Position one: the yogi
Trying to work whilst lying flat is crippling to your productivity and your neck. For a start, you’re liable to fall asleep, which is a bad idea if you have a laptop balanced precariously on your stomach a few feet above a concrete patio. With the yogi position, you sit upright, in the center of the hammock, with your legs crossed. The sides of the hammock just touch the edges of your knees. The yogi is actually the least
comfortable of the three positions, but it has the benefit of being only a stretch away from lying down. If you’re a fan of spontaneous naps, this is the position for you.
Position two: the sideways yogi
Of the three positions, the sideways yogi is the most suitable for long stretches of work. Your posture is exactly the same as the yogi, except that, instead of facing forward, you turn sideways. The benefit of the sideways yogi is that it allows you to swing gently back and forth as you work, and also provides more support for your knees. Experts at the sideways yogi can position their beer just slightly behind the hammock so that it is retrieved on the back swing, swigged on the forward apex and then returned on the next back swing. Warning: after six beers there is every chance you will fall backwards onto the patio and almost snap your spine.
Position three: the straddle
The only two drawbacks with hammock working are 1) after a while your attention can start to drift, and 2) after a couple of beers, dizziness becomes a factor. Both of these problems are solved with the straddle. As the name suggests, the straddle involves sitting up in the hammock, with your legs either side, planted firmly on the floor. This stops the hammock swinging, curing the dizziness, but also forces you to sit up straight, aiding concentration. When I showed it to Robert, he imagined it probably had long-term benefits for posture, but that was just a theory. He’s not a doctor.
On this particular day, I’d opted for the basic yogi, which, as the sun had grown warmer, had inevitably led to “the nap.” A nap interrupted by the gentle sound of goats being herded to their doom, and now Robert—talking loudly on his phone.
“With all due respect, Alan, I just don’t think that’s a reasonable price for an ornamental goose lamp. Frankly, I’m not sure there
is
a reasonable price for an ornamental goose lamp.”
It was a slightly odd argument to wake up to, made no less odd by the fact that Robert had been waiting to have it for the past twelve months. The argument had been inevitable, really, since the day, back in 2007, when Rob had first moved into his penthouse apartment just off Leicester Square.
Along with its rooftop Jacuzzi, the apartment also had a bar, a dance floor and a movie screen. An incredible place to live, but also much too large for Robert to occupy on his own.
Most people would have looked for somewhere smaller. Not Robert. Instead, he’d decided to occupy just one small bedroom and turn the rest of the place into a twenty-four-hour members’ (read: drinking) club for young entrepreneurs and assorted hangers-on.
In a nod to its location next to a Chinese restaurant, he gave it the amusing—but borderline racist—name Mr. Rong’s. So successful was the endeavor that, by halfway into the first year of the lease, the
Financial Times
had run a lengthy profile of Robert and his party pad—they were the ones who called him “the Hugh Hefner of London”—the national news show, Channel 4 News, had sent round a camera crew, and a documentary maker had begun making a film about the people who worked and played there.
Of course, running a nightclub out of a private home broke about a dozen laws, as well as being a massive breach of the terms of Robert’s lease. And yet, remarkably, he’d got away with it for a whole year, largely because no one in the press thought to check who actually owned the place.
As one of Scotland’s most gifted comedy actors, Alan Cumming has played more than fifty film roles including Boris in
GoldenEye
, Piers in
Spice World
and Fegan Floop in
Spy Kids
. He’s won both a Tony and an
Olivier for his stage work in London’s West End and on Broadway. He’s written a novel and created his own fragrance and range of toiletries with names like—and this is possibly his finest work—“Cumming All Over” (a body wash) and “Cumming In A Bar” (soap). Oh, and he has an OBE.
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And yet, in common with an entire generation of twenty- and thirty-somethings, there’s only one thing I think of when I hear the name Alan Cumming. And that’s his portrayal of the uber-camp flight attendant Sebastian Flight in the nineties British sitcom
The High Life
. Specifically, his character’s catchphrase “Oh deary me.”
