SINDY: THE MOVIE

Dear Readers,

There was an instant product recall on the last version of this post as the writer (clearly mad) insisted on writing the name 'Cindy' instead of the historically accurate 'Sindy'.  

Please accept his apology on our behalf.

An Opportunity Presented  

"So that producer contact I told you about is coming to the pub tonight and I told him all about you. Said the usual bullshit about how you've got an amazing imagination and you being the world's oldest child prodigy and all that other bollocks. He's prepared to listen to some of your ideas but told me he won't hang around if you start stuttering like a prick or get dry mouth. I'm telling you he can smell nerves on people like a shark. And don't even think about doing that weird shit you do when you've had a few pints and decide you're king of the world. Remember, I've still got to go and work on his mansion in the morning. Cos, after all, you're the only one in this village with Hollywood dreams, Pat. Not me pal. I'm happy with my lot. Besides all they want over there these days is woke bullshit, rainbows and unicorns with dicks. And you're already the wrong colour for fuck's sake. You're part of the problem to them."

Patrick knew better than to argue with Fred when he was on one. He appreciated the opportunity and thought he would, on this occasion, demurely follow his advice. Then, doing his best Brando 'Godfather' impression, he tried to soften his stressy friend who to many in the local area was known as 'grumpy Fred'.

"I appreciate what you've done for me. A man never forgets favours such as these. You ever need the favour reciprocated you call me. Capiche?"

"And don't do that in front of him, Jesus Christ."

Fred, clearly unimpressed with Patrick's impression, slunk off to the room next door in the pub with his foamy pint spilling on the spit and stone dust-style floorboards as he barked back at Patrick like a ventriloquist throwing his voice.

"He said he'll be here at eight. I told him to look out for the beanpole-looking dude brushing the ceiling with his hair."

Feeling somewhat deflated by Fred's briefing, Patrick sat down at the table overlooking the verdant green valley beyond and pulled out his phone to scroll through the latest film industry articles. He liked to keep abreast of things in the business even if he was no real part of it.

Then he saw the headline. "BARBIE SET FOR BILLION DOLLAR BOX OFFICE PROFITS," and his mind immediately started whirring as he crunched down on a particularly gnarly-looking pork scratching that nearly decimated the filling on his back molar.  

The Pitch

"Fred told me you want to break into movies," Carlos, the smartly dressed producer said as he did a quick scan of Patrick's overall scarecrow-like appearance.

"It's been a dream of mine since I was a kid."

"Uh, how long ago was it since you were a kid?"

"Well, I suppose I'm still a kid really," Patrick said, abruptly tearing open a bag of crisps that exploded in a shower all across the table where they were both sat in the country pub. Watching with horror as Carlos brushed off the crisps that had landed on his immaculate Brioni suit onto the floor, Patrick quickly attempted to salvage the situation.

"No no no, don't do that, the dog will eat them all. He's got a funny arse and will be shitting all night. Let me pick them up."  

Doing a double take, as he took a look under the table, Carlos noticed a dozy, half-asleep wolfhound snaffling up the stray crisps by his feet on pure primal instinct whilst the oversized Patrick was now between his legs picking off what few crisps were still left on his seven thousand dollar suit.

"No. Please. You don't need to do that."

The optics of Patrick on his knees between Carlos's legs raised a few cheers from the surrounding locals which made the producer feel self-conscious for the first time in years.

"What the hell is that under there? The Hound of the Baskervilles?"

"Not quite. A little smaller."

Finally, after returning what crisps he'd recovered off the floor into the shiny foil-ripped crisp packet, Patrick attempted to start over with Carlos who already appeared mildly distressed not long into their casually arranged meeting.

"Go on, have some. See, Fabian barely licked that one there."

"Look ..."

"It's Patrick."

"Look, Patrick. I have a late conference call I've got to get back to shortly and I'm leaving early tomorrow morning so if we could wrap this up asap."

"Already? But I had at least ten pitches in my head to run through with you."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, it was clear the last thing Carlos needed right now was ten pitches from some guy who looked like he'd just appeared from a haystack and hadn't cleaned his teeth since the year 2000.

"Give me one. Just one. I've seen your Alan Partridge and know what you feckless Brits are like when it comes to selling ideas."

Taken aback at the curtness that Carlos had now adopted with him, to make matters even worse for Patrick his wolfhound had stood up from where he'd been curled up on his smelly Tartan picnic square and practically lifted the table up off the ground with his back; the drinks wobbling precariously in front of them as they began to spill over, down between the cracks in the wood.

"Jesus. You forget how strong he is given his wiry frame. Sit down Fabian for fuck's sake!"

Standing up now so as to avoid any more accidents at the table, Carlos towered over Patrick who remained seated. It didn't take a body language expert to see that things were rapidly going downhill in this fast-moving situation.

"Give me an elevator pitch. Just one. And then I gotta go."

"But we're not in an elevator."

"It's an expression. Jesus Christ. Come on, go, pitch! Time is money."

Patrick now decided it was perhaps time he stood up and so in doing so now towered over Carlos by a good five feet. Intimidated by his height, Carlos sat back down but found to his great discomfort there was no chair to sit down on as it had been swiped by a grisly-looking local at the next table.

