Fing about featre is, too much poncin abaht and not enuff reality. Back in the day, when The East End Boys Club did their porno versin of Barker's Victory in the function suite of The Queen and Flick Knife. it was all abaht the reality. That bird playin the King's bit on the side got a propa pumpin. None of this pretendin nonsense.
Still, if they gotta pretend, I guess Poulet's not a bad sort of pretendin. She's in my lad Mark Ravenhill's old classic, Product. Ravenhill wrote it just after he was comin dahn off that in-yer-face period ee had. It's all crap celebrity meets the war on terror, and gives a nasty insight inta the kind of pondlife who make a buck offa farkin over ideology and culture by turnin it inta a soppy romance.
Poulet's in that Games of Frones, which reminds me ov a weekend I spent in Sarf End last summer, but she does the ole heartless business bitch business nicely. She's sellin some script to some bint, convincin er that this'un'll save her career, which has been slidin down the bog quicker than a diabetic needin a gypsy. The way old Ravenhill mixes up it is well smart: if this script was a sort, I'd snort a gram off bof her bristols.
Am I aving it? I am aving if orf, mate.
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