by David Barry
She gestured for him to take a seat. Lucy sat behind her own desk, and Sally caught sight of her mouthing, ‘Who is he?’
Sally ignored it, and concentrated on the wannabe client in front of her. Whoever he was supposed to resemble might be detectable but she had to admit she was at a loss. Was he a tennis player? Could be. Or maybe he was some obscure opera singer. She had a couple of those and they rarely worked. But she still took them on. You never know.
She switched on a disarming smile, false but striking, and said, ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Richard. Good to meet you. But - and I’m going to hate myself for asking this, because I usually get the likenesses straightaway - but do you mind me asking whose public image you represent?’
Richard Deason grinned confidently, spread his arms and spoke in American accent marginally better than Dick Van Dyke’s cockney. ‘I think you might be too young to remember me, sweetheart, but how would it be if I gave you a big clue?’
American. That narrows the field, thought Sally. She shook her head. ‘Yes, Richard, why don’t you give me a clue?’
He thrust himself forward, elbows on knees, and gave her what he obviously thought was a sincere stare but verging on a leer. ‘There can be no whitewash in the Whitehouse.’ He sat back, pleased with himself, and waited for her response.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Rings a bell. Just can’t quite... ’
He chuckled. ‘We share the same first name. But his nickname was Tricky Dickey.’
At last! Sally clicked her fingers. ‘Of course! Richard Nixon.’
‘The very same,’ he grinned.
‘Ah! We got there in the end.’ Sally said with a breathy exhalation. ‘We don’t have any Richard Nixons.’
‘So I would be unique in the field of lookalikes.’
‘You would indeed, Richard. Just one thing though: we have loads of work for celebrity lookalike film stars, sports people, singers and models. But work for politician lookalikes tends to be thin on the ground.’
Performing his thrusting politician role, Deason aimed a finger at Sally. ‘My time has come, Sally. Look at how many Nixons we’ve had in recent years. We had Anthony Hopkins in the title role, and more recently there was Frost/Nixon.’ He pointed the finger at his own face. ‘And these features look a lot more like Nixon than either Hopkins or Frank Langella.’
‘Admittedly,’ Sally agreed. ‘But they were actors giving a terrific performance in major films.’
‘Not all of them are famous actors,’ he protested. ‘What about that chap who got himself a job dancing with Meryl Streep in The Iron Lady? Just because he happened to look like Ronald Reagan.’
‘Yes, but films like that tend to be few and far between. Our work tends to be weddings, functions, exhibitions and events. However, that said, you never know in this business. So I’m happy for Star Repro to represent you.’
Deason’s mouth fell open, and there was a pause while he digested the good news, and then he looked as if he had won the lottery. ‘Wow! That’s fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.’ He punched the air with his fist.
She raised a hand. ‘But I don’t want to raise your hopes. We may not find you anything. But you never know.’
She went on to spell out the terms and conditions of the agency, how he would have to agree to the signing of an exclusive contract which could be terminated by either party giving thirty days notice. Then she explained about the photographic session which was required as part of the conditions. Then Sally rose, shook hands with him, apologised for having to get on with her work, and sent him to sit with Lucy, who took down his contact details and told him there would be an agreement in the post that same day, with details of the photographer, who, following the session, would automatically forward the digital photos by email to Star Repro. A more than satisfied customer, Richard Deason departed and, apart from uploading his details on to their website, they thought that would be one of the last times they heard from him, unless someone was looking for a Richard Nixon, which was doubtful. But as Sally said: ‘You never know. What have we got to lose?’
