by Elton, Ben
‘You see,’ said Calvin, ‘it just doesn’t make sense to split the story.’
‘Could we shift the Paddy Mingers to after lunch?’ Trent enquired. ‘And not go to virtual Dublin till then?’
But the production secretary had admin issues with that.
‘They’ve all done their travel arrangements. The last cheap flight back leaves at two thirty. We’d have to put them up and there’s nothing left in the budget for overnights.’
Calvin turned to Trent with a shrug. ‘Gotta tell you, Trent, I don’t think splitting the story and doing the second half pre-lunch is a goer . . .’
‘Excuse me, Calvin?’ said Rodney.
‘YES, RODNEY! What is it?’
‘Did you say . . . Beryl throws the coffee over me?’
‘I think that’s what we’ve been discussing for the past ten minutes. Yes.’
‘I thought we’d agreed.’
‘Agreed what?’
‘That we wouldn’t be bothering with all that this year.’
‘All what?’
‘The throwing water over Rodney stuff. I thought we’d agreed that the joke’s got tired.’
‘That’s right. We agreed. Throwing water, very tired. So X Factor, so Pop Idol. Sharon Osbourne, Louis Walsh, they did that. Throwing water is so five minutes ago.’
‘Exactly, and—’ Rodney tried to intervene.
‘Which is why we’ve decided that Beryl should throw coffee.’
‘You really think that makes a difference?’
‘Oh, absolutely. On Chart Throb coffee is the new water. I’m glad you brought it up, Rodders.’
‘Oh . . . right. Happy to help.’
There was a moment’s silence before Calvin turned back to the group.
‘So. It’s agreed then, Beryl throws the coffee over Rodney just before the morning break.’
Virtual Carnegie Hall and Other Dreams
Late that afternoon, as Calvin and his team were struggling through the tenth hour of their exhausting pre-production day, one of the subjects of their debate was checking into the Birmingham Holiday Inn.
Most of the selected contestants would be travelling to their ‘auditions’ early the following morning, but Shaiana lived a long way away and so she had decided to come up the day before and take a room.
After consuming an undressed salad and a Diet Coke from room service, she ate all the chocolate in the minibar and washed down a final upper with the little bottle of red wine. She had plenty of stuff to put her to sleep later but for now she wanted to be awake, to mentally prepare, to centre herself.
Sitting on the end of the bed and assuming a lotus position, she closed her eyes and considered the moment. She wondered how she would view it in years to come. Would she look back fondly and remember how the journey towards her destiny had begun right there, meditating alone in a Holiday Inn? Just her, the electric kettle, the trouser press and a heart bursting with dreams. Would she always have a soft spot for Holiday Inns? Would she think them lucky? Her good luck charm? Perhaps in the future, despite having long since been able to afford presidential suites in five-star hotels, she would still insist in staying at Holiday Inn Expresses before her shows. For it was certain that were she to succeed on Chart Throb and be recognized as the significant musical artist she so much wanted to be, then no sold-out gig at Carnegie or the Albert Hall could ever compare in importance to the gig she would play on the morrow.
‘The first step on the ladder is the longest stretch,’ she said quietly to herself. ‘Place your foot upon the rung and progress boldly and without fear.’
Then she hummed quietly for a while, enjoying the feeling of the vibrations within her throat. Smiling to herself, she indulged in fantasy.
‘For dreams are the harbingers of reality and what is reality if not a dream?’
She fantasized that one day she would be the ‘face’ of Holiday Inn. Refusing Revlon and Estee Lauder as beneath her talent, she would nonetheless promote Holiday Inns (donating her fee to the UN Children’s Fund) because it had been in a Holiday Inn that it had all begun.
Opening her eyes, Shaiana concentrated on her breathing. Then she got off the bed and stood before the mirror, her hairbrush to her lips. She breathed in deeply and belted out ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’.
Somebody banged on the wall but Shaiana didn’t hear them. She was at Carnegie Hall.
Dreams were alive all over the Midlands that night as in two hundred different homes unborn stars hovered in limbo waiting for the morning when, with luck and divine justice, they would explode into a sparkling, brilliant light, a light that would warm and illuminate every aspect of their lives and the lives of those they loved.
