by Ben Elton
‘Anyway, like I say, Sandi were the dirtiest bird I ever met, and do you know how she liked her cocaine? I’ve surprised a few NA meetings with this one. Up her arse. True. Not a word of a lie. The first night I was with her, I’m eighteen, remember…Mind you, I reckon she were only twenty. The first night I were with her, she says, ‘Oi want you to blow some charlie op moi crapper, Tom.’ West country accent, an’ all, so uncool but very sexy, I think. ‘There’s far more capillaries op youm arrse than op youm ‘ooter, Tom, trust old Sarndi.’ So she gets a Bic biro an’ takes the ink tube out, an’ gets on her knees on the bed and suddenly I’m staring at the brown-eyed Cyclops. ‘Jus’ youm sock a nice line op tharrt tube, Tommy, an’ then stick the pointy end o’ the tube in moi arrse. Only jus’ ‘arf an inch, loik, an’ blow gentle…Not a big puff, loik, ‘cos it’s dangerous t’blow in people’s orifices, loik.’
‘She loved it, an’ I’ll tell you what, she were right, ‘cos she done it to me and it were a very quick an’ lively buzz indeed. An’ sort of erotic, I suppose, particularly if you’re pissed up an’ mad for it. But t’be honest, I’ve not bothered with the method much since. I get self-conscious, see. Funny, but I do, kneeling on a bed with me buttocks spread. Bit on the intimate side, I reckon, borderin’ on graphic. I like doin’ it to the birds, though. Don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely that. An’ I’ve charmed a lot o’ girls that way. I find they can’t get enough of it.
‘Anyway, like I say, I love the road. I always go on the tour bus too, no limos, even now. I like the beer and the gags and the service station food. Don’t know why, but to me it’s romantic. You pull into some Road Chef on the M6 an’ all pile out. You’ve got your big fook-off minders, your drop-dead gorgeous backin’ singers, your wasted, monged-out old musos…an’ then me, right in the middle, the Boss, the Man. The Chairman o’ the fookin’ board. Everybody’s lookin’ an’ pointin’, but you’re just with your posse havin’ your pie an’ chips like a regular dude, except for your security blokes, o’ course. An’ then you get in the shop and buy a load o’ dirty mags to show to the backin’ singers, an’ water pistols an’ guns with sound effects or whatever, y’know, kids’ toys, and then you pile back on the coach and just ‘ave it large.
‘Simple pleasures, I know, but it does for me.
‘An’ when you get to the gig, what a buzz, man. My tours have got so out of control that it’s just humungous. I get a hard on jus’ thinkin’ about the size o’ my operation. There’s six artics parked out the back for the lights and staging. Six! Fook me, you could retake the Falkland Islands wi’ my crew. A hundred blokes, all with my name written on ‘em, all wi’ laminates hangin’ roun’ their necks sayin’ ‘Tommy’s Crew’. Tommy’s Crew, eh? Cool phrase or what? Big, tough ‘ard men what worked for the Who an’ Queen an’ now they’re Tommy’s crew an’ they’re all working their bollocks off for me t’make sure I am a fookin’ rock god.
‘What a vibe the ‘get in’ is. When I turn up for me soundcheck everythin’s goin’ off big time. Radios crackling, lights spinning, miles and miles of cable everywhere. Hordes o’ lovely little PAs on their mobiles making sure Britney gets good seats.
‘There’s caterin’ an’ ping-pong tables an’ pool an’ loads o’ the latest arcade games. An’ I get ushered through it all by a flyin’ wedge o’ minders, me lookin’ all serious an’ intense in me big coat an’ beanie hat…An’ here’s the point. Everyone knows, I mean everyone knows, that every single fookin’ light, every nut, every bolt, every plate o’ steak au poivre an’ chips, every crate o’ Pepsi, every case o’ ozzie Chardonnay, every drum riser, guitar pick, hot dog, fork lift, scaff rig, limo, artic an’ merchandizing stand. Every single front o’ house usher in their little uniforms, every grip, roadie, crew boss, fixer, publicist, site manager, health and safety fookwit bastard who reckons you’ve got to ‘ave ten metres between each punter in case one of ‘em spontaneously combusts. Every session muso, every backing singer, the entire six-tier management team, the twats from the record company, cooks, cleaners, costume girls, obliging poofs an’ posh little cuties what ask me if I need anything. Every fooker in that vast arena, every single fooker, knows that they and everything they see and touch is down to me. I’m paying for it and I’m paying for them. They’re my posse, it’s all my stuff, they’re all my people. It’s my fookin’ gig. An’ what’s more, the whole thing is surrounded, absolutely fookin’ surrounded, by an impregnable ring o’ security. Huge fook-off bastards wi’ hands like hams, big shaven-headed black geezers wi’ gold chains round their necks an’ rings like house bricks on their fingers. Tough lezzos wi’ skin’ead mullets an’ tattoos on their knuckles — you ‘ave to ‘ave female security on these days in case any hysterical bird needs restraining, otherwise, bang, some fookin’ mad dad’ll do the tour for sexual harassment…Security, I love it, my own private army. I mean, how good is that?