A week later, Richard Nixon was uploaded on to the Star Repro website. A day later the errant politician’s lookalike phoned up to see if there had been any interest in booking him. At first, Sally was patient, and she and Lucy saw the funny side of it. But when he telephoned the next day, and the next, she gritted her teeth and asked him not to keep ringing, spelling out yet again the fact that not many wedding receptions or bar mitzvahs required dead American presidents and, it had to be said, there were not many fervent Nixon fans. Most of the calls were fielded by Lucy, and Sally was not so affected, although her irritation grew daily. And then, one late morning after Lucy had gone out to fetch them sandwiches for a working lunch, Sally took three phone calls and made three lucrative deals in only ten minutes, which was something of a record at their agency. The first was for a Ricky Gervais lookalike who wanted him to do the dance from The Office which, she assured the caller, would not be a problem. Neither would the request from her second caller who wanted a Gordon Ramsey capable of using bad language. Again, not a problem. Neither was the third call for a Johnny Depp in pirate costume. Sally was in a jubilant mood when the phone rang a fourth time. So when Richard Nixon, having ignored her request to stop pestering, rang to see if there had been anyone wanting to book Tricky Dickey yet, she was reasonably polite and talked to him patiently about leaving gaps of at least three months before contacting the agency. But their thick-skinned Nixon imitator, after being given the bum’s rush, however civil it was on that occasion, went a stage further in his harassment. He took to bounding into their office, after he clearly waited in the street for the main door to the building to be opened by someone either entering or exiting. He thought he would amuse them by demonstrating his talent in his appalling American accent, and regaled them with Nixon speeches he had learnt, clearly hoping this gave him an advantage when it came to bookings. But no one wanted a Richard Nixon, as Sally screamingly pointed out the third time he gate-crashed their offices.
He was given thirty days termination of their contract. After that the building itself seemed to sigh with relief, things returned to normal, and he stopped calling. Pretty soon they forgot all about Richard Nixon, except when he became an amusing anecdote.
Six months later, just as they were about to leave the office for the evening, Sally was scouring the film trade papers, as she often did in case any lookalikes were needed as doubles or stand-ins in films, and what she saw made her eyes pop out on cartoon-stalks. They were making a film, a love story set at a USAF base in Mildenhall in1969, during Richard Nixon’s informal visit to meet Harold Wilson. And the two politician’s would be non-speaking roles but forming quite a background to the main story.
Sally could hardly believe it. A major film and a non-speaking Harold Wilson and a Richard Nixon were required. She didn’t have a Harold Wilson on her books, but she knew where she could get her hands on a Richard Nixon. She quickly went through her computer database and called Richard Deason’s number. It was answered after three rings.
‘Hello. Is that you, Richard?’ she said.
There was a slight chuckle at the other end. ‘I thought I might hear from you, Sally.’
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
‘The film with Richard Nixon in it.’
‘Oh, you’ve heard about it.’
Another laugh. ‘Not only have I heard about it, but I’m going to be in it.’
Sally imagined manic, taunting laughter in her head, and then heard herself swearing at the laughter as she wondered how Deason had managed to get cast. He probably knew nothing about doing deals, however, so she thought she would try to coax him into signing up to their agency again.
‘Well, Richard,’ she began, ‘it’s a pity we fell out, but even you have to admit you gave us a hard time, ringing up as you did every day, and then ca
lling at the office unannounced. So let’s forget the past, shall we, and I can offer you my services. If I say so myself, I’m very good at negotiating. So if you would like me to deal with the film company on your behalf, I’d be only too happy to help.’
‘I’m sure you would. But you’re too late, sweetheart. It’s a done deal. And they’re giving me two grand a day, with a guarantee of a week’s work.’
Sally tried to swallow but her mouth felt dry. How on earth had he managed to pull off that amount for a non-speaking role?
‘Well?’ he said when she didn’t reply. ‘Not bad money for a walk-on, is it?’
‘I must admit,’ she said in a small, tremulous voice of defeat, ‘it’s a brilliant fee. How on earth did you manage it?’
He startled her by laughing loudly and she moved the receiver away from her ear.
‘They don’t call me Tricky Dickey for nothing,’ he shouted.
He was still laughing loudly as she put down the receiver, telling herself that she would be working every day and earning good money, while Richard Nixon might have to wait another five or ten years until his services were required again. But she realised that was just sour grapes.
