40 gallons of Elephant Pee

     

                                                                                                                                       

 I was working in the Art Department of Neil Jordan's film "The Miracle" with Top Production Designer, Gemma Jackson.
       On the list of things to do was "Bring Elephant into St. John's Church, Sandymount for interior scene".
       With a note attached reminding us and the Elephant handler and the property department to "make sure the Elephant has performed any and all loo business beforehand".
       We showed up at the Church in good time. I checked and checked again to make sure Nepal (for it was she) had done her business early. All was well.
        I should mention at this point St. John's Church, Sandymount is a lovely example of neo-Norman Architecture and has a typical early example of underfloor heating, ie. a set of heating pipes set below the floor and covered in an ornate cast iron grille the whole length of the aisle.
        I should also mention, and we did not previously know this, if you have one Elephant in a place, and it happens to be a Mother Elephant, you also have to have their calf within eyesight, at all times, no matter what. Otherwise Mother Elephant goes berserk. We found that out fairly early on while filming on Bray promenade a few days earlier. So the brief now was "Bring two Elephants into St. John's Church, Sandymount".
       As is the norm with film production, there were a few delays before we got the proverbial show on the road. The Elephant handler finally got both Elephants into the Church without much drama. It was a bit of a squeeze but after a bit of squirming and shoving everyone got into position.

       After about twenty minutes I slipped outside as I was no longer required and it was getting fairly funky inside the cosy confines of the Church.
   
        I was outside chatting to the neighbours when the doors opened and the entire cast and crew emerged gasping and roaring and laughing and pointing. At me.
       Five minutes after that I, and every member of the production office, were on the phone to every  contract cleaner in south Dublin. Finally I managed to find one still open at 5.55 pm.
       "What is the nature of your accident?" says he.
        "Hello. An Elephant has peed in St. John's Church Sandymount and all the pee has gone down through the lovely ornate cast iron grilles into the typical example of the neo-Norman underfloor heating system"
        "Really", says he. "How much pee?"
        "About forty gallons".
         They laughed and hung up.

http://articles.philly.com/1991-07-28/entertainment/25785284_1_circus-elephant-protestant-catholic-church

Making an Album Cover with The Waterboys

"All right, design a cover for the new album. You have two weeks". Okay.

The rough.

The title track made me think of Funfairs . Well that and I also happened to be in the middle of working in the Art Department,  filming Neil Jordan's 'The Miracle' on Bray seafront, and we happened to have a Funfair hired out for the week, so it all fit together perfectly.
Or so I thought.
The plan was , shooting for 'The Miracle' was about to end, and I had asked Cullen's Funfair to stay on for another day on the seafront so that the Photographer, Executives from Chrysalis Records, Design Department, Road crew and all seven members of the Waterboys could conveniently assemble for a quick few photographs on their Waltzer.





Simple, you'd think.
But no.
Shooting overran on 'The Miracle'. I realised to my horror that unless I found an alternative Waltzer quickly I would find myself standing redfaced in the midst of Screen actors, screaming film crew, grumpy, tired rock stars and tetchy record company people all requiring the same piece of Fairground machinery on the same bit of Bray seafront at the same exact moment.
This is what I get for trying to be like Alasdair Paton.Who?

I can tell this story now because I know there is no way I am ever going to get a job in the Movies again. Which is fine.

Because this was 1990 and there was no Google or Twitter or Facebook or computers generally I was faced with the prospect of phoning Funfair operators around Ireland based on information from a maggoty old phone book and the old reliable,Word of Mouth. Mobile phones had only just arrived. I remember standing on the roof of the Director's Driver's Mercedes Benz at the car park in Bray Head with  a huge phone (with a cord attached to a car battery) trying to communicate with a confused Fairground bloke in Bundoran, just as a gust of wind arrived and ended the conversation for good. There was also the point, made by several helpful onlookers, that the chances of a Funfair operator actually being close to his phone at any time of the day, never mind at the exact moment I was calling,  were slim to non existent. After several attempts, I realised I was not going to be able to sort this out here. Not with everyone watching.

So in short, I had to mitch the last two days of shooting on The Miracle.  Philippe Roussellot, I'm sure, would notice I was gone. Hm yeah.

