On to the Flatmate, a.k.a. OCTOPENIS. In 2002 I was transferred to London to work on the latest installment in the 007 film series, and my company put me up in a posh 2-bedroom flat in Mayfair for about four or five months. The flat itself was amazing: a mere 2 blocks from Hyde Park, I lived next door to diplomats and aristocrats in the mews behind Grosvenor Square (I know what you're thinking, but just wait, for the other shoe will drop). My flatmate was another Hollywood transplant who I knew from work, but didn't really know. You know what I mean.
Anyway, all that was about to change. What follows are two emails detailing my first few days in London dealing with the alcoholic culture and the shenanigans of the man who I would come to call Octopenis, because he has more testosterone than eight mortal men, and his hands are like tentacles: always groping out for anything that looks remotely like a female.
-------- Original Message --------
Subject:
The Flatmate
Date:
Mon, 24 Jun 2002 12:35:32 0100
From:
Chris Lance
Organization:
Cinesite (Europe) Ltd.
To:
mharbour@cinesite.com, cybele@cinesite.com
I feel like I'm trapped in an early 70's sitcom like Steptoe and Son or The Odd Couple. The hijinks started immediately, haven't yet abated, and there's no end in sight.
My first night here I turned in early while The Flatmate was still out imbibing quantities of alcohol that would kill a small horse. When I awoke at 03:30 and walked to the kitchen to get some water, I found him passed out on the couch in his underwear, in the fetal position with his hands between his knees, half a bucket of melted ice cream on the floor with a spoon sticking out of it, and a dirty brown towel spread next to that. It was only the next day he told me that while trying to scoop the ice cream out he flicked a large scoop of it up in the air, and when he leaned back to see where it went, he ended up sitting in it. Ice cream all over his back and the couch. Does he decide to clean it up immediately? No, he decides to fall asleep in it. You may think this is funny, Harbour, until you realize that this is the couch you'll be sleeping on while you're here.
Another good time was the night we all took Aimee Dadswell out for a fancy dinner at Asia de Cuba. As the night wore on, The 'Mate ordered more and more wine until I believe he'd had at least two bottles himself. You can tell when he's getting drunk because he gets this real lascivious look about him -- his eyes get beady and you can just watch him staring at the waitresses' breasts and ass. I don't think it matters to him if he gets caught leering. When I went to the bathroom I heard him come in right after me so I beat it immediately for a stall. While I was in there I heard him talking loudly, but I didn't think he was talking to me, so I kept quiet. He was mumbling about wanting to stick his cock in the bathroom lamp but it wouldn't fit and about all the fine women in the joint and a whole bunch of other unintelligible babble. When I came out of the stall, there were two guys standing there waiting for him to vacate the area, looking at me like "what's with the dodgy bloke over there?", as he was still spread out covering both of the urinals, his head against the wall, booming out love-advice to the bathroom fixtures. Needless to say, I've never washed my hands faster than I did that night, since I wanted to clear out before he turned around and they realized that we were together. Back at the table, he assaulted our poor waitress all night with what I can only assume are Manhattan Beach/Marina del Rey pick-up lines while everyone else looked uncomfortable. I was thankful that she was so adept at parrying his clumsy advances because it made the encounters less awkward. At one point he said something like, "I could wait for you after you get off" to which she replied, "You'll be waiting a long time..."
These are just two examples, but something like the former or the latter happens almost every night. You must remember that I don't despise The Mate for his shenanigans. I just feel a mild pity for both of us, mixed with a fair amount of embarrassment or disgust, depending on whether or not we're sitting at the same table while out on the town. But I must embrace him as he is and for what he is. He makes me want to be a better man. He completes me. He is my other half, the id to my ego, the Moriarty to my Holmes, the Randy Quaid to my Chevy Chase. He is the one and only Flatmate.
--
c i n e s i t e
chris.lance lance@cinesite.co.uk 44(0)78.1728.8217
e u r o p e
-------- Original Message --------
Subject:
Flatmate Update
Date:
Tue, 02 Jul 2002 14:09:41 0100
From:
Chris Lance
Organization:
Cinesite (Europe) Ltd.
To:[edited, because one of the addresses still exists]
I suspect the Flatmate is some sort of Bizarro-world Homer Simpson-esque beer-consuming robot. I may start referring to him as The Machine instead of The Flatmate. I've never seen anyone consume as much alcohol as he does and remain conscious (if you can call him that). On Friday evening from 7pm until 5:30am he stood in line with a few hundred other people at Wimbledon. During the course of the night, he consumed a case of beer. He says he passed out around 4 a.m., but was up when the line started moving at 5:30. He was up all day Saturday eating and drinking even more. He came home on Saturday night, took a shower, and asked me if I wanted to go out. Not one to ever miss seeing a train wreck, I went along with him. Three pints of Guinness later, I was tugging on his sleeve begging for the sweet release of death. My stomache was so bloated I looked like I was smuggling a soccer ball under my shirt, and my head reeled and ached from the smoke, alcohol, and live music (if you can call it that). Meanwhile, he had outpaced me drinking Jack and Cokes and was still circling the ladies (if you can call them that) with a toothy grin. I stumbled home holding my belly, and I think he followed an hour or two later. Sunday was when I began to suspect I'm living with Beer Droid. Out watching the Brazilian celebrations in the late morning, we stopped into a Japanese store to say hello to a friend and he comes out drinking a Kirin. Then we lunched on Leicester Square, where he had another pint. I had an iced tea, and a twelve-year old kid smoking a cigarette made fun of me as he walked by because I had a "girly" drink, which drew loud guffaws from the Flatmate. I've now realized that I'm the one who is the stranger in a strange land. I am the foreigner in a kingdom full of Beer Droids: the Flatmate has found his people.
Harbour came in last night, so he and the Flatmate, D.Rey and I and a few other people went out to the pub. My face is now green and my head is swollen. This is a picture of me taken this morning.
I bet on the trifecta of evil last night and lost. Wine, beer and then a double shot of whiskey on a Monday night. Harbour's on the couch sleeping and I'm up in here weeping. D.Rey is at Pinewood Studios with Dottie, but I don't think he's as hurting as I am. I don't think anybody is. I'm tempted to say never again, but I might be going to Amsterdam this weekend with D.Rey to watch M.Rey play bass with Eek! A Mouse. The good news is that I'm slowly killing the Alcohol Resistance within me, though. If I keep bombarding myself with drink I may lose a few battles, but I think I may win the war.
--
c i n e s i t e
chris.lance lance@cinesite.co.uk 44(0)78.1728.8217
e u r o p e
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