Sunday, go to church.

And pray, I pray you, for all of us entire.

Right.

Are you an actor?

Am.

I'm resting.

You are no longer employed, Mr Lee.

I thought I made that perfectly clear.

Lighten up, mate.

So I had a camera.

Did I use it?

- Did I?

- You have already been replaced.

I don't think so.

You see, I know too much, don't I? Eh?

Cup of tea, Jord.

Two sugars.

There's a good boy.

Get the f*** out of here,

you fat, f***ing c*nt!

And you go anywhere near the tabloids,

and I will chop you up in court

until there's nothing left

but a f***ing stain!

F*** off.

Thank you. No heroin today.

They'll take your photograph

until they realise you're nobody.

They're kind enough to think

we're all somebody, for a minute.

Is next Monday suitable?

Oi! You want a talking to.

He's got no idea, that posh c*nt!

No idea! No f***ing idea, mate!

You've got to ask yourself how

he became posh in the first place.

His grandfather probably did

your grandfather with a shovel.

You don't want to f*** with me!

I don't have to f*** with you,

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