Written – the countryside: you can keep it!

I’m sure you will relived to hear that I’ve finally got the James Taylor tour bus back on the road. I’ve just been confirmed for a bridal Magazine shoot. A five day trip away, in the heart of the English countryside.

I was thrilled, I haven’t worked for weeks and on paper it sounded fantastic. A five day trip away, with what I assumed would be my bride to be; and hopefully a few hotty bridesmaids, just in case.

So first thing Monday morning I jumped in the car and headed over to a funny little place called Castle Combe, which let me tell you, is in the middle of nowhere.

Not much goes on in Castle Combe. (No really nothing) It consists of an inn, a pub, a church, a small sweet shop, and lots and lots of Japanese tourist.  They were everywhere, they were, worse than speed bumps, always walking in the road, making me go around them, ruining my racing line, scrubbing all my speed off. Maybe there was a castle there too, but I didn’t see it????

But although it was such a small place, for the life of me I still couldn’t find where our location was, and on this occasion, Lola my car, was as lost as I was. I couldn’t even call for help; as my phone had no signal. And I didn’t speak Japanese; I was as helpless as an Easyjet air stewardess trying to serve a plane full of English yobs on a booze crawl to Benedorm. (Oi love, can I have a Stella)

Eventually after a good 5 minutes (at least), of driving around I finally found it. The place was huge, but was well off the beaten track, as I trundled along down the long stony driveway, towards the manor house, with ivy growing all over, and lots of hooray henrys playing crochet on the lawn.  So I bet they were a little shocked to see me roaring up the driveway towards them.

I parked my car and had a quick look around, and I remember getting quite excited at the prospect of taking one of the many golf buggies out for a joy ride, but there was no time for that just yet, as by now I was 2 hours late

Eventually I found everyone else on the shoot. I apologised for being late and after shaking everybody’s hand that was in the room, of course my mind switched to where are all the girls.  At which point, I was informed that there where no bridesmaids or even a bride, it turned out it was a groom shoot; so it was just me, and three other guys. There wasn’t even a cute make up artist to look at, as he was a geezer too and as for the stylist, well; she was a right nasty piece of work, bearing in mind the world cup was on; so every time I tried to sneak off to catch a game, she would hunt me down and make me try clothes on; I mean, what was she playing at!  But she would let all the others enjoy the game; just persecuting me. As you can imagine, I took to her like a duck to a Chinese restaurant.

The first shot of the day was in one of the bedrooms in the hotel, which were like little stand alone cottages next to the main house.

Now, not hyping things up to much, but these rooms were pretty amazing; huge great marble bathrooms big enough to park a car in, with flat screen tvs in the shower, gadgets everywhere with little buttons to change the mood lighting and make things pop out of cupboards. I couldn’t wait to finish shooting and check in to my room and see what they all did. 

However. Once we did finish shooting for the day, the client pulled me to one side and broke the news that, there had been a problem with their booking, and that they were one room short, so they instead had booked me into an Inn down the road in some other little town with a name I can’t recall, for fear of reprisals.

We didn’t finish shooting till quite late, so by this time it was dark, as I pulled up at my destination about a 15 minute drive from where everyone else was staying.

Dark country lanes all the way, with big scary willow trees converging either side of the road. But I kept my wits about me as I parked my car in the pitch black car park and hastily made my way to the reception desk, to be greeted by a old bearded lady, I was waiting for Scooby Doo to pop out any minute; I’m not a big fan of horror films and it doesn’t take much to get my hairs on end, and this place sure did that.

The old lady creaked as she showed me up stairs to my room, and for once in my life I had nothing to say. I really wasn’t feeling to clever about where I was about to spend the night.

She went on to hand me some bath towels and explain that there was only hot water between half 8 and 9 and then shut the door with a bang and I was on my own, in silence and I got undressed ready for bed, the room really gave me the creeps,

So I’m lying in bed, tossing and turning (well actually more tossing than turning) as I just couldn’t relax, it was as if the room was too quite, unsettlingly quite it just made you feel uneasy.

The next day at work, I bit my lip about how dodgy the hotel was and about how I had to have a cold shower as I got up late, and about this trip was nothing like it was made out to be, well for me anyway, but the next few days went by quite well apart from the odd run in with the evil stylist, so I just got on with things.

But on the penultimate night of the shoot as I made my way back to the scary inn, as I locked my door and got into bed, and turned off the light cuddling up to my little teddy, I just felt a strange feeling that something wasn’t quite right, and after a little while I finally did drift off, but then all of a sudden about 3am I was awoken from by this banging noise, it was coming from the room directly below.

