High society

by Ben Elton

  ‘I’m so sorry, Barry. I mean for the girl.’

  ‘Yes. So am I.’

  FALLOIVFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER

  Another town, another church hall, another alcoholics support group. ‘My name is Tommy and I’m an alcoholic, and this is about the millionth time I’ve tried to straighten out. I expect I’ll end up having to go to dry out in LA like all the other sad act recovering rock stars. Nobody drinks out there, see. If you order a beer they call the police. Only problem is it’s so fookin’ boring! All them stars end up worshipping their bodies, don’t they? Addicted to health, or at least to some skinny, scrawny, mean-looking version of health. It’s all they’ve got left to take an interest in, in’t it? Well, fook that. I ain’t spendin’ the rest of my life goin’ in an’ out of gyms with a two-litre bottle of water in me ‘and.’

  Tommy was not in the peak of health. There was a small roll of flesh at his belt and he was a little puffy about the eyes, but nonetheless he was still hugely attractive. Another few kilograms, though, and the looks would begin to go. Tommy knew that very well and it compounded his drug dependency, for while he recognized that booze made him fat, he saw cigarettes and cocaine as slimming drugs.

  ‘I went on a pretty bad bender after I fell off the wagon in Soho. Not a lot of idea what went on, really. Shaggin’ and coke, I imagine. There’s bits and pieces in the tabloids and celeb mags: Tommy falling out of the Met Bar, Tommy flickin’ the Vs at the paps, so I know I stayed in London, but it’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. I just remember waking up in my big stupid house in Netting Hill with that bird off one of them Saturday morning kids’ shows…Not SMTV, a cable channel version, I think, you know, all pop music and chuckin’ custard pies about with a couple of twenty-year-olds pretending to be eight years old and terminally hip at the same time. I’ve always had a penchant for the birds off kids’ TV — they’re always so perky, in’t they? Like the first teacher you ever fancied. Cute an’ perky an’ mad for it in my experience, gaggin’. Well, it’s ‘avin’ to be all sugar and spice all day long, in’t it? ‘Course it is. If your work consisted o’ coaxing questions out o’ shy six-year-olds what had rung in to ask S Club if they like singin’ or dancin’ more then you’d want it large of a night. An’, like I say, in my experience kids’ pop-show birds like it huge! They hang out wi’ all these cool pop stars but at the end of the day they still have to get gunked for charity, so when they get off work they just can’t wait to get sixteen vodkas, a gram of coke and a big celebrity dick inside them. An’ who can blame ‘em?

  ‘Chloe, her name was, I think. Maybe not. Cheryl? Could ‘a been. No, Mum’s name is Cheryl. So Chloe, probably. Top bird, as I remember, one o’ that type that tells you she in’t wearing no knickers within five minutes o’ starting a conversation. I love that, me, love it. So anyways, there’s me and this bird lying in my big fook-off bed wondering whether we’ve got the energy for a bit o’ beer breath bangin’ or not and she reckons maybe with a line or two up her hooter, so she’s leaning over to grab me coke when suddenly she’s shriekin’ and hauling the sheets up over her tits, and I looks round an’ Tony my tour manager is actually standing over us lookin’ at his watch an’ saying it’s time to go back to work.

  ‘I never should ‘a’ given that bastard a key.’

  TOMMY’S HOUSE, NOTTING HILL GATE

  Get out, you bloody pervert! He’s been looking at my breasts, Tommy! I swear he’s been standing there checking out my tits!’

  ‘No, he ain’t, love. He’s a tour manager. He’s immune to tits.’ Tony put a packet of cigarettes and a lighter onto Tommy’s bedside table. ‘Sorry, darling, didn’t mean to catch you all embarrassing, but I’ve been ringing the doorbell for twenty minutes. You must’ve been out of it. Come on, Tommy, get up and get your kecks on. You’re coming with me.’

  Took off, Tone. You are takin’ the piss, surely?’

  ‘Who is this pervert, Tommy? Is it a lads’ thing? Do you let your mates pop in to stare at the women you pick up? If so that’s pretty sad.’

  Tommy wrapped a pillow round his head. ‘Sorry, love, but do you think you could modulate your voice a bit? You got one o’ them piercers, great for kids’ telly but it’s doin’ my ‘ead in. This is Tony. He sorts out my stuff.’

