Authors: Anthony Frewin
London Blues (7 page)
There’s a tarnished trinity at work here: the cops, the criminals and the newspaper hacks. It’s a three-sided conspiracy with each side playing an equal part. The
small-time
criminals want to be portrayed bigger than they are, it increases their standing, makes them feel better. This,
naturally
, makes the police look better when they collar them. The public can see that they’re not just arresting no-hope amateurs, they are arresting Major Figures. Now, of course, the bigger the arrest the bigger the story and this is where the journalist plays his part. This is the Sinful Symbiosis operating daily in the cheap papers. What a merry-
go-round
, and no one to shout boo!
I can think of a personified example to illustrate the trinity of cops, crooks and Fleet Street hacks.
There’s a journalist who comes into the Snax Bar about twice a week named Desmond. Desmond Raeburn. He must be in his late forties, perhaps older. A big guy with shifty eyes and a clammy handshake. He has this air of intrigue and conspiracy about him, like a corrupt detective:
I
know
something
you
don’t
know.
He can ask if we have any bacon sandwiches and you feel like you’ve got to be careful in your reply. Charlie who works with me says he’d sell his mother down the river for a tip-off and I think he’s right.
He looks a lot older than his years. You can smell the drink on him across the room. White, white skin. Eyes that have almost disappeared. Dirty greasy glasses. A
half-smoked
cigarette permanently in the corner of his mouth. Traces of his last meal always in the corners of his mouth too. A manner that is simultaneously ingratiating and
intimidating
. He’s the chief crime correspondent of one of the Sundays, ‘Scotland Yard’s Most Trusted Correspondent’, ‘The Reporter with the Ear of the Metropolitan Police’ and, in his own words, ‘The Crown Prince of Crime Reporters’.
Desmond would not know how to investigate a story to
save his life. He writes what the police tell him to write. He’s a publicity agent for the coppers pure and simple. His office should be in Scotland Yard not Fleet Street. They call him in, give him the bare details and he jazzes it up and makes them look like the Lone Ranger. All detectives are ‘gang-busters’, ‘crime-fighters’, or ‘knights in the war against crime’ who ‘wage war’ on the underworld with ‘scarcely a thought for personal safety’ and are content to know ‘the job is done’ and ‘the citizens of London can sleep peacefully in their beds’. This sort of drivel is trotted out every weekend. The close relationship doesn’t end when the copper retires. Then we get the obligatory
Murder
on
My
Manor:
The
Memoirs
of
Detective-Chief
Inspec
tor
Backhander
(‘As told to Desmond Raeburn’). Plugs for the book follow in his column over the next few weeks and this saves work as Desmond can then recycle what’s written in the book (which is just recycled from his column anyway). He gets paid for the same stuff three times. Nice work if you can get it.
Desmond is always saying that if I hear anything I should tell him, as he pays well for a good story. I told him about the Duke of Edinburgh regularly visiting these two black prostitutes in Dolphin Square, and how I overheard one of the coloured girls talking about it to her friend, in hushed tones, in the Snax Bar. But that’s not all. The Duke was being blackmailed by an international syndicate of guys in expensive suits with Italian names who had secretly taken photographs. A great story. A really great story. I know it was because I made it all up.
The first thing Desmond does with a good story is phone his pals up at the Yard. He’s shopped more petty criminals than the rest of London. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he also collected an informer’s fee. ‘Money is what it’s all about, son,’ he says, and I guess it is. That is certainly what motivates the bent coppers who take weekly ‘contributions’ from all of the bigger villains in London. It’s known as ‘licence money’.