Now you can image me, sitting up with the blanket pulled up right over my face, with just my eyes poking out and teddy wasn’t saying to much, so I was in this one on my own; I’ve never been so scared in my life as the banging noise started to get louder and then I herd it out in the hallway and then it started to get louder, it sounded like big boot footprints climbing the stairs outside getting closer and closer and then there was a knock at the door. You can imagine my fear, as I creped over trying my hardest not to make a sound, armed with my travel hairdryer as I looked out of the keyhole to see this shadow standing there.

I held my breathe, so not to make a sound, and just hoped and prayed, it would go away, eventually I herd it turn and walk back down the stairs, and at that point I started frantically collecting all my stuff together.

I gave in 5 minutes and made a run for it; launching my stuff onto the back seat of my car, wheel spinning away in the gravel; I wasn’t hanging around there, and it wasn’t as if I could call anyone, as my phone still didn’t work.

That was it; id had enough and had nowhere to go, so I decided to head back home to Essex.  After all, if they put me up in that scary place, they were asking for trouble, and presides, they brought me there on false pretences anyway, where were all the women.

Unfortunately, my phone is now working again and I just got a right ticking off from the boss, for leaving the job, so I don’t think ill be getting married again any time soon. 

I still don’t know what was outside my room last night, although unless the bearded lady grew 2 foot and bulked out overnight it definitely wasn’t her. 

To be honest, I’m not going back to find out, saying that, this is coming from a man who can’t watch the film, “Alien” on his own.

So I guess I will just never know, I guess the countryside is just not for me either, but at least I’m narrowing down the list.

jtx

 

(Also, I would just like to say a big thank you to Dorothy from the sweet shop; the rhubarb and custards were exquisite)

 

Written – mes noms est James, je vis en île de canvey dans le sud-est de l’Angleterre

Like most models; if I’m ever out, trotting down Carnarby street, and someone comes up to me, and ever asks what I do for a living, I nearly never say I’m a model. All of a sudden I become an Actor, or a Dancer or a Helicopter pilot or of course now; a Writer. All be it unless you’re a big casting director or Brucey Webber in which case, Hi I’m James, I’m at select.

Now I think this is, not because we think, that you think, that models have no brain and get everywhere just because of their looks; as clearly this in not always the case.  I can even say a few things in German and remember without prompting every single stop on the c2c line between Shoeburyness and London Fenchurch street.

Instead I think it because, everytime you say you’re a model, everyone then automatically assumes, you get lots of free stuff and are a reckless playboy, who gallivants all round the world and who should never be let anywhere near anyone’s daughter.

And it’s just simply not true. I’ve been modelling now since I was 15 and in all that time, all I’ve ever got is a few dirty old pairs of socks that I’ve managed to sneak off a job when nobody was looking.

Or it could be because, as soon as you say you’re a model, its just like saying I’m a big wimp and please don’t hurt me, don’t touch my face.

It’s ok, I admit it, I’m not a fighter. After all how do you think I got into marathon running? 

But saying that, I guess I’d like to think for a very small period of time; could pull a scary, “I’m going to eat your head off” face, making them think twice for a split second and then whilst they’re mulling it over, legging it off up the road to find refuge.

Anyway, the other day I was on this job in Hackney in East London. For those of you not familiar with the area, lets just say erm, well I guess. “Up and coming”.

So I turn up for work bright and early shooting some little French catalogue you know, smiling away all day, wearing nasty knitted jumpers, the sort of which, your Great Great Auntie would buy you for Christmas, that would go straight in a draw under your bed never to be seen again, that your Mum would make you phone and say thank you for, along with your lotto scratch card and the £10 hmv voucher. (Granted I have a very generous Great Great Auntie)

So I arrive and go round shaking everyone’s hand; as you do, going though the motions finally meeting the photographer who sort of looks you up and down, putting you all on edge, so your then thinking, “fuck! They’ve booked the wrong model here by mistake” they hate me! They wanted James Crabtree, not James Taylor”, before after what felt like an eternity them giving you a kind half nod of approval before grasping your hand with a firm hand shake and swiftly turning there back to you to go and shout and one there assistances to move a light, “1mm to the left.”