It’s hard not to feel sorry for the man. But his inability to escape a role he played for six episodes of a cult sitcom in the nineties is not why I feel sorry for Alan Cumming. I feel sorry for him because Robert, me and about two hundred other drunks spent an entire year systematically trashing his apartment just off Leicester Square.
It was vital that none of the press that Rong’s attracted mentioned Cumming’s name. If a journalist realized there was a celebrity angle—no matter how tenuous—then it was bound to show up on the Internet and Rong’s would be busted, as would Robert’s five-figure deposit. I was one of only three or four people trusted with safeguarding the owner’s identity, which was trickier than you might think given that we kept finding cupboards full of “Cumming All Over” body wash around the place.
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Now, though, safe at the top of a mountain in Spain, Robert didn’t care. Once he decided to become the second member of the Kings of the Road Club he’d sent an email to Cumming’s office saying that he wasn’t renewing his lease then he’d put the keys in the mail and left the country. We joked that putting your keys in the mail and leaving the
country was the application—and acceptance—process for the club.
A few weeks later, all being well, your deposit would land back in your bank account—neatly offsetting your first month or two of travel—and you’d be free. Or at least that was the theory.
Unfortunately for Robert, and his deposit, there was still the matter of an ornamental goose lamp.
902
“Who was that?” I asked, once he’d finished on the phone.
It was apparent that he had not been the one to hang up. “Alan Cumming.”
“Oh deary me.”
Robert gave me a summary of the conversation. Apparently, when Cumming had received Robert’s letter, he’d sent a real estate agent to the apartment to see if there was anything that needed fixing before he returned the deposit. A broken light bulb or two, maybe some scratches to the paintwork.
What the agent had in fact discovered was the aftermath of a 365-day party. The Jacuzzi needed rebuilding, almost completely, as did the entire wood floor—marked as it was with the holes of a thousand stiletto heels. The list of things that were broken or missing went on and on, ending finally with a missing ornamental goose lamp.
“So that was him calling to say you weren’t getting your deposit back then?”
“Oh no,” he said, “that was him calling to say I’m not getting my deposit back and I owe him an additional twelve fucking grand.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I were—he’s sending me a list of missing things.”
For the rest of the afternoon Robert sat in the hot tub, his laptop
perched on the side, reading items off the list Cumming had sent through.
“Do you even remember seeing an ornamental goose lamp?”
“No, Robert, I don’t recall seeing an ornamental goose lamp.” Ornamental goose lamp was one of those phrases—like “pineapple chunks”—that became more ridiculous the more you said it.
“Shit—someone must have stolen it on opening night. Wait, what the hell is a ‘brushed steel ornamental carrier bag’?”
“I have no idea. Are you going to pay for all of this stuff?”
“I don’t know.”
He considered the question for a moment, making it clear he thought he had a choice. “I might. Or I might just spend a hundred quid on a new phone. What’s he going to do? Come looking for me up a mountain?”
He closed the lid of his laptop, laid it down on the patio and sank down into the hot tub.
“You’re right,” he said, “being a nomad does give you more options.”
903
I took another swig of my beer and figured I should probably get back to “work.” The previous day, I’d received a call from Rebecca Lewis,
31
courtesy of my British publishers, Weidenfeld & Nicolson.
The fact that I was being assigned a publicity manager was just about the best news my ego had ever heard, and for the next twenty-four hours I’d been sure to drop it into every conversation I’d had. “Oh, I’ll have to call you back, I think that might be my publicity manager on the other line.”
The truth is that Rebecca wasn’t just
my
publicity manager, but the publicity manager for most of W&N’s authors, including ones that were actually popular and successful. It was into this deep well of legitimate talent that Rebecca would dip to try to find some famous—or at least recognizable—name to write a promotional quote for the front of the book.
Also, once we got nearer to the day of publication, it would be her job to try to get it reviewed in newspapers and to get me onto the BBC to pretend I knew what I was talking about. Until then, though, I was basically on my own. Rebecca was relying on me to use my skills at online self-promotion to get people excited about the prospect of my book.