With only two days to go (there was no way I was going to call Mike Scott and cancel this photo shoot, nor Chrysalis records art department either. My reputation, after all, you know) I finally managed to make contact with the owner of the Funfair in Tramore Co. Waterford. Established that the thing worked, went round and round, looked reasonably okay and was available at 8.30 in the morning.
Frantic rejigging of various bits of drivers , accommodation and catering as I realised designing an album cover isn't a matter of sitting at a swish desk twiddling the moustache and throwing shapes.
                                                                        

                                                                             ***

Everyone arrived in the deserted, freezing car park in Tramore at the ungodly hour of half eight,  as arranged, much to my surprise.

I can tell this story now  because I know there is no way I will ever get a job with The Waterboys again, which is also fine.

John Pasche leapt out of his car and bounded across the car park like a puppy, grinning and shaking my hand with the enthusiastic grip of a woodworker's vice.
I did not at the time  realise it was the actual  John Pasche, and being youngish and uneducated in the history of album design, was unaware of John's impressive pedigree. I know now.
www.johnpasche.com
Mortified.
 My only excuse is I was an exhausted,hungry, panicky wreck and was busy thinking about being marked absent from 'The Miracle' Roll Call back in Bray. And the consequences of same.

John was charming, generous, modest, handsome, sympathetic and enormously helpful to me in my hour of terror. Between us we concocted an impressive air of authority and proceeded with loading the Waterboys into the Waltzer, yelling various instructions and getting down to business. After about ten seconds we realised it all looked a bit boring.
"There needs to be, sort of, movement" we agreed.
All seven members of The Waterboys eyed us with suspicion. Noel Bridgeman started to wonder if it had been wise to have that full Irish Breakfast earlier.
 I drew the short straw and had to ask the Fairground guy to set the Waltzer in motion. "Very slowly please".
So there we were, spinning away at a snail's pace as the photographer snapped away. Then he turned to John and me and declared "Not enough movement"

Waltzer guy cranked up the motor. We all backed away a bit.

It wasn't long before we realised we'd better get a decent photograph soon because Sharon was turning a delicate shade of green as the Waterboys spun around and around and around and around.
"We have to go again, one of them blinked."
And again.
And again.
Anyone who has studied physics and /or photography will know already that the chances of seven people in continuous double circular motion are, in fairness, unlikely to all have their eyes open at exactly the same moment. At nine in the morning and breakfast repeating at an alarming rate.
Eventually the whole thing was brought to a conclusion, partly because the light was going but mostly because there was a good bit of complaining happening.
John  wrote to me afterwards and told me they'd had to "airbrush Steve in" back in the studio because his eyes were closed "in every single photo" (ironic considering Steve had left the band by the time the album landed in the shops).

As rock stars staggered around the car park trying to regain their balance, like seven divers released far too early from a decompression chamber (much to the amusement of Waltzer Guy) , John and I discussed what was going to be on  the back of the album, picturewise.
Oh Lord.
With that I had an idea. I spotted a lovely Buttercup Yellow wall of the Ghost Train nearby. I muttered instructions to the irrepressible John *nothing is too difficult, too mad or too annoying* Dunford, road manager, who rounded up some of  the country's most gifted musicians and piled them up in an inglorious  heap behind the Ghost Train wall.
For my pleasure.


The back cover of it

With that, everyone dispered, holding their heads and making small groaning sounds. I was reassured by John Pasche, iconic album cover designer, known to everyone, except me, that "everything will be fine. You did good Annie" .
Then he leapt into his car and was gone.

I returned to the set of 'The Miracle' the next day. I was asked where I had been.
 "Well I was off in Waterford trying to make The Waterboys throw up".
" No really , where were you?"

I still have a polaroid that shows the remarkable physical contortions that enabled the back cover photo to be taken. I keep it on my office wall to remind me of the glory and glamour of the olden days. And also to remind me why I will probably never be asked to work with musicians again.

John Dunford holding the whole thing together as always

Yes I am busy. I am very very busy.

I was working on a film in Limerick some time ago. We were shooting at a tumbledown ruined castle near Limerick, miles from anywhere, in the freezing cold of a November morning.

People were tearing around, constructing tracks, winding up key lights, running around shouting into walkie talkies . Because I was Art Department, I had already finished most of my work by six, and  was ready for breakfast.

           As I neared the warm, inviting dining bus I was approached by the First assistant Director.

“Siggins! Are you busy? “ He yelled.

“No, but…” I answered.

That was my first mistake. “We need you to stand in for Daryl Hannah” he yelled, as camera crew raced around, trying to get things ready.

