Love Is the Devil: Study for a Portrait of Francis Bacon

Like a bomb exploding in reverse.

Thoughts, ideas...

fragments of images.

Shards of memory, like shrapnel,

all come back to me,

and are forced back out in a cruel pastiche of experience.

Shit.

And who might you be?

You're not much of a burglar, are you?

Take your clothes off.

Come to bed and you can have whatever you want.

You actually make money out of painting?

Mm.

It's not something I've ever really thought about.

There were some pictures at my mum's

but they weren't really for looking at, they were just...

Just sort of there.

Oh, yes.

That's interesting, George.

But nothing like yours, obviously.

Obviously.

I've done a few jobs but I'm not much of a crook, really.

I've spent more time inside than out.

He is all of them compressed into one man.

I love what closes him out.

Not quite the Nietzsche of the football team but still...

I know, dear, but worse things happen at Hiroshima.

Now, which lovely member's going to buy Mother a drink?

I'll get these.

Deakin, what'll you have?

I need a big one to calm me down.

Then I'll tell all.

So what's new? He needs a big one!

The sphincter without a secret's come over all queer.

Give her a fag and pull up a pouffe for her to sit on.

What's got your knickers in a twist, then?

It's her ladyship. I think she might be going steady.

What are you talking about? Do I know this woman?

You most certainly do. Miss Bacon herself.

The tom-tom drums have started already, have they? That's quick.

The lady has got a new tart.

I don't like talking about Francis's private life. I need to get some air.

So, this big brute drops out of the sky and into her bed.

I find that rather suspect.

The cottage at Piccadilly, more likely.

You want to watch your vile, poisoned tongue, missy.

You've got your nose jammed so far up Francis's arse,

you're not going to notice the axe hanging over your head.

Thank you, Muriel, darling, I value your dishonesty.

Perhaps you could steal this one off him, Dan,

as a sort of revenge thing.

Or have him on your telly programme.

'The Twilight World of Unhappy Poofs.'

How do you know they're unhappy? They've only just met.

If they're getting on, then they're unhappy.

That's what love means.

That kid the Krays are pumping,

he really hasn't got a decent left hook.

I can't see him going more than four rounds.

Yeah, but I think Ronnie's pumping him quite a different way.

I met this bloke.

- What, a fighter? - No, a painter.

I need someone to do my lounge.

Not that sort of painter.

- He does paintings. - That's no bloody use, is it?

Arghh!

Our time together has given me a whole new...

energy.

Not just for the work, but moments like these.

You may well become a subject.

For a painting.

That'd be fantastic. I always wanted a picture of me.

To me, you're like a sorbet.

You cleanse the palate between courses.

Sometimes, of course, it's a little bitter.

What?

It doesn't matter.

Come along. We have an appointment.

It's time for the emperor's real clothes.

A man being measured for a suit

is not dissimilar to his being measured for the old wooden box.

Feels like a bloody coffin. It's fucking hot in here, Francis.

Yes, it is hot, George.

Mr Dyer will arrange to collect the suit.

I think we're going to have some shirts and some appropriate ties.

Hold on, hold on, don't go overboard. I feel so...

So clothed?

You just don't care what people think, do you?

I want you to meet my friends. We can have a drink. God knows, I need one.

- Your mates? - The Colony is a refuge for lost souls...

no longer in possession of living bodies.

Can't we just go to the pub?

No.

Oh, come off it, you fell in love with yourself. Love at first sight.

And you're the only one you're fucking faithful to.

I drink for the thirst to come.

Mm. And everyone else's.

I never see you getting out your bead bag, Lottie.

- I don't think you know me at all, Muriel. - No, I don't give a fuck, dear.

Twat.

You're an arty little shit, Deakin.

You're a waste of space and you bore me. Why don't you go and ponce somewhere else?

Miss Hitler was more generous than you.

Anyway, do go on, Isabel.

So, anyway, Margaret stepped up to the microphone

and started singing I Get a Kick.

The whole ballroom was reverently pretending to be entertained when...

from the back of the room came a series of loud and vigorous boos and hisses.

No, no, not my naughty daughter, was it? Was it?

No!

Total impatience with ineptitude of any kind.

And the poor little midget seemed to shrink even more as she ran from the stage sobbing.

Francis, of course, thought it the only reasonable way to respond.

Naturally!

Oh, here's my daughter now.

Bravo.

Everybody, this is George.

This is Muriel, Isabel,

the beautiful Henrietta,

and Deakin.

Introduce yourselves. George is a little shy.

Hello.

So...who's Arthur and who's Martha?

Oh, piss off, Deakin! I'm really sick of it!

I'll talk to you after you've had a shave.

Welcome to the concentration of camp.

Why are you so down on Deakin?

I'm sick of that tight-fisted little ponce, scrounging on all my lovely members,

putting everybody off coming in.

People have been complaining.

- We wouldn't want to give your chum... - George.

..your charming chum George the wrong impression, would we?

Cheerio.

Cheerio!

Smells good.

Does it?

Yeah.

Nice and simple.

Not like that muck with all those sauces you took me to last week.

- It's Boulestin, George. - Yeah, but it's all so poncy, isn't it?

I mean, all that cutlery. You only need one knife and one fork.

And those fucking waiters...

Hanging around like bloody vultures.

I love it when it's just me and you.

So do I, George.

So do I.

Well, he took us for dinner, which was fantastic,

but then he refused to pay for our taxi home.

I had to walk the whole bloody way.

Can you believe that anybody who is so rich can be so fucking mean?

But then he said he wanted to paint me

and I was thrilled.

OK?

So, what are we doing?

Is this what you usually get up to for Vogue?

If I photographed their string beans naked I'd get done by Obscene Publications. God, no.

These are sort of er...technical.

How should Francis know what a fanny looked like?

- True. - Ooh.

That ought to knock 'em dead.

Push your tits to either side.

That's it. And lay them in the aisles.

- Is that right? - Oh, yes. Yes!

Move your right leg more over this way.

OK.

Yes, yes, yes.

That ought to slaughter them.

Stick both legs in the air and point your toes just like Nijinsky.

- Really? - Yes. Good.

I think you're taking Francis too literally, Deakin.

I don't want the camera inside me.

A bottom shot, lovely.

Oh! Piss off!

- I'm rather looking forward to this. - Yeah, I like a good fight.

Boxing is such a marvellous aperitif to sex.

I don't know how you work that one out.

Bullfighting does it too. It unlocks the valves of feeling.

I've never been to Spain.

Do I detect a hint, George?

- Hello. - Good to see you, George.

Hello, George. Haven't seen you about. What've you been up to?

- I'm working for Mr Bacon here. - That's all right, then, innit?

- Don't see you down the Turkish these days. - We tend to go up West, Soho and that.

- We do, do we? We tend. - Yeah.

Yeah, us too of a weekend.

Francis! George!

And who are your charming friends?

Henrietta, this is Ken Bidwell, Joe Furneval.

Do let's get together for a drink after the fighting.

- I don't think so, love. - Aw!

George, you should come down the club. We've really pulled it together.

And don't bring the freak show.

I'll see you soon enough.

Francis keeps me pretty busy.

Yeah?

Listen, George, you want to watch those poncy types.

A right old tart, isn't she? You stick with your own kind, mate.

- He pay you all right? - It's the life of Riley.

We booze it up, play the tables down Charlie Chester's.

They look like a right bunch of wankers to me.