She looked at her watch. It was nearly time to go home. She waited for Lucy to return from the toilet and then suggested they go out to a wine bar for something to eat and drink. She couldn’t wait to tell her assistant about Richard Nixon, and she had already made up her mind to deal with it positively. She could at least dine out on the story of Tricky Dickey’s triumph.
A Brief History Of Soho
I was first attracted to visiting Soho along with some of my school friends in 1959 when I was only 16-years-old. The attraction was obvious to us young rites of passage teenagers. This was London’s red-light district and trips out from the suburbs by underground train to this iniquitous district, just yards from the exit at Piccadilly Circus Tube station, was an audacious adventure. Prostitutes, in high heels, garish make-up and tight alluring dresses, still walked the streets plying their trade. Not that we could do anything but think wishfully at that age, but it was watching this daring and dangerous slice of immoral life, that was intoxicating to us libidinous, hormonal teenagers. When we got tired of merely watching the streetwalkers, we headed for the frothy coffee bars. Everyone had begun drinking proper coffee dispensed by Italian espresso machines. And skiffle, jazz and rock ‘n’ roll music venues sprang up, one of them being the 2i’s coffee bar in Old Compton Street which gave early rock ‘n’ rollers a chance to show off their pop music abilities, and is known as the birthplace of British rock ‘n’ toll. This Soho culture was defined by the stage musical Expresso Bongo, a satire on the burgeoning rock ‘n’ roll industry. It starred Paul Scofield as a shady Tin Pan Alley manager, later made into a film starring Laurence Harvey in the same part, with Cliff Richard in the role of Bongo the singer, but the satire in the film was watered down.
The first coffee bar, Mika, opened in the early 1950s, which was later followed by hundreds of coffee bars, not only in Soho, but all over London. Some of them were gimmicky. I remember one in Richmond, Surry, called the Open City, where tables were set inside gondolas. But the trip to Soho to the Heaven and Hell Coffee Bar, was for us youngsters a treat like a child’s visit to Disneyworld. We thought we were sophisticated sitting in a coffin in the darkened ambience of the establishment, done out like a Hammer horror film set sipping our foamy brew. But in that same year, the Street Offences Act, made it illegal for prostitutes to solicit for trade on the streets and they became call girls, euphemistically calling themselves ‘models’, in what might have been a pathetic attempt to fool the law but actually fooled no one. They advertised with notices stuck to seedy shop doorways or postcards distributed to telephone boxes where punters could find whatever was on offer, ring up, make an appointment and climb those rickety stairs to see if the ‘model’ looked anything like the photograph on the postcard. Sex shops increased during the sixties, as did clubs and restaurants, because Soho has for many years been London’s adult playground, whether it be for sex, food and drink or music.
It was mainly food in the beginning. In the early days of the 16th century, when the area was under populated, it gained a reputation for its cuisine. The name Soho is believed to be the call of huntsmen, crying ‘So-Hoe!’ as they chased game in those fields and afterwards the dignitaries adjourned to a nearby banqueting house to feast on their catches. In the early 17th century a parish grew bit by bit north of Leicester Fields (later Leicester Square). In France the Huguenots were persecuted, and many escaped into exile and a life in London, gravitating towards the parish of Soho, opening French shops, cheap cafés and restaurants. Many other migrants were also attracted to the area, often exiled from far-flung European countries because of their religion or simply to search for a better life. Greek Street, at the heart of Soho, takes its name from the arrival of the many Greek Christians fleeing from persecution in the Ottoman Empire.
Music has always been a magnet to the area. In 1866 there were more than 30 music halls in the square mile, and in the 1930s American jazz was imported to Great Britain. Soho and West End clubs presented many famous American jazz musicians. In 1932 Louis Armstrong performed at Soho’s most renowned theatre, The London Palladium in Argyll Street, at the north west of Soho, close to Oxford Circus. The Palladium, designed by the prominent theatre architect Frank Matcham, is a theatre that is loved by audiences and performers alike. It has hosted countless variety shows, pantomimes and musicals over the years, and was the venue for the long-running television show Sunday Night at the London Palladium.