Before I know it, I’m lured away upstairs to the hair and make up area and sat down at this little stall in this dimly lit room and then out of the darkness, the little short French man with big thick rimmed glasses and a tash, who id not seen before comes over to me (minces) and without even saying hello starts pulling my hair and then manoeuvres round in front of me and then starts touching my face. “Oh I forgot to mention during this time, I’m already enduring; which I can only assume, is this little French mans Ipod, player these really weird French songs.” (Loved that )

Anyway, enough was enough, so I thought before this little man messes about with me anymore, I should let him know who’s boss and in my best French accent calling on all my years of learning French at school, I said, “Hello, my names is James and I’m from the Canvey Island in the south east of England.”  I thought I’d go all out so chucked that in there as well, you know just for affect. 

But it had no response and he carried on playing with my hair and making French sounds at me like nommm, and ehhh.

At this I was a little bemused, but what was to follow, was far worse.  You see, I don’t like make up to much and I really don’t like people playing with my hair, that goes for even being in bed; when you know after and the girl reaches across and starts stroking you, I mean maybe if it’s your girlfriend but I’m not a fan. But I especially can’t stand it if I didn’t even get to have the pleasure first.

Now from my past experiences, normally, if your on a job, you have a designated person for make up and a designated person for hair, and what normally happiness is they both look at you and go, he’s a man, lets put minimal amount of make up on him and keep him looking like a man, we don’t need to curl his eye lashes or straighten his hair, or even hint at getting that blow dryer out of the suitcase, “In fact James, here’s some gel, you could probably do your hair better yourself mate, here you go, go for your life.”

But no, not this guy, he was an all in one, all singing, not much saying, French; hair and make up artist and even after my best attempts to try and escape, with all the crazy eyebrows I could throw at him, he was like a man possessed, showering me with foundation, blow drying my hair into an afro before straightening it back, before realising that doesn’t work and gelling it all down slick to my forehead, before it all bouncing back up again.

I wasn’t a pretty sight, but sadly, I didn’t have much say and before I could say, “Garlic”, I was whisked away back downstairs again and straight into action, I looked like a white, “Don King” in a granny sweater, my hair was huge and I had more slap on that a girl on a Blackpool night out

The shoot was going, alright, we had some pie for lunch and I tried to keep my spirits up. So I decided to nip outside down the road to get a bottle of Lucazade. So I trotted off down the street. And down to this little cornershop about a five minute walk away, so I’m walking down the street, and everyone and I mean everyone is giving me funny looks.

So I finally made it to the shop and I thought I would be nice and buy the crew some jelly babies and such like, by now I’ve had a few items, and I’m standing inline waiting to get severed and the little man behind the counter looks up at me as if he’s ready to serve me so I give him a smile and edge forward and go to start putting my items into the basket, when all of a sudden, the big aggressive burley man barges me out the way in his shell suit and asks for a packet of Mayfair menthols.

I didn’t really know what to make of it all really I was a bit taken aback and then the next thing I know, I’ve got this big man in about his fifties in a thick Scottish accent squaring up in my face, spit flying; asking me, “If I have a problem pal??”

“No, No problem here, please carry on” I couldn’t even muster up a second of scary face. As I watched him leave the shop turning round snarling at me. I hurriedly made it back to the shoot. And that’s where I stayed until 5pm when my cab turned up to rescue me.

And this is my problem with the, “All in one hair and make up artists”, you see, he nearly got me killed today as I had stupid hair and was covered I too much makeup and this is solely where I lay the blame for the reasoning of male models keeping it hushed up about what they really do.

You see they all want to get all creative rather than just doing what needs to be down, unlike normal hair people and make up people do, this new bread, of all in ones; feel like they have something to prove, fair enough, if I’ve eaten to much Kentucky that week and have a spot on my nose, by all means please cover it up and if my sideburns need a quick trim that’s all good too, but other than that please, on behalf of every male model out there. Don’t make us look like big girls otherwise, one day we might all turn into one.

The end

jt

“don’t fancy yours much!”

You know it’s not always been flying round the world to photo shoots frolicking in the waves and being forced to kiss hot girls. Oh no. I’ve definitely served my apprenticeship.

I remember those days in the beginning where modelling for me would consist of standing in the a pair of ridiculously tight spandex luminous green shorts, top off, handing out free samples of fabric softener in a shopping centre in Croydon.

That was bloody hard work. People always thought you were trying to sell them something and would have just walked straight by you if it hadn’t of been for the green shorts; instead they stopped and laughed first. Like giving out flyers; hardest thing in the world. Everyone’s afraid of a flyer. You have to twist people’s arm or beg to get someone to take one.