            “Daryl Hannah?” I yelled back above the din of lorries parking, tracks clattering and people shouting orders.
            “But I don’t…”
             “And we need you in a wedding dress, up there on the parapet of the Tower”.
             What should be made clear is that unless you're a senior crewmember, or Daryl Hannah, if you're given an order you must act on it without asking questions.
             I immediately repaired to the wardrobe department and asked them where this wedding dress could be found.
            “We haven’t got any wedding dress here. They'd have it back in Shepperton. You’ll have to go and get one. And make sure it’s exactly like the one we’re going to be using” she added, at the top of her voice.
           “What does the real one look like?” I shrieked.
           “ We haven’t designed it yet” came the reply.
           Back to the First assistant director, standing hip deep in a lake, shouting orders, and told him about the non existent wedding dress problem.

“Well just get something” he yelled.

            There was also the small matter of the fact that , being as I was a small, dark haired, dumpy person I did not bear even the slightest resemblance to Daryl Hannah.

             In fact  at that very  moment a blind man passed by on a galloping horse and shouted “She looks nothing like Daryl Hannah”, and continued on his way, laughing hysterically.
            I pointed out to the First Assistant Director that  one of the Riggers working on the scaffolding tower over there looked more like Daryl Hannah than I did or ever would.
            I waited for a reply, or at least an explanation. When I realised I was getting none I made my way to the Transport department to see if I could be driven to Limerick to find a wedding dress in a hurry. No one was available. Sighing with exasperation I jumped on my motorbike and headed for Limerick, freezing and starving.
            Not being familiar with the city I spent at least half an hour asking puzzled passersby if they knew where I could find a Bridal Wear shop in a hurry. At half eight in the morning. People started moving quickly away from me as I ran down the street, muttering and cursing.
            The Lady in the Bridal shop remained unruffled, in fairness to her, when I burst into her shop on the dot of nine and yelled “I need a wedding dress, quickly please. Anything will do. Anything. Here, give me that one.”

Returning to the back end of nowhere on my motorbike with freezing needles of rain pelting down and several yards of embroidered tulle blowing airily out the back of my knapsack, I wondered once again if perhaps I had made a mistake in deciding on a career in film work.

           “Quick. Get dressed, we need you up there now. Hurry UP” shouted the First Assistant Director, hustling me into a roofless, doorless shed to get changed.
            I emerged in all my finery, minus something old , something borrowed and the only blue thing being my frozen face.
            I was shoved in front of The Director, who glanced in my direction, muttered “Yeah, grand”, and shuffled off  to his nice warm caravan for coffee. It did at that point cross my mind that he could have cared less. But I kept my powder dry.
            I began my ascent up the tiny stone stairs, followed by a trainee with a length of rope.
            “What’s that for” I asked, as the rest of the crew snorted into their tea and choked on their Custard Creams.

“Well it’s to stop you falling off” he replied.

Until that moment I hadn’t considered the fact that I was about to walk along the parapet of a half rotten tower in a ruined castle , in a wedding dress that was about four sizes too big for me.

            Still no word as to whether there was any resemblance to the proper wedding dress; but then I decided this was only a minor issue as the person wearing it bore as much resemblance to Daryl Hannah as Peter Lorre to Cary Grant.
           “Hurry up. HURRY UP” shouted the Assistant Director as I bumbled and tripped up the stairs.
            The stairs ended. I was faced with a long ladder for my final ascent. What followed is best left to the imagination as the Trainee almost smothered trying to help me and my gorgeous train up the ladder to the parapet. Things were said. Profanities were exchanged.

We were about 80 feet above the ground. I looked down and saw the entire camera crew looking up at me. The trainee tied the rope around my waist. I wondered if this could be adorned with  a garland of flowers to dress it up a bit. I could see in the distance, the wardrobe mistress running toward the camera crew, having a canary , shouting and roaring at the First Assistant Director. I couldn’t hear much but the words “What are you ****ing playing at?” and “This is completely ****ing stupid” floated up to my lofty perch.

           “Up you get, love” shouted the First Assistant Director through his loud hailer . I turned to the trainee and asked, in the most menacing voice I could muster, that if by chance I did fall off the edge of the parapet, would he be able to hold on to me with that skimpy bit of rope and haul me back up again?
            “Oo er. Hadn’t thought of that” he sniggered.
             I did not snigger.
             To cut a long story short, I walked along the parapet. Several times. I did not have to worry about getting into character or what my motivation might be.

