Guy Ritchie's On My Manor

Some suck, some fawn, some scream and die to get a dose of it but in Notting Hill fame drops down like rain, incessant as smart bombs on a shithole country and long nouns in a Will Self article. 

I was dropping off some mail for my old neighbors, the gorgeous Christiane Amanpour (durable CNN superstar on megabucks) and her equally gorgeous political grandee spouse, James Rubin (former handbag carrier to Secretary of State Madeleine Albright), one cold dark night in December 2000 when I spied a geezer whose boat was familiar from some time back around GCSE time. In those inky days of failures and retakes, this fella was a posho, a Sloane-Alone who used to drink in the Admiral Codrington, a bloke who fancied himself as an 'ard nut. 

Ritchie: Hard

Well, funny things happen on the way to fame. This geezer, who eventually managed a solitary GCSE in Film Studies, went on to become the Eistenstein of Cockney Cinema. Who said the British exam system is up the duff? But, more to the point, who can this startling testimony to its quality be? None other than Guy Ritchie. 

There he was. Immaculate in a brown designer duffel coat. Walking up Palace Gardens Terrace with a petite blonde in a red leather jacket. Yes. Guy Ritchie was in my manor wiv da Missus, Madge, aka Madonna, pop empress, earth mother, bimbo icon. I was worried that he'd clock me. I know the look. Drat! Too late! He already has! Memories twist, double over and fold back on their own narrative. 

I remember Guy when he was the King of Kensington Pool Hall (1984-86) and Baron of the Green Baize, dressed up kind-of-gay in a BOY baseball cap and tight matching t-shirt. He wasn't a bad pool player; just a lousy street fighting man. This teenage penchant for fisticuffs annoyed his rockabilly gal pal in quiff and plaid, a Jewish Princess who grew up to be Justine Frischmann, the Britpop queen of rip-off cool. Whenever Guy was fighting on the tiled floor of the pool hall, Frischmann would scream and shout and run amok like a bitch victim in a horror movie. The relationship did not last much longer. 

But Guy had a new crush. Back in the summer of 1985, the pool hall installed a video jukebox. Someone played Like a Virgin by Madonna on a never-ending loop. Who was it? One day, under the blue glow of the screen, I eyeballed a suspect with jaw agape. The guy was Guy. I went over and said, "Phwoar, I fancy a go on that Madonna bird." He turned and said with leaden seriousness, "I will". This was 1985. Ritchie didn't marry Madonna until December 2000. Was his shot for fame some Gatsby-type play to stalk and bag Madge? You might very well think that; I couldn't possibly comment.  

The last time we spoke was in 1989. He had just finished working on a building site as a casual day laborer and, like me, was looking to pass some exams at Davies, Laing and Dick, a tutorial college for thick-as-shit rich kids in Notting Hill. I bumped into him on the steps and agreed to meet for a pint after class. I took in the sartorial details down at the pub. Flat cap. Baggy trousers. Red braces. Steel toe-capped shoes. Post skinhead chic. And conversation to match. He was giving it the large one. He was 'ard and could handle himself in a ruck against any man of any size, colour or religious denomination. I said that was nice and wished the 21-year-old the very best of luck with his third go at GCSE retakes.

Every Loser Wins...

Ripple dissolve to 1997. A feature film was being shot with ex-Wimbledon FC and Welsh international Vinnie Jones as a psycho debt collector. A friend was offered a job on it by the producer, an old school chum called Mathew Vaughan. No wages but a percentage of the gross. Old school tie or wot-not, our man declared that he was too poor to work for nowt. Besides, all British films do badly and it's not worth taking a percentage in lieu. The film turned out to be Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels. He's been kicking himself ever since, especially now that his old school rival bagged supermodel Claudia Schiffer.  

Never mind that Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Braincells is a blatant Scorcese/Tarantino rip-off, loaded with f-bombs, crude stereotypes and well-worn cliches; it's best character brought to life by the late Lenny "the Guvnor" McClean, a performer better known previously in the shady milieu of unlicensed boxing. The punters, however, loved it. Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels went on to spawn a short-lived TV series (produced by Guy) and a follow up called Snatch--which went onto gross 18 million quid at the UK box office, making it the most successful British film of its day. Did I hear you say only 18 million spondulix? That might be chickenfeed in fancy Hollywood, but that's a lot of lolly down the Royal Borough of Kensington & Chelsea where Guy stumps up his council tax. 

Ritchie: "a nutty martial artist".

Until that brush past on Palace Gardens Terrace I hadn't seen Guy in years. Out of the corner of the eye, he's looking wary but Madonna is smiling. I think to what Guy was said to have done, martial-artistically, to some deranged and hapless Madonna stalker. According to Albert Clark, the son of the late designer Ossie Clarke, who once beat up Guy Ritchie outside the pool hall, Guy grew up to be a "nutty martial artist who can beat you up a dozen ways". Would he take me for a pap, mistake me for bovver boy Albert? Nay. Madonna is still beaming. I'm too arrogant to smile back. What a mistake. I should have got her and Guy the Geezer to sign up for the campaign to save the Notting Hill Library, another casualty in the council's bout of cheeseparing.  

  

Shortly after this brief encounter in December 2000 I met up with some old bumbaclarts from Holland Park Comp at the Rugby Club on Walmer Road. One of them, a tea leaf named "Django Reeks", had a tall tale to tell. High on crack and low on cash, he elected to rob a posh house in Kensington on a whim (as you do). This wasn't a tall order. "Django" had learned his trade after various stretches at Her Majesty's Pleasure. He could pick any lock, bypass most alarm systems, jimmy any window. He was a thief. A creeper. An amateur cracksman. That was his trade. And that was how he got by. 

Aided and abetted by two hastily summoned cohorts, he broke into a mansion home in Kensington. The couple were fast asleep in their bedroom. Tip-toeing through the house, Django and his boys found baubles and trinkets galore. And nuff garms. Django and his boys loved their garms. The man of the house, whomever he was, had a walk-in closet with mucho labels. Django spotted an Alfred Dunhill jumper and put it in his swag bag. A few days passed. Django was on the Tube. Reading the Evening Standard. There was the house he'd tumbled. It was the home of Guy Ritchie and Madonna. Django chuckled. "Had I known Madonna was in that bedroom, I might have, bwoy..." 

The other thing was the insurance claim. Something in the hood of a hundred grand sterling. "No way did we nick that much," he laughed. "Madonna's robbing the insurance people." Django took to wearing the jumper. And showing off its label: "Alfred Dunhill exclusively designed for Guy Ritchie." 

I gather Ritchie has gone halves with David Beckham and bought the Walmer Castle, an old pub in our hood. It's been a bit shit since 1993 BUT next time in the UK we ought to stage a Holland Park reunion there so Django can wear the jumper. Or not. He's probably doing another bird.