‘And there I am, being ushered into my space…The sanctum. The citadel at the centre of the fortified city. The castle keep from which I shall ride forth to do battle an’ gross seven hundred an’ fifty thousand quid a night.
‘They work so hard on my sanctums, them obliging poofs an’ posh little cuties what work for my record company. They do everything to give my great an’ tortured artistic soul rest an’ respite, because that is what I have a right to expect. Everything. Half an acre o’ flowers, vast fridges full o’ drinks, cushions, couches, a little gym, my special moody lighting wi’ all drapes over the lamps, ‘cos that’s how Keith Richard ‘as it. A massage bench, a cocktail bar, a cable telly the size of a wall, an’ a fook off sound system, an’ I mean fook off. Get this, this is true, my backstage sound system ‘as more grunt than Westlife’s fookin’ show rig. Cool or what?
‘An’ everyone’s sayin’, ‘What can I get you, Tommy?’ ‘When would you like to soundcheck, Tommy?’ ‘Is everythin’ absolutely fookin’ perfect for you, Tommy, ‘cos if not we’ll fookin’ sack everybody an’ start again.’
‘And then you sit down and, well…What do you do? How do you top it? How do you come to terms with being just so fookin’ special that everybody in your world is there for you?
‘You reach for the drugs, o’ course.’
HOUSE OF COMMONS
The Home Secretary laid a friendly hand on Peter Paget’s shoulder as he led him to an easy chair.
‘So, how are you feeling?’
‘Not so bad, Douglas, not so bad.’
‘We’re all very impressed, you know, Peter. Very proud, the way you’re handling this.’
‘Well, you know, it’s been over two months and neither I nor my new friend Robert the Junkie have shown positive for HIV or hepatitis C, so we really are looking hopeful. Robert swears to me that the needle was clean and that he hasn’t had sex in two years…’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Regarding the sex? Certainly. I’ve seen the state of his penis, remember. About the needles? Well, I think I believe him. He really is a bright and articulate man underneath it all. What’s more, he’s been using for the best part of a decade and the tests prove he was clean at least until a couple of months ago, so…Well, look, it’s idle to speculate, Douglas. It’s all looking very hopeful, but I shan’t get a complete all-clear until three full months have passed.’
‘And Angela?’
‘What can I tell you? She’s worried, of course. So are the girls. We talk about it a lot. I mean, it’s a strange thing to walk about with the real possibility that some alien virus has invaded your system. I manage not to think about it most of the time, but sometimes, in the night…Well, you know.’
‘I can certainly try to imagine…’
The Home Secretary had seen to it that a bottle of House of Commons malt whisky and two glasses had been set out. It was early evening, a clubbable hour. Peter could not help but feel excited. This was clearly matey, man-to-man stuff. Sundowners with the Home Secretary was rising-star stuff for sure.
‘Look, Peter. The number-
one issue in this whole dreadful business is your health, and yours and Angela’s wellbeing, but you know as well as I do that the immense publicity that has surrounded your accident has brought the issues you’ve been trying to raise firmly to centrestage.’
‘I can assure you, Douglas, that I didn’t deliberately run the risk of contracting a fatal illness in order to improve the fortunes of my Private Member’s Bill.’ Peter felt strong, empowered. Perhaps it was the accident that made him bold. After all, those who have looked death in the face can certainly face down Home Secretaries.
‘You know me better than that, Peter. You know that that’s not what I meant. What I meant is that because of your campaign and the circumstances that have surrounded it the issue of full legalization is now no longer seen as the domain of hippies and lunatics — ’
‘Like me, you mean. I well remember your reaction to my first speech on the issue. Not sympathetic, as I recall.’
‘When you introduced your bill, Peter, the drug debate stood at exactly the same point at which it had stood for twenty years. Zero tolerance, no surrender. We will fight those pushers on the beaches, et cetera, et cetera. But now the public have suddenly been forced to confront the real and present danger that traditional drug policy has brought down upon mainstream society.’
‘And you have also been forced to confront it.’
‘Yes, Peter, I accept that. You don’t need to press your point. You’ve moved me on this issue. It’s quite self-evident that if your acquaintance Robert had had access to a shooting gallery or at the very least a proper needle-exchange programme you would not be living under the threat that currently hangs over your head.’
‘Beautifully put, Home Secretary. Are you going to use it?’
‘Yes, I am as a matter of fact, at a speech to the regional conference in Birmingham this Thursday.’
‘Does this mean that you intend to support my position?’
‘Peter. I don’t mind admitting that a few weeks ago you weren’t exactly my favourite backbencher. You were talking absolute common sense but common sense that at the time I thought too dangerous ever to be even whispered. I thought you were going to drag us all into a polarized debate where you could either be seen as a statesman or a drug pushing lunatic. But don’t think for a moment that even then I didn’t have a great deal of sympathy for your arguments. Of course you’re right. In simple economic terms you’re right if nothing else. The police force is buckling under the strain of drug-related crime, whole communities are becoming fiefdoms for drug gangs.’
‘As I’ve constantly sought to point out, the savings from turning drug-dealers into honest men would run into many billions.’
‘Yes, but it’s not just the savings we’re considering here, it’s the possible profit of legalization. As you’re aware, the government’s policy on smoking tobacco is that everyone should stop immediately — ’
‘But if they did, the Treasury would be bankrupted.’
‘Of course. Cigarettes are our biggest earner. Five quid a packet, four pounds fifty to us. People talk about tobacco-users being a burden on the National Health Service, but they pay for most of the damn health service.’
‘And if every yuppie who had a weekend snort of cocaine was taxed for it?’
‘My God. Ten quid in the kitty per line…we could have a decent railway network in a year!’ The Home Secretary picked up his telephone.
‘Joanna, could you possibly bring through the Treasury briefing I asked you to look out?’
Joanna entered the slightly dusty old room like a little ray of sunshine. Small, blond, smartly turned out in an elegant trouser suit. For a moment Peter Paget found himself speculating on whether the Home Secretary harboured a secret similar to his own. He did not speculate for long, however. The conversation he was having was simply too exciting to allow room for idle thoughts. Even this brief reminder of his affair could not subdue his spirits for long.
‘I’ve asked the Chancellor to join us, if that’s all right, Peter, and the Prime Minister has said that he’ll try to look in.’
Joanna could have been Aphrodite herself and Peter would have failed to consider her further. The Chancellor? The Prime Minister! Only months before, he had been a pariah, lucky to get a meeting with his own constituency chairman. Now this! The Home Secretary continued.
‘This is a highly confidential Treasury report. A report which, I might add, we compiled some time before you began your campaign, Peter. You’re not the only one who has the clear vision to see the wood despite the trees, but you were until now the only one with the balls to state the obvious conclusion. This report looks at the budgetary implications of full legalization. Of necessity it is highly speculative. We don’t know what the health and social implications would be. It is of course possible that the alarmist majority are right and that we would find ourselves dealing with entire communities full of stoned, tripping vegetables, but tentative programmes abroad, particularly in the Netherlands, suggest the opposite. Our best guess is that if any increased usage did occur it would be massively offset in health and social benefits by the fact that usage would be safe and in the open.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, yes, of course, Peter, but you know as well as I do the amount of protest that a policy like this, if implemented, would create. We must be aware of that.’
‘If implemented? My God, Douglas, surely you’re not saying that the government — ’
‘What I’m saying is that this secret report concludes that if we taxed drugs instead of impounding them, if we made them a simple matter of the laws of fair trade, we could destroy ninety per cent of the nation’s criminal networks overnight, we could import the stuff at the cost of tea and sell it at the cost of caviar, all at an immense profit to the Treasury. If the policy became international we could liberate the producing nations in the developing world from the grip of drug warlords, and the peasant population could return to producing the food crops they so desperately need. And finally and quite frankly most importantly, we’d have so much money in the coffers we could cut income tax in half and win every election until Doomsday.’
Once more Joanna entered the room. ‘Home Secretary, the Prime Minister has asked if you and Mr Paget would join him at Number Ten. The Chancellor has also been invited.’
Peter could see that the Home Secretary was not overjoyed to be so perfunctorily summoned. Clearly he felt that this was his initiative and that the PM should come to him. Peter did not care who came to whom, or if the meeting took place at the Westminster McDonald’s, he was going to share conference with the three most powerful men in government. The fast track had just got a whole lot faster.
FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER
So the tour’s been going for a while, right? Scotland were mental. I’m an honorary Scot, me. I know how to butter ‘em up, see. I always open the set by saying, ‘I’m like Scotland. Why? Because I am also proudly inde-fookin’—pendent.’ Bang, five minutes o’ cheering. They love all that, they do. Well, who don’t? Quite frankly, I’ve always found that a naked,appeal to petty nationalism goes down well wherever you play it. ‘Good evening, Doncaster, best fookin’ city in the world. Hello, Southend, God’s own holiday resort.’ The house’ll go potty every time. Amazing how much people love it when you big up their town, no matter what kind o’ shitehole it is. In fact, the funny thing is, the posher an’ better a town gets, the less the population want to big it up. I mean, I’m not going to go, ‘Good evening, Royal Tunbridge Wells. You rock!’ am I? It just don’t have the ring. Anyway, I was talkin’ about Scotland, and as it ‘appens I do always feel at home in Scotland. I like the beer, I like the fried haggis an’ sauce in the chippies which you’d think’d be shite but is actually not bad. I like the lamb pies an’ the fact that you can see mountains most o’ the time. Also I’ve always been partial to the birds up there. Love a strawberry blonde, me.
‘The downside is the drugs, man. I mean, that is one very f
ooked-up scene. Well, it is everywhere, in’t it, but I always seem to feel more aware of it in Scotland. Maybe it’s fookin’ Trainspotting. I bet the Scottish Tourist Board loved it when that came out. Actually, I think it’s the scenery. I mean, you’ve got this devastatingly beautiful, healthy-looking place, what should be full o’ great big fook-off hard men wi’ beards an’ muscles in their spit, chuckin’ logs about, but instead everywhere you look there’s these pale, skinny, spotty lads an’ lasses monged out on God knows what shite or other.