One Saturday morning Desmond staggered into the Snax Bar and said he had a problem and that I had to help him. He led me to a corner table, sat me down, looked hither and thither as though we were in a den of spies (or, worse, other journalists), pulled his chair up, sat down himself with a sly glance to the door, leant forward, looked around once more, and said in a barely audible whisper, ‘The … blue … film … racket.’ Nothing more. That was it. The statement hung there in the air. I didn’t know what to say. The blue film racket
what
? He didn’t say anything further, he was looking about again. What was I supposed to say, Yes, please!? The blue film racket? I began to think I was being thick. There was something I should say in response but I didn’t know what it was. He’s just staring at me. Is my name going to be put in the frame as a Mr Big to protect someone else or what? I was waiting for him to start talking like one of his detective friends: ‘It’s all right, son. We’ve got you bang to rights. You can tell me everything. Be helpful to me and I’ll play fair with you.’ All detectives talk like this because that’s how they talk in Desmond’s books, and I’ve read two of them,
Robbery
on
My
Patch
and
Villainy
on
My
Doorstep.
But hold on, Desmond is about to say something.
‘It’s worth a fiver.’
‘A fiver? What’s worth a fiver?’
‘The story. The whole story. The whole inside story … the
fearless
truth.’
Fearless truth!!?? This guy thinks like he writes, no less.
‘Desmond, I haven’t got any fearless truth. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
A long silence. The face of the Crown Prince of Crime Reporting drops like a schoolboy who’s just had a bar of chocolate confiscated.
‘You don’t know about the blue film rackets then?’
‘I don’t know anything about them.’
‘I just thought you might. Nobody else about today. I’ve got a problem.’
‘Why?’
‘A very quiet week. We need a feature for page two. The editor says we have to do a major exposé of the blue film racket about every six months and tomorrow is as good a Sunday as ever, and it’s been a lean week … and I’m a bit burnt out, old boy, to tell you the truth.’
Desmond’s problems are also his listener’s problems. It is a childlike egocentric world he inhabits. He’s irritating me no end now.
‘You’ve written these stories before, you know what to write.’
‘I need something fresh. I’m stymied.’
‘OK then. How’s this? For the first time ever blue films are being organised, promoted, in a big way in this country. It’s a slick operation. They are all professionals. And, what’s more, they are regularly making films over here now and not relying on old foreign films made in the 1920s.’
‘Yes. A slick operation!’
‘High profits. A wave sweeping the country.’
‘A wave sweeping the country!’
‘The police know who the Mr Big is but he’s surrounded himself with expensive lawyers. The police are patiently waiting for him to make a slip.’
‘Patient crime-busters. A slip. I want lots more plausible detail, Tim.’
Well, I gave it to him and the following appeared, featured over two pages under his byline, the next day. A fitting counterpoint to the greasy bacon and burnt toast on the nation’s breakfast tables.
I GET THE PASSWORD TO
THE SECRET WORLD OF BLUE FILM FILTH
From the murky back alleys of Soho to a more
fashionable
and smart area of central London I have followed the trail of the ‘blue’ film traffic. There are no shady
advertisements
, no ex-directory telephone numbers. The only ‘
passport
’ is a personal introduction.
Even in the basement clubs of Soho the subject is taboo.
This ‘blue’ film traffic is a subject for concern.
This is what Lord Kilmuir, the Lord Chancellor, said about it in the House of Lords during the second reading of the Obscene Publications Bill:
‘We must face it that grossly obscene films in houses or the rooms of clubs are one of the evils of life. There have always been places which try to attract people to shows of this kind. I think they ought to be struck at.’
Lord Denning said films exhibiting obscenity could be smuggled in from another country and bought at a cost of some £50. These would be displayed in private at £2 to £3 per seat.
I have news for his Lordship. This filth is no longer imported from abroad. It is made here in Britain. There is a ‘blue’ wave sweeping the country.
I set out on a voyage of discovery.
Though the ‘blue’ film business is one of the
underworld’s
most closely guarded secrets, the frontier can be crossed.
Especially with a well-filled wallet. The wallet is
important
. Very important.
So too is perseverance.
This is how I did it.
First I browsed for hours in Soho bookshops specialising in pin-ups, books of nudes and nude ‘stills’ at 10 shillings for five.
In these shops totally obscene photographs were displayed.