  ‘Does he now? Very cosy. Well, just you tell Tony to piss off so I can put some clothes on.’

  Tony did not even glance at Chloe. She might as well have been an extra pillow. ‘Tommy. Get up. Put your kecks on. Come downstairs and get in the car.’

  ‘Like I said, Tone, you are taking the piss.’

  Chloe did not get to be a morning pop show presenter on cable television by allowing herself to be sidelined. ‘Tommy, you invited me to spend the night with you! As I recall, there was talk of croissants in the morning, coffee also. A nice day out was mentioned — champagne lunch at Cliveden, a shag in the sauna. I did not expect to wake up in the middle of a — !’

  ‘Look, please, Chloe…It is Chloe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s fucking Chloe.’

  ‘There’s a dressing gown on the door. Tone, turn round. Chloe, put it on, go and ‘ave a shower. Tone, get her a car and tell it to pick up some Starbucks on the way. Take it to Cliveden if you want, love, spend the night, treat a girlfriend, charge it to me. But I cannot handle being bollocked right now, OK?’

  ‘You are such a prick, Tommy Hanson.’

  Mustering what dignity she could, Chloe stepped naked from the bed, and, taking up the dressing gown, went through to the bathroom.

  Tommy lit a cigarette. ‘Go away, Tone.’

  ‘Tommy. The tour starts in three days and it’s massive.’

  They’re all fookin’ massive.’

  ‘Massive even for you. Sold out arenas, half a million tickets gone instantly, Madonna and Guy rumoured to ‘we been knocked back when they asked for freebies.’

  Took that. If Madge wants to see me play she can sit on the stage as far as I’m concerned. She’s top, that bird, top, undisputed queen of pop.’

  ‘She don’t want to see you, Tommy, it’s a bullshit rumour, that’s all. I’m just saying that everybody’s talking about this tour. It’s the biggest of the year by miles. You’re going to make more money than Bill Gates and it starts in three days.’

  ‘Well, what’re you coming round ‘ere for now, then? Come back the day after tomorrow. Bring a pen and paper, we’ll do the set list.’

  ‘Set list’s done, Tom. We’re doing the autumn show plus ‘Tattoo’ and ‘Heaven’.’

  ‘Even better. Fook off.’

  ‘Get up, Tommy.’

  Having had her shower, Chloe took a lipstick from her handbag and wrote ‘arsehole’ on Tommy’s bathroom mirror.

  FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER

  Tony was right, of course. Even I have to do a bit of work, see. You can’t just walk on stage and expect it to ‘appen, can you? And to give Tone his due he’d left it as long as he could. The band had been rehearsing for a week — not like they needed to, they were so tight people always thought we was using tracks anyway, which is frustrating. It was really the same tour as before, just an extension and an expansion. My success came so quick and I got so big immediately after I won Pop Hero that it’s been a constant improvisation ever since, trying to make sure we make as much money as we can with an ever-widening horizon. For two years it had seemed like my earning potential had virtually doubled every month and by rights this tour should have actually been in stadiums. Certainly up here in the north where they just fookin’ love me, I reckon I could do four Maine Roads sold out.

  Think about it: four football stadiums here in Manchester alone. ‘So Tony had given me three days to get rne voice in shape, have a few shots of vitamin B up the arse and try to remember all the words to my songs. He just would not fook off until I got in the car with him and went over to Westbourne Grove where we had a rehearsal and recording studio booked for about a million quid a day. The truth of the matter i
s I’m pretty professional, actually, when it comes down to it. Besides, I was sick to death of myself and quite fancied the road — you know, hanging out with the boys in the band and the birds in the back line-up. We always have a laugh, us.’

  NOMAD STUDIOS, WESTBOURNE GROVE

  Tommy staggered into the rehearsal room doing his comedy ‘I’m completely fooked, me’ stagger, smiling shyly, ingratiatingly, at the familiar faces, his head bowed, his coat big, and a woolly hat pulled low, the current uniformed stance of the tortured artist hooligan. Spike and Julio, respectively the guitarist and the rhythm guitarist in the band, punched the air in greeting.

  ‘Yo, Tommo!’

  ‘Big up, boss!’

  Then, sotto voce, ‘What a sad bastard, eh?’

  ‘What’s he like? I mean, fuck, we’ve been waiting here a week and look at him.’