 The scene was shot moments before a violent thunderstorm broke and outdoor filming was abandoned for the day. Not being a senior crewmember, or Daryl Hannah,  I did not get any assistance with my descent. I finally made it back down 45 minutes later , cursing, freezing,  dripping and swearing only to find everyone had left for an early lunch with the proper Daryl Hannah and Peter O’Toole.

              I had a feeling anyway that this was probably not going to work, cinematographically. Turned out the Editor agreed with me and somewhere in a rubbish bin  in Shepperton studios there’s a tiny strip of film showing a short, grumpy, frozen, hungry female in a cheap, muck- stained wedding dress, muttering swearwords as she inches along a crumbling castle wall.

 So the lesson I learned that day was, if anyone asks “Are you busy?”

Always, ALWAYS say Yes.

Robert Plant

          When I was young, I was a huge Led Zeppelin fan.

          I was more Jimmy Page than Robert Plant: I did admire Percy`s vocal range but found his onstage contortions , and his tummy, a bit off putting. Jimmy was darker and weirder.

          Makes it all the more cringey and painful to tell this tale. In 1987 I left my job in the design department of Tyne Tees TV and joined a new crew at Pinewood Studios to begin a new Channel 4 music series titled *Wired*. This was meant to be a leaner, better, cooler version of The Tube which had just ended.

           I was employed by an infuriating little man called Willy, or Alasdair, depending on what day it was and who was asking. Within a couple of weeks of working with him I realised he was either working on two or three other films at the same time or , more likely, on the run from somebody.

           He had designed a set for the show which, among other anomalies, featured an incongruous and completely impractical  sloping stage, and then simply abandoned it, and me, and disappeared, never to be seen again. Needless to say any road crew that arrived to set up found this more than annoying as it made setting up equipment quite a challenge. Anyone with even the most rudimentary knowledge of physics would know this was not going to work. And because my boss was entirely absent when the shouting started, I, being his assistant, had to face the flak from numerous sweaty disgruntled crewmembers as amps and snare drums slid gently off the stage with alarming frequency.          After a couple of weeks of this crap, during which I was shouted at by backline from Ry Cooder to the Style Council, I realised this was a job I would not be enjoying for much longer.

           Then one fine Monday morning I was informed that Robert Plant and his new band would be doing a *special* in Studio 8. Now, if you were me,and this was an ordinary situation, and you were fourteen, and happy at your work, this would definitely be something to write home about. A lot of squeeeeeeeeeing and fainting.

But no.

            I had spent most of the morning being yelled at down the phone by somebody or other followed by a lengthening queue of people making utterly unreasonable demands, followed again by people wanting to know where my boss was and more importantly what was his real name.

           By noon I was grumpy,fractured, tetchy and exasperated as I marched up and down the corridors of Pinewood muttering about having quit better jobs than this. I stamped into my office , slammed the door and sat at the drawing board, seething with resentment.

           Then came a gentle *Tap tap tap* on the door and before I could yell at them to feck off, Robert Plant poked his head round the door.

            "Hi babe. Mind if I use your phone?"

"Er. Yes. Of course. Work away. I'll just clear off out of your way then" hastily gathering up my bits of shredded paper and hate notes.

"No, no, you work away babe", which I did; I remember drawing skulls and crossbones, and bad words, all over the sheet. Which was supposed to be for a Joni Mitchell special. I didn't care.

          And there I was, hunched over my drawing board, hacking and scratching all my hate and loathing on the paper with my cheap standard issue 2H pencil , held in my hand like an ice pick, as Robert Plant, leonine rock God of the luxuriant hair and the alarmingly cropped britches, chatted on the phone beside me.

            When he`d hung up he leaned back in the chair (one of those rubbishy plastic chairs) and asked me what I was up to. I mumbled something like "Oh, nothing much. Just, you know, erm..."

            "You look as if you`re having a bad day, babe" said he, and before I had a chance to bore him to death with my tale of woe, and also ask him did he call everyone babe or just me, and was there any chance at all that Jimmy might show up, he immediately said

            "You know,I think I can help you babe. I wrote a song once about times like this. When everything`s going wrong...called *In the Light* ...do you know it?" and began to sing. Robert Plant was in my office, singing to me. 

            "Though the winds of change may blow around you, but that will always be so.....
....er,

...um......

.....erm......

         Then there was this... silence... that grew louder and louder as I realised that not only had he forgotten the lyrics but so had I.

        Suddenly he jumped up out of the cheap plastic chair, patted me on the shoulder and said,

       "So anyway, babe, gotta go. Thanks".

        And, with that, he was gone.