If the bookshop manager thought you looked like a ‘good punter’ he would invite you to see ‘something stronger’ at the back of the shop. Here in a half-light you could buy photographs of the most depraved activities for £1 to 25s. for a set of five. These ‘specials’ showed sexual activities that would make a hardened crime-buster reach for the banister.
As Detective-Inspector Greenslade of Scotland Yard once said to me, ‘The depths of depravity to which the common pornographer sink know no bounds.’
It was in one of these Soho bookshops that I was granted my ‘passport’ to the underworld of filth.
I was approached by the dark-haired, black-eyed,
Levantine-complexioned
[Levantine – Fleet Street codeword for Jew. Desmond can boast anti-Semitism amongst his many talents.] manager of one of these shops who offered me expensive, coloured photographs. I said I was more
interested
in films.
He looked at me quizzically and then hurriedly scribbled a telephone number on a scrap of paper. He said the number was written in reverse so it would remain secret. He said, ‘Mention me and you will have a good time, honourable sir.’
I rang the number. A well-spoken woman answered and we arranged to meet outside Baker Street underground station.
I waited five minutes at the underground station. A smartly dressed woman appeared from the shadows of a building.
I mentioned the name of the bookshop manager. The woman asked me to follow her.
‘It’s not far,’ she said. ‘We cannot be too careful. The police are keen and I don’t like toughs. I don’t like trouble either. It’s not good for business.’
‘This will cost you ten [£10]. I know that’s a bit steep but there’s no nonsense. Any further services are extra.’
We walked about 300 yards to a block of luxury flats. I followed the woman up to the first floor and into an
expensively
decorated flat. We went into a well-furnished sitting room.
A large radiogram played softly in the corner. On the wall above it was a silver screen measuring 5ft. 6ins. by 4ft. 9ins.
In the middle of the room on an elegant coffee table was a projector. It was angled at the screen.
‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll be back in a jiff.’
She left the room.
There was a divan in the corner of the room, a large settee and two easy chairs. Behind me was a very expensive writing-desk.
The woman returned with three small reels of films.
‘I think you will like these,’ she said. ‘They are all new and made in England. We do not import old films from abroad. We make them ourselves.’
The first film like the other two was revolting.
It was called ‘Up Skirts and Down Slacks’ and the cast
numbered two, a young man and a young woman. It was filmed in a flat that looked very much like the flat I was now sitting in.
When it was over I was offered a drink – ‘At no extra charge.’ I declined.
The first film was very carefully re-wound and then the second one was shown.
It featured a blonde girl with two coloured girls and was named ‘Two Blacks Make a White’. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever seen in my life.
The third, ‘Gymkhana Sluts’, featured a blonde and a brunette with a man. It was made in a riding school.
Each film lasted about fifteen minutes and was made in black and white. There was no soundtrack. The films were run to music from the radiogram.
‘I’ve had a busy day,’ said the woman. Her name was Stella. ‘I have to pay £10 per film per day to the distributors. There are lots of girls organised like me. We get our films from the man who makes them. He is very rich and successful. But I have to be careful. I have nosy neighbours so I never have more than twenty-five men a day here. Would you like any additional services?’
I made an excuse and left, after I handed over £10.
Stella is one of many girls caught up in the new ‘blue’ film web run by the Mr Big of ‘Blue’ Films. A man who has sworn to turn England into the ‘blue’ film capital of the world and to make the racket a million pounds a year
business
.
You can rest assured that the crime fighters at Scotland Yard are working on his case and that it is only a matter of time before they have him where he belongs – in prison.
This was virtually all invention. My invention. I
particularly
liked the fake film titles! The Lords Kilmuir and Denning quotes I dare say, were dug out by some sub on the paper, yet the lad himself takes the money and the glory for doing fuck all.
I didn’t know it at the time but my fictional venture into blue films presaged a bizarre invitation some weeks later courtesy of French Joe, another Modern Snax regular who’ll soon be appearing on the horizon.