Dozens of Soho theatres have disappeared since Victorian times, but there are still many in the area and on the fringes of the district. A popular theatre is the Piccadilly Theatre, situated as it is behind Piccadilly Circus’s glittering array of neon. I remember in the seventies attending the first night of Clarence Darrow for the Defence with Henry Fonda in this one-man play giving a stunning performance. At the top end of Shaftsbury Avenue, facing Cambridge Circus is the Palace Theatre, home to Les Miserables for many years. I suppose it could be argued that most of the theatres in Shaftsbury Avenue are in Soho (their stage doors certainly lead into the district) and it has been asserted by many people that although Shaftsbury Avenue divides Soho and Chinatown, many people still regard that area immediately north of Leicester Square as Soho.
Another famous Soho theatre is the Prince Edward Theatre in Old Compton Street, a street which is now the heart of the gay community in Soho. The theatre was the first West End theatre to be built in 1930 and is named after Edward VIII, who abdicated and married Wallis Simpson. It became a cabaret restaurant in 1936, then after the war it was converted back to a theatre. In the past decades it has been the venue for many successful shows, including Mama Mia and The Jersey Boys. The return of Miss Saigon in May 2014 has broken all advance booking records with a staggering £4.4 million taken on the first day of sale.
One of the most famous theatres in the district, offering entertainment more in keeping with its dissolute image is the Windmill, in Great Windmill Street, which took its name from an actual windmill which stood there from the reign of Charles II until the late 18th century. The Windmill began life as the Palais de Luxe, showing silent films from 1909. Laura Henderson purchased it in 1930 and had it rebuilt as a small theatre and it reopened as the renamed Windmill Theatre in 1931. She is portrayed in a film about the Windmill starring Judi Dench, titled Mrs Henderson Presents. After losses incurred presenting straight plays, new theatre Manager Vivian Van Damm persuaded the Lord Chamberlain (whose office controlled what was or wasn’t allowed in theatres) that there is nothing obscene about the female form as nude statues are seen as works of art, and so the tableaux vivants was born in 1932. Young women could pose in the nude but had to remain absolutely still. During the war, and the heavy bombing of London during the Blitz, the Windmill’s boast was that “We Never Cl
osed”. Following the sirens signalling an air raid the performers and crew would descend to deep basement shelter for safety, but after an air raid it was business as usual. In the late forties and early fifties, the Windmill became a training ground for many young comedians, who discovered it was hard getting laughs when all the mostly male audiences wanted was to ogle the immovable girls, perhaps hoping one might sneeze.
The man who found a way of circumventing the Lord Chamberlain’s rules and presenting strip-tease was Paul Raymond, later known as the King of Soho when he became an immensely rich property tycoon, buying up leasehold and freehold buildings in the district. His Raymond Revuebar in Walker’s Court just off Brewer Street, was a members only club, boasting a membership of thousands of eminent people from all walks of life. The neon sign outside his club gloated: “The World Centre of Erotic Entertainment”. Raymond was portrayed in the 2013 film The Look of Love by Steve Coogan.
But Raymond was not the only Soho king. In St Anne’s churchyard is the grave of Theodore I, King of Corsica. A German adventurer, Theodore made the acquaintance of Corsican rebels who sought freedom from Genoese rule and tyranny. Theodore
offered to take on the onerous task of organising an army and was duly elected King of Corsica. Eventually he made his way to England, attempting to raise support for his cause, but in 1749 he fell into debt and was jailed in a debtors’ prison. He regained his freedom by declaring himself bankrupt but died in 1756. Horace Walpole was one of his supporters, and his epitaph, written by Walpole reads:
The grave, great teacher, to a level brings
Heroes and beggars, galley slaves and kings
But Theodore this moral learned ere dead
Fate poured its lessons on his living head
Bestowed a kingdom but denied him bread.
During the Blitz, St Anne’s Church was bombed and burnt out on 24 September1940. The tower which to a certain extent survived was used as a chapel in the 1950s, partly restored in 1979 and the church was rebuilt in the early nineties. The tower is now a Grade II listed building.