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Hard to remember him now. I mean when he wasn’t a twat.’

  ‘I suppose he isn’t always a twat even these days.’

  ‘Isn’t he? When was he last not a twat, then?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  Tommy shuffled down the steps and onto the studio floor, all hunched attitude and tired puppy eyes. Big man, hard man, artiste. Top gun, back in the saddle. Chief outlaw rejoining his posse. Numero uno.

  ‘All right? ‘Ow ya doin’? Nice one. Sound. Yeah.’

  Standing beneath the big ‘no smoking’ sign, he pinched the filter off a Silk Cut and lit up. Hey, who was going to tell Tommy not to smoke?

  ‘I need it for me voice, don’t I? It’s medicinal. It’s how I get enough phlegm up to lubricate the high notes.’

  Tommy’s assembled employees laughed. The musical director called out his orders and the band struck up. Tight, studio perfect, an awesome body of sound. Tommy took the microphone that was offered to him and, sitting on the edge of a flight case, staring directly at the floor, he pushed his voice into the first number. When the song was finished the band applauded and Spike turned once more to Julio.

  ‘He ain’t a twat when he sings.’

  AN OXFAM SHOP, WEST BROMWICH

  Ah got off the bus in Birmingham wi’ ma plan still intact. Ah asked the first homeless kid where was a good street tae whore in and got maseP down there straight away. Ah was still in the uniform Francois had bought me: white stilettos, little denim mini, pink boob tube. Ah’d always been a bit vain of ma tits, which are big for a wee girl. So there Ah am, on the street, ma first day in charge of ma own destiny since first ma stepdaddy felt me up. It’s late afternoon and Ah’m confident o’ trade. After work time’s always good, lots o’ men have tae work late at the office shagging a heroin addict in the back o’ their cars.

  ‘Well, Ah suppose Ah’d bin stood there for a couple of minutes when Ah look behind me an’ there’s these three big ugly Brummie birds all wearin’ the same uniform as me, askin’ who the fuck Ah think Ah am and wha’ the fuck Ah think Ahm daein’. tae be honest, Ah cannae remember whether they waited for me taste reply or not before they set about me. Bang, a big fistful of rings in the face, a hand wi’ purple talons grabs ma hair, an’ the stilettos are goin’ in big time. They say smack makes you immune tae pain, but not if your stuff was cut with a big dose o’ brick dust an’ glass and it’s wearing off anyways, so Ah turns an’ runs, realizin’ what Ah should have already known, an’ that is that a seventeen-year old homeless heroin addict is in no position tae make plans.’

  A BROTHEL, BIRMINGHAM

  She got nothing, few quid, that’s all, no cards, no papers. She got no ID ‘cept her face.’

  Once more Jessie allowed herself to be appropriated. She had no choice. Hungry, alone and suffering from the early symptoms of withdrawal, she had gone with the first group of men who approached her with an offer of work.

  ‘What’s your name, girl?’

  She was sitting in the basement of the large, anonymous terraced house to which she had been driven.

  ‘Ma name’s Jessie.’

  ‘You Scottish or what? Where d’you come from?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘You got family? Friends? Maybe you’d like to call someone? Tell them where you are?’

  ‘There’s no one tae call.’

  The man asking the questions smiled at this. He seemed pleased with Jessie’s answer. ‘Where’d you sleep last night?’

  ‘A flat in London. My pimp’s flat.’

  ‘Where’s your pimp now?’

  ‘Brixton Police Station, Ah think. He shot a man.’

  ‘You want a hit up?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes please. Ah’m desperate.’

  ‘What’ll you do for it?’

  ‘Any fuckin’ thing at all.’

  AN OXFAM SHOP, WEST BROMWICH

  That was top gear. Ah mean top, top gear. Ah will say that for Goldie and his boys, they had the best stuff an’ they let you have it. In fact, Ah think a grain or two more an’ all o’ ma troubles would o’ bin over that very night, ‘cos Ah was no’ used to such powerful stuff. Towards the end Francois had bought shite and mixed it with more shite, so Ah was more accustomed tae speed than smack, an’ that first dose offa Goldie nearly took me all the way tae oblivion for real. But they were careful an’ kept an eye on me an’ gave me some coke tae balance things out. Ah must say for a minute there, leaning back, high as heaven wi’ a cup of sugary coffee in ma hand, Ah really felt like Ah’d fallen on ma feet. Ha! On ma back was more tae the point of it, because they put me tae work that very night, although Ah was bruised an’ cut from the girls who’d done me over. To tell the truth, Ah was that out o’ it that Ah don’t think Ah realized Ah was being banged until ma second or third customer. Ah worried a lot about that afterwards, because normally, no matter how monged Ah am, Ah always remember tae slip a condom on the puntas just before they gets to it, but Ah swear that night, after Goldie’s first hit up, Ah couldn’a found a fellah’s dick, let alone discreetly bagged it up.’

  FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER

  We did one warm-up gig before hitting the road proper. Sort of obligatory these days, in’t it. I mean, you ‘ave ta do it, don’t you, the business expects it. Any act that can do fifty thousand seats in any town they fancy has to turn up at some shithole in the Smoke and play to eight fans and two hundred and fifty celebrities plus the rock critic from the Daily fookin’ Telegraph. You ‘ave to do it just to prove that you’re still down and dirty and can still cut it live.

  ‘So anyway, we’re booked in to do this single gig at the Astoria an’ I was determined it was going to be a total an’ utter explanation to the entire fookin’ business regarding the facts o’ the matter about who was boss. I was at Madonna’s when she were in the middle of the Music Tour and it were all right but it was all so fookin’ showbiz. You know what I’m sayin’? All the birds off the soaps and half the Spices, and Guy Ritchie’s fookin’ ‘ardmen actor mates. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Madge were blindin’ in a cabaret sort of a way, but I wanted my gig to rock! Now I don’t know if you know the Astoria, but it’s an absolute shithole between Oxford Street and Cambridge Circus. Normally it’s a one hundred per cent G-A-Y gig, you know, the place where all the girly popettes and failing boy bands go to relaunch their careers by becoming gay icons. But every now and then the gig gets hired out into the mainstream for a bit of solid rock. Tonight was my night, and of course the secret had got out, not surprisingly really, since we’d deliberately told Capital Radio that afternoon. We wanted to stop the traffic, close down half the West End, cause a riot an’ a public nuisance by the sheer power of my celebrity.

  ‘It were completely irresponsible, o’ course. We hadn’t warned the police or nothing, but that’s rock an’ roll, in’t it?

  ‘Boy bands and softies warn the police. The likes o’ Tommy Hanson do what they fookin’ well like.’

  SOHO SQUARE

  Tommy’s limo was stuck on the north side of Soho Square. It was about a hundred metres from its destination, but it might as well ha
ve been in China. The whole of the east of the square was a mass of kids trying to get to the Astoria. Two or three thousand more were milling about in Charing Cross Road, along Oxford Street and up Tottenham Court Road. Tommy sat in the back of the big car looking out at the bodies crushed against the darkened glass, grinning with satisfaction. Tony the tour manager was in the front, his mobile as ever clamped to his ear.

  ‘Elton and David aren’t coming, Tom.’

  ‘You’re fookin’ jokin’. I belled the cont this morning. ‘E said ‘e was mad for it. Said he were ‘avin’ ‘is legs waxed special. Said ‘e might bring Kevin fookin’ Spacey an’ Gwynnie. What ‘appened?’

  ‘Tom, look out of your window. It’s goin’ berserk. Elton and David took one look and buggered off. So would you have done if it wasn’t your gig. Nobody can get through. Jon Bon Jovi’s jacked it and Ronan and Chris Evans and Billie. The PR company says there’s a gang of them gathering at Teatro having a drink. Maybe you should go and do the show there.’

  Took.’

  ‘The Gallaghers are in, though. Apparently they just punched their way straight through to the front door. They’re in the VIP bar now. You have to admire them.’

  ‘No, I fookin’ don’t. They’ll get arseholed on my beer an’ then shout out rude Mancy witticisms during me ballads. Warrabout Robbie?’

  ‘Still in LA, of course, but he sent flowers.’

  ‘Flowers!’

  ‘Yeah, and a card. Most amusing…‘Dear Ex Pop Hero. Thanks for warming up the UK crowd for me. I’ll be back next year to show them what a rock ‘n’ roll star really looks like.’ Nice, eh?’

  Tommy’s normally fairly indulgent sense of humour instantly and completely deserted him. He was overtaken by sudden fury, a feature of the drug cocktail that he had already consumed.