A dead body. A court case. And a cat’s funeral.
Just another average day in Hollywood.
The body at the top of the staircase outside my new apartment in
West Hollywood appears to be dead. Very dead. White face, no movement and no
response when I poke it. Then, I do what they do on TV: place my two fingers
against her neck (I have ascertained that the corpse is female) and turn to the
assembled throng (well, non-assembled in this case) and shake my head.
Going downstairs to get better phone reception, I call 911 and
explain the situation. Returning to the corpse to await whatever service is on
its way, I am more than a little surprised to witness a resurrection before me.
Moreover, a resurrection with a very bad nosebleed dripping all over my carpet.
“You wanna chill,” says the ungrateful Lazurus.
I call 911 again and tell them of the miracle that has occurred,
but stress that the body is still in need of urgent medical attention. The last
I see of her, she is in the middle of the road, trying to flag down a taxi. For
all I know, she was run down and is now in the morgue, which is where she
should have been in the first place. Some people have no sense of drama.
A few hours later, I find myself in court – a place I have been
just twice in my life. The
first time was as a witness for the police in the UK, when they had decided my
complaint against a taxi driver warranted a case for "rude and aggressive
behaviour".
The Appeals Court (he didn't turn up for
the first trial - ok, a tad melodramatic, I admit) put the problem down to there
not being "enough charisma" between us. How much charisma do you need
to go from Wardour Street to Brewer Street (less than a mile) behind a pane of
glass, I asked the dumbfounded police afterwards.
The second time was in LA in 2011, when I
successfully sued my landlady for non-return of a huge chunk of my deposit.
Everything I put into practice I learned from watching just one TV show: Judge
Alex. And so, for the second time in a day dealing with LA law, I find myself
in court for the third time: not in the handcuffs (alas) I fantasised about
when I first saw the TV show, and not, thankfully, with my being sued for being
the judge’s stalker.
Judge Alex used to tape in Houston but is
now in LA, and it is not only the best of the courtroom shows, it is one of the
funniest shows on TV. It helps that the judge is stunningly handsome, brilliant
and witty, and Twitter is packed with legions of swooning female fans; but it
is a brilliantly edited show, too.
So, I am on the set and asked where I
would like to sit - on or off camera. Anyone who knows me would know they could
have just plonked me on the Judge's bench at the outset and downgraded me from
there.
In fact,
anyone who knows me will be surprised to learn that I was not fully robed,
gavel in hand, shouting "Action!" with the poor Judge locked in a
cupboard elsewhere on the studio lot.
So, I am seated second from the left in
the front row, and the first person to talk to me is an actor. So is the
second. And the third. And the . . . You get my drift. They join lists that
provide audiences for studio shows such as Judge Alex and get paid by the day.
"They get paid more than we do,"
says RAN 1 (Resentful Actor Number 1 on my left, who has been to every show
today), nodding towards the hallowed ground beyond the wooden barrier where he
is penned. "When I was a litigator . . . " he begins. I decide not to
point out that he has never been, will never be, a litigator. I also hesitate
to point out that he will never be an actor, either, but hold my tongue. (When
I returned to see my second show, he was shunted off to "Standing room”.
Quite right, too).
Behind me sits RAN 2. She's a nurse. Not a
real one, of course. She has been a "background actor" in several
hospital dramas, but is ready to move centre stage.
"Do a monologue - NOW!" shouts
RAN 1, a little frighteningly. She stumbles. I think of reciting Henry V's
speech from the Battle of Agincourt, but in the millisecond I take for breath,
RAN 1 is already off again. "I'm a Shakespearean actor really . . . “
There is a very handsome younger man
behind him who has played a detective (albeit a "background
detective"). He has the kind of look that gives me the feeling that he
might just make it, and he comes to these shows to network. He claims they have
been very useful.
Oh, Hollywood, I love you. The hope.
The cat’s funeral is an altogether more
sombre affair. I don’t like cats, but felt I had to support Chrissy, a fellow
journalist, in her hour of need. “Mr Love” had been one of her feline
companions for 14 years (“Slut”, his mother, lives on, and is very unperturbed
by her son’s passing), and had been kept alive by his owner’s adoration and
acupuncture, which is big pet business here. The decision to have him put down
was a tough one.
My biggest concern is when I get a call
from Chrissy saying that Bradley, the homeowner hosting the event, can’t find
his iPod with Memory from Cats on it, the number Chrissy has chosen for the
funeral, so could I gen up on the lyrics ready to sing.
When I arrive at Bradley’s, Mr Love is in
a box wrapped in Christmas paper, with three sunflowers on the top. Memory is
playing on the iPod, which has been found. Phew.
Basil, Bradley’s dog, is hovering a little
too enthusiastically close to the box, and when we enter the garden for the
ceremony, he is locked away.
After Chrissy reads an e-mail from a
friend, praising both Mr Love and his owner, I decide to sing. I wasn’t going
to waste a morning’s practice, after all, so I go for the Welsh hymn Calon Lan,
which means a pure/honest/happy heart. I tell the sobbing throng that it’s a
love song. I decide to leave out its associations with being sung on the rugby
terraces.
It’s what Mr Love would have wanted.
Like I said. Just another average day in
Hollywood.
