the producers

Afternoon conference with the producers at their offices in London.
Air conditioned office.
Plush leather seats.
Three moguls sitting behind the table facing me.
They're decrepit enough as moguls go.
Aura of money.
I don't dislike them.
They're not bad people.
Maybe lacking a little in the human kindness department.
Ah yes.
I am not entirely comfortable in my plush leather chair.
Still have to make the best of it.
They may be ruthless business shark b*st*rds with no souls but at least they're my ruthless business shark b*st*rds with no souls.
"James," says Mr Ganucci. "We want you to consider some changes."
"What sort of changes?"
"Well for a start, we're going to have to change the name of the Johnston Press."
"No, you're not."
A moment's silence.
Mr Sartello enters the fray.
"Legal issues Mr Healy. Legal issues."
"I don't care. If you want to change the names, you've got no film."
"If we back out you've got no film Mr Healy."
"Don't bet on it."
More silence.
Mr Mendozien pipes in.
"You don't think they'll sue?"
"That's your concern. You war game this thing with your lawyers. Be ready. But no. I don't think they'll sue. They've been running scared of meeting me in court for five years."
The moguls sighed in unison.
A secretary entered.
Sexy lady.
"Sirs, your five o'clock is here."
The meeting was over.
Mr Ganucci led me out.
We chatted easily enough now that the pressure was off.
"How about Alan Rickman for the part of John Fry?" he wondered.
I found this idea amusing.
"Rickman is good," I mused. "But he's sort of likeable even when he's playing evil. It might be better to get someone the audience never really likes. Still Rickman would be good. Think of what he'd do in the scene where they log onto Chocolate Salty Balls."
A thought struck Mr Ganucci.
"James," he murmured. "How much of it is true?"
"Some of it's true," I told him. "Some of it is entertainment."
"Okay," said Mr Ganucci. "The scene where the trade union man disowns you. Did that happen?"
"No it never happened."
"So the union might have stood with you?"
"I never called in the union."
"But you wrote on your blog before they fired you that the union had refused to back you."
"Yeah I wrote that."
"Why would you do that?"
"It was an homage to Saint Thomas Moore."
Mr Ganucci's wizened features became briefly even more wizened.
"James I'm an old man. Explain."
"The scene in the cafe with the union man has him telling me that I'll lose my pension. I then say: Why then my good Lord Sir Baldman the only difference between thee and me is that I shall lose my pension today and you shall lose your pension tomorrow. That sentence is a tribute to Saint Thomas Moore. Henry the Eighth sent a nobleman to him in the tower threatening that he would lose his head to the executioner's axe. Saint Thomas replied that the nobleman himself would lose his head soon after. It turned out to be true too. I wanted to use the line. It's a good line."
"You put it on your blog before they fired you, knowing your employers were reading the blog?"
"Yes."
"You put it there knowing it would give the impression the union wasn't supporting you?"
"Yes."
"You even wrote that the trade union guy turned his back on you and walked out of the shop."
"I sure did. But none of it ever happened. It was just a good piece of drama. I hadn't called in the union."
"But James how could you publish it when you still had a job? Surely you must have known that the Johnston Press would think they could fire you with impunity if the union wasn't backing you. Did you ever call in the union?"
"I never called in the union."
"Why?"
"Because I'd realised the Johnston Press didn't have anything I want."
Mr Ganucci saw me out into the street.
London welcomed me like a son.
I wandered up the mall, shouldering my way past the glamorous, the gorgeous, the glorious and the vain. For a moment it seemed as if the pavement crowds were parting not for an anonymous Irishman but for a famous hero.
It seemed they looked at me not with indifference but with... recognition.
How very very odd.