Anyway, I started modelling when I was just 16, I remember the day clear as a bell. Going round to all the big agencies, walking in and always being directed by some snotty nosed receptionist across to this holding pen. Waiting an age for someone to finally come and see you. Then someone would finally appear, look you up and down before disappearing and reemerging with this white sheet of paper. Every single one of them, with the same sheet of white paper, with a list of other agencies to go and try as you, “Wasn’t quite what they were looking for”. “Bye now, mind the door as it hits you on the arse”.

I’d all but given up when I met Edward.

Now let me try and describe Edward too you. Well, he could be any one of the Village People. I like to think of him as maybe the Policeman, the one with the handlebar tash and leathers. Very direct, straight talking, tough as nails Yorkshireman, but he believed in me when no one else did. He could see past the puppy fat, the dodgy short spiky hair and the enormous lamb chop sideburns. Actually what was he thinking?!

We hit it off straight away, he shipped me straight off down to Croydon and we never looked back.

Of course things didn’t just happen overnight, I had to learn the trade from the very beginning, I grew my hair, stopped eating KFC (as much) and threw out all my FCUK t-shirts.

After they had finally run out of free samples, I was allowed back up to London, I did the odd fashion show, not real ones, ones in store, that Sue and Dave up the road would get invited to, as they used American express. You know, real high profile stuff.

Numerous magazines, which never paid any money, that would make you get up at the crack of dawn with some up and coming, “edgy” photographer that thought it would be a great shot to line you up next to a puddle in, I don’t know, Hackney and drive a car past at full pelt and capture the tidal wave as it hit. Of course, that helped you get loads of work looking like a drenched rat in the pictures then for the next week turning up with a cold looking like death to all your castings.

But as time when on, I finally managed to bag myself my first real job. One that would start to really get the ball rolling.

I was cast as “The Boy” in Germaine Greer’s South Bank show. I didn’t have to say a lot, more just lay on the bed and smoulder while she threw rose petals on me and talked about the boy figure in art, which is what I had to represent. Oh I did have to pose full frontal though for an art class. I’ve never really been shy in that area so it wasn’t a huge problem although there really wasn’t anywhere to hide, and as my late Nan, God bless her, said at the time, “ I thought the show was very well made although, for me you did see a little too much of your testicles”. (Maybe a little too much information.)

This seemed though to open all the doors, the work was starting to fly in; but who would have thought it, that taking your clothes off in front of a few high powered art directors was all it would take.

The very next week I bagged my first ever TV commercial. I felt like the luckiest man alive. I was flown out to none other than Jamaica, Premium economy. I know!

It was a two week shoot, all around Jamaica, jumping in and out of waterfalls, on the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen, lots of kissing, didn’t pay any money though, however as part of the deal, the client had agreed for me and the other models to a free seven-day holiday they had arranged for us.

All through the shoot it was kept very hush hush where our free holiday actually was, until the final day of the shoot came. We were all really excited and looking forward to kicking back and enjoying ourselves for a week when the client finally revealed where indeed we were going.

The client had only gone and booked us into a place called Hedonism, the world’s most famous nudist swingers resort.

It was quite a long drive from our final shoot location so we didn’t arrive till reasonably late in the evening. I remember sitting there at dinner the first night listening to a bit of calypso, with my jerk chicken.

Now I know it’s naughty, but occasionally if you’re in a restaurant and there is a couple sitting opposite you and this is really wrong and I don’t encourage it for a second. But occasionally, the woman when her partner is not looking, would start looking over at you and give you the eye, flirting with you. It’s a dangerous game and I don’t want to play it, but at this place, there I am minding my own business just enjoying the music and my chicken and not only does the woman start looking over but her partner does too, before long they were both sitting either side of me and inviting me back to their room for desert!!

That was just the start of it.

It was the strangest place I’ve ever been in my life, luckily me and the other models were all quite liberal or I’m not sure how someone more square would have survived.

Everyone walking round naked, no one being backward in coming forward or minding what they’re doing and who can see them.

I mean there were quite a lot of people there who you really didn’t want to see in that kind of situation, like watching Sue and Dave up the road behind closed doors, but there were the odd few that were worth a look.

Of course as you can imagine for a 19 year kid from Canvey Island this was quite an eye opener but I seemed to hang on in there ok, it was a bloody long way from handing out free fabric softer in Croydon, I can tell you that.

But since then I’ve never looked back. Sue and Dave have become really great friends and things have gone from strength to strength.

And maybe, just maybe I’m no longer the fat badly dressed boy from Essex with a bad haircut anymore.

Thanks ED.

You’ve done me proud

jtx