During our conversations we’d realized that I had a couple of advantages in this area not enjoyed by other first-time authors. For a start, I knew my way around the Internet. I had a blog—which Rebecca had been reading, leading her to characterize my time in Spain, quite unfairly, as “a holiday.”
I also knew how to use things like Face book and YouTube and even Twitter to build hype. Rebecca hadn’t heard of Twitter, something I made her feel bad about, even though I’d only discovered it myself a few months earlier. Making people feel bad for not knowing things is something Internet experts are very good at.
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The second advantage I had was that
Bringing Nothing to the Party
was a memoir, which meant that, to promote the book, all I really had to do was to draw as much attention to myself as possible. Between her office in London, and my equally connected one in a Spanish hammock, Rebecca and I formulated a plan.
Since South by Southwest, traffic to my blog had continued to grow, with a few thousand people a day following my travels, particularly when I got drunk and did something stupid. With Rebecca’s blessing, I would spend my time in Spain expanding the blog into a
fully-fledged promotional website, complete with details of the book, extracts, interviews with key people featured in it (starting with Robert, of course).
I’d also make sure that I wrote something new for the blog each day in the hope that more posts meant more visitors, which meant more potential book buyers. To sweeten the deal—as if sitting in a Spanish hammock writing about myself wasn’t a sweet enough deal already—Rebecca agreed that W&N would release the final chunk of my book advance, normally due on publication, a few months early to pay for my time while I worked on the site.
When I got off the phone I couldn’t stop laughing. For the next couple of months, I was being paid to sit in a hammock at the top of a mountain, building a website about myself and writing daily blog posts about my own brilliant adventures. For an egotist, this was the dream gig.
For the next few months, getting drunk and doing stupid things would no longer be a hobby, a distraction from my day job. It would
be
my day job. My decision in Vegas was completely vindicated. It
was
possible to be a professional drunk, if you were prepared to put in the hours.
I was more than prepared.
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Of course, having brilliant adventures in Vegas is easy. Having brilliant adventures in Laguna Beach is pretty straightforward too. Even on a train between Dallas and Chicago, you can meet enough interesting people to inspire half a dozen blog posts. But being up a mountain in Spain poses real logistical problems, from a brilliant adventure standpoint.
For a start neither Robert nor I spoke Spanish. We hadn’t really appreciated how much of a drawback this would be: like most Brits, we’d grown up with family vacations to the Costa del Sol where every
bartender spoke perfect English and you were never more than ten feet from an ex-pat bar called “Winston Churchill’s.”
In the Valle de Abdajalis, we couldn’t find a single English speaker; not in any of the bars, not in the one local restaurant and not in the shops.
I’d downloaded a beginner’s guide to Spanish from the Internet and was embarrassing myself daily. On the first night, I’d ordered what I thought was a bottle of house white wine—“
vino blanco de la casa
,
por favor
.” Unfortunately, what the bartender actually heard me say was “
fino blanco de la casa
” and after ten minutes of shuffling around in a dusty storeroom he emerged with what he thought I wanted. Robert and I had forced down almost the entire revolting bottle before we realized we were drinking very dry white sherry.
Robert had taken a different approach to overcoming the language barrier, relying on a combination of shouting in English and rudimentary hand gestures. His way of ordering five slices of ham in the local shop was to point at the ham, hold up five fingers and then make a chopping motion with his other hand. I mocked him for his laziness and ignorance until he pointed out that his ignorance had actually resulted in him obtaining five slices of ham, whereas my “Spanish” had ended with us drinking a bottle of white sherry.
Our inability to meet the locals and discover the first thing about them meant that Robert and I had spent much of our first week enjoying our own company, inventing a succession of ridiculous games to fill the time between drinking and sleeping. Most of the games had brilliantly cryptic titles, including my two favorites—“Water-balloon Dodgeball” and “Ten Can Orange Bowling.”