"That's Paul that took your chair. I wouldn't say anything. He's just come out of a long stretch in prison."

Helping the producer back to his feet, the two men now stood face to (almost) face and it was apparent there was not much more to be said.

"Okay. One pitch. Here goes. You obviously seen the news about Barbie doing phenomenal Box Office numbers?"

Glowering, Carlos was now only doing one-word answers.

"Yup."

"Exactly. Well, here in Britain we have our very own Barbie and she's called Sindy."

"Sindy?"

Carlos was back to nose bridge pinching again.

"She's the British anti-Barbie. See I got this idea we'll do completely the opposite to what they did with the Barbie movie and go sweet, sincere and totally retro. It'll be quaint like an old Ealing comedy meets David Lean and they'll be no post-modern woke bullshit deconstruction to contend with."

"Um, so what's the point of it?"

"It's a great big fuck you to Barbie?"

"Ummm. Do we want to say fuck you to Barbie?"

"I do. She's annoying. What with those weird arched feet and that shit-eating grin. By the way Sindy's feet are flat and she doesn't smile, at least not the ones me and my sister played with."

"Flat feet. Right? Where exactly is this going cos I'm already halfway out of the door right now."

Patrick started getting desperate. He could feel his mouth getting dry even though he'd already drank about four pints of Budding followed by two whiskey chasers. He wasn't quite near the 'king of the world' stage that Fred warned him not to get to but he was definitely getting closer.

"Okay, okay. Maybe we can cut a deal. Sindy vs Barbie. Brits vs Yanks in a big fuck off culture war but with toys."

"Umm. You just said you wanted to go sweet and sincere. I'm confused. And you want to go to war with Barbie? That's like saying you want to go to war with Hollywood. Fred told me it's been your dream to make it in Hollywood. Is that not true?"

"No. I love Hollywood. But old Hollywood. Pre-internet Hollywood."

"Pre-internet. I'm getting some seriously anti-progressive vibes from you right now Patrick I gotta say."

"Exactly! This is the opposite direction to ChatGPT Hollywood. This is going back to the glory days of old."

"Listen, Pat. I'm going to say this only once. Hollywood is about moving forward not backwards. We're never going back to the old days of 'Gone With The Wind' and 'Breakfast At Tiffany's'. Today's market is about moving product in a world where everyone is selling something. So far what you've attempted to sell me is some sort of Brexit Barbie with flat feet who is going to be taking feminism back one hundred years. It's not exactly going to fly in 2023."

Patrick was nothing if not persistent so gave his pitch one last shot.

"I'm saying maybe we can pitch to the Barbie team and join forces on this. Play on the rivalry between Britain and America. Could be fun, no?"

Carlos at this stage had already returned home in his mind and so shrugged and offered a quiet and formal goodbye to Patrick, leaving him precisely back where he was half an hour before the producer had first arrived.

Staring at the copper complexion of his half-finished pint, Patrick could feel the onset of a depression sweeping across him like a weather system. But just before he sank into deep despair he remembered something he urgently wanted to share with Carlos.

It was raining outside the 'Green Welly' and Carlos had turned on his electromagnetic wiper to deal with the deluge.

He'd just about managed to manoeuvre his Tesla Roadster out of the tightest parking space in England when Patrick suddenly loomed out of the darkness and placed his BFG-sized hands on his windscreen.

"Oh no you don't, pal! Sorry not sorry!"

And Carlos slammed his foot down to accelerate away from the rain-soaked Patrick but just as he did he felt something hard crunch against the front wheel of his car.

"Oh fuck! What now?"

Reversing back over whatever he'd just hit, Carlos heard a primordial wailing from Patrick that made his blood turn instantly cold.

"Shit!"

Stepping out of his sports car in a panic, Carlos found Patrick collapsed on the side of the road in the teeming rain cradling his wolfhound's mangled, lifeless body in his arms.  

"You killed him you fucking arsehole! You killed Fabian!"

Kneeling beside the distraught Patrick, Carlos had a sinking feeling this was only just the beginning of the nightmare.

The Aftermath

It must have been several months later and Fred hadn't seen much of Patrick since that fateful night at the pub which was probably a good thing considering how much he'd fucked things up with his big shot contact. Construction on Carlos's new build country mansion had closed down temporarily due to mysterious circumstances and so Fred and his building crew were forced to down tools and find other work in the area until they heard otherwise.

Sitting scrolling mindlessly through his phone at OnlyFans models on Twitter whilst licking the salt off of a pork scratching, an entertainment newsfeed notification flashed up on his screen: "TALKS BEGIN FOR TWO PICTURE 'SINDY' DEAL".

"Oh for fuck's sake. What twat thought of that?"

And with an exasperated blowing out of his cheeks, Fred turned his phone over and went in search of the dartboard to vent his general frustration out on but finding Paul in the middle of a super tense-looking game of 'killer' with Jason, the frightened-looking landlord of the 'Welly', he thought better of it and headed home across the soggy fields.

Cursing his shit luck of late, Fred blamed Patrick entirely for his downturn in good fortune.

"Bloody Hollywood dreams!"

It was true. Patrick had really screwed Fred's year right up and he figured now was about the time to call in that favour he'd promised.