"That fucker McLaren doesn't pay us anything. He gives us an allowance of five quid a week. I'm living in a dosshouse."
We alighted in front of a selection of Thai, Italian, Persian, Chinese, Moroccan and French restaurants.
"Ebert, what have you gotten us into?" Meyer asked with alarm. "John needs a big piece of meat."
We found a grill house in a basement supplied with dark, cavelike booths. To my surprise, no one recognized Johnny Rotten except our waitress, who confided "I'll keep it quiet." She offered to recite the daily chef's selections. Russ firmly cut her off: "We'll have three of the Trencherman's Specials." Russ entertained a fancy that the Trencherman's Special was as standard in every decent restaurant as a glass of water and a basket of bread.
"I don't think we have that on the menu," the waitress said, looking to Johnny for support. He looked as if he stayed above such details. We compromised with the three largest steaks the chef could find in his kitchen.
"Will you be having jacket potatoes with those?"
"Baked will be fine, my dear."
Meyer opened up by informing Johnny Rotten that with his stovepipe arms he wouldn't have survived one day in the army.
"What do I want with the fucking army?" Rotten said.
"You listen to me, you little shit. We won the Battle of Britain for you!"
I reflected that America had not been involved in the Battle of Britain, and that John Lydon (his real name) was Irish, and therefore from a non-participant nation. I kept these details to myself.
After dinner, we drove Johnny in a cab to where he lived, in an anonymous street in Notting Hill. "Fucking McLaren," he said. "That was the first decent meal I've had in a month." Meyer gave him five pounds and we waited outside a convenience store for him to buy lager and canned pork and beans. "Fucking great," Johnny said.
Fair. Balanced. American.
Monday, April 12, 2010
So, Michael McLaren, Russ Meyer and Johnny Rotten were in this bar, see
Roger Ebert's tweets and blog entries have made him of the most important figures in social networking among American writers anyway. His reminiscences about the stillborn, Ebert-penned Who Killed Bambi? are stupefying.