Rushing mate

Sally has been producing a Mika video for Nez. They shot it last night. This morning she asked if I could drop the rushes off at The Mill as my cycle route takes me through town. I haven't even touched rushes in over 10 years. I hate rushes. My palms were sweating for the whole ride. I couldn't concentrate. It was like an appalling flashback to my earliest days in production. There's no more chilling task as a runner than dropping off the rushes. None. The burden of responsibility weighs upon you; all that endeavour, effort, stress, talent and money - acres of money - are condensed into a few cans of film that rest in your hands, waiting for you to transport them safely to the lab.

Now of course the rushes are, more often than not, stored on a hard drive.


But back in the late '90s it was always 35mm film.

A freelance runner that I worked with in '97 told me a good rushes story. He'd been working on an unending beauty commercial in Ile Noire studios. Day after day after interminable day of the same shit: Linda Evangelista in a shift dress flicking her hair about. Tedium gave way to ennui and finally turned to disgust. "I mean she's a supermodel. But by the seventh day I couldn't even fucking look at her. It was so boring."


After eight days the shoot finally wrapped and it was my man's turn to drop the rushes. The loader packed them into two boxes for him. He rolled out to his car and put them on the roof while he took off his coat. He got in, cracked open a can of coke, turned on the radio and found Powerjam, kicked it for a minute and then billed up a zoot for the journey. Fuck it. Whatever. He sparked it and drove into Soho. Homeboy pulled up on Wardour Street and hopped out of his car. Sitting on the roof were the two boxes of rushes. Mother fucker. "The mother fucking rushes were still on the roof. I was doing like 80 down the fucking Westway. I still don't know how they didn't fall off. Straight up magnet roof." He then threw up into the gutter.


One time in '98 I dropped some rushes off at Soho Images. The shoot wrapped late and I had to stay on to collect the walkies and sweep the location. It was about 2.00am when I eventually got into town. At that time Soho Images had a late night drop box because the delivery office shut at midnight. I walked up Meard Street feeling sketchy - I always felt sketchy when I knew I had to fuck with the drop box. I pulled the first tin out of my stash bag, opened the hatch and slid it in. But nothing happened. It just stuck, teetering on the lip. What the fuck? I reached my arm in. The chute was backed up with rushes. Jammed. Jesus. I pulled the tin out and carefully put it back in, making sure that it slipped over the other resting mags and hit the bottom. Scrape. Thunk. I did the same with the rest of the cans. One by one. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


Then it dawned on me. I put my arm back in, grabbed one of the lodged cans and pulled it out. Scribbled on a bit of camera tape was the following: Mercedes. DOP Ivan Bird. Gorgeous Enterprises. Fuck me. Fuck me. Yo chill. Chill for a second. I put it back and walked around the block. I was already composing the ransom note: if you wanna see the safe return of your missing rushes you need to meet me outside Corniche Video on Frith street at midnight tomorrow with three grand in cash. Three gees. That wouldn't have even touched the sides of a million pound commercial. But it would've paid off my credit card bill. I was stoned and paranoid about CCTV. So I took my coat off and pulled my hood up. I quickly glanced around. No one was coming. Safe. I shuffled back up Meard street, lugged three tins out of the chute and put them in my bag. My heart was pounding; I thought my legs were going to give way beneath me. I managed to walk to the corner of Meard and Dean street before I stopped dead. That's when it hit me. I'm a fucking pussy. And I'll always be a pussy. I'm not cut out for a life of crime. What am I? PLO? No way. I can't kidnap these rushes. This is retarded. I'm a retard.

I dumped the canisters back in the drop box, trudged over to the moody cab office on Cambridge Circus, bought a 10 bag of dirt weed and got a boss chops home, dejected and full of self-loathing at my cowardice.