The four members of The Four-Z were in church with their mothers. Each of them was praying fervently that this would be the last evening in which they would contemplate a future with almost no prospect of salvation from the grim urban nightmare into which they had been born. A future in which they and the majority of their friends were either unemployed or criminals.
Quasar was stripping for a hen night. He didn’t mind the work normally but this bunch were rough as dogs’ guts. Quasar was thirty-eight (he admitted to thirty-two) and thought he could remember a time when ladies had still been ladies. When he had started out in the business women had not grabbed at his thong with their long nails and then expected him to humiliate himself for the fivers that occasionally they slipped beneath it. Then it had been cheeky (or so he told himself), it had been fun. Now it was almost entirely sexual, and some of the women were predatory, as if blaming him for the shitty men they’d have to deal with when they got home.
The Quasar, however, liked to look on the bright side and as the women shrieked and dared each other to touch his penis he told them that they were lucky girls because they were touching the love pump of a future star.
Suki would have loved to be stripping – she had always infinitely preferred it to prostitution – but she was forty, which was pushing it for an exotic dancer, besides which her boob job was nearly eleven years old and had recently turned into rather a painful mess. They still looked all right when forced into a push-up bra but naked they were scarred and limp, one hung lower than the other and the implants had hardened, pulling at the skin, so there was now a clear resemblance to a ball in a sock. Suki desperately wanted to get a second job done on them but she was not stupid and understood that it would have to be done properly to avoid serious health complications. For that she needed a lot more money than she was likely to earn working the pavement.
As she leaned across the handbrake of her client’s car and undid his fly she was thinking, as she always did, of her audition. Pulling out his dick, she imagined for a moment that it was a microphone and even smiled to herself. Suki knew that it was an impossible dream; on the other hand sometimes they did let the strangest people through. That was what was so wonderful about the show, it gave anyone a chance. Who knew? Anything was possible. Perhaps one day soon she really would swap those dicks for a microphone.
Iona and her bandmates were eating fish and chips and drinking lager in a Tennant’s pub in Glasgow. They had travelled down to the city that evening because Iona had an early flight to catch in the morning.
‘Budget Air,’ said Iona, eyeing the ticket. ‘I remember when that little wanker used to talk to me about private jets.’
‘Ugh,’ said Douglas. ‘Sounds disgusting.’
They all laughed.
‘I still feel really weird about this,’ said Iona. ‘It just seems wrong.’
‘We’ve discussed it over and over again,’ said Fleur. ‘If you do well then it’s good for all of us.’
‘And if you do badly it can’t get much worse,’ Mary chipped in.
‘But I’ve never sung alone in my life,’ Iona moaned. ‘I’ll probably end up just singing the harmonies.’
‘As if they’d notice anyway,’ Douglas sneered. ‘Rodney Root and Beryl “rock chick” Blenheim wouldn’t kno
w a tune from a harmony if it bashed them over the head and Calvin doesn’t care either way. Come on, Iona, we’ve been through this, we know how it’s done. We know what the game is.’
‘I know. I know,’ said Iona nervously.
‘Which is why this is so important for us. You have another chance for yourself and the band and this time you know a bit more about it. This time you have to play the game.’
‘Oh, I’ll do that all right,’ said Iona. ‘If I can just get through the first round or two, I’ll play the game.’
’Chelle from Peroxide treated herself to a bikini wax while her partner Georgie treated herself to a kingsized Mars bar that would remain in her system for just three minutes.
Graham and Millicent sat in Graham’s room holding hands and listening to Bob Dylan.
A sixteen-year-old boy called Troy, whose room was full of comics but no books, stood before his mirror singing ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams.
A young single mum struggled to arrange a full day’s childcare for her sick little boy.
Over dinner in a refuge for victims of domestic violence, a group of women toasted the future success of one of their number in champagne that had previously been reserved for Christmas.
And all over Birmingham, Wolverhampton, Leicester and the whole Black Country, right up to Stoke, down almost to Watford and as far west as the Welsh border, they sang their songs, practised their moves, gargled their Listerine and considered their outfits. Mingers danced, Blingers preened, Clingers confided in friends, talked to God and attended self-assertion workshops. And they all shared the same dream. Every Clinger Blinger, Minger Clinger, Blinger Minger with a bit of Cling and Clinger Minger with a bit of Bling dreamed of stardom. And every one of them wondered . . . what would it be like? What would it be like? To be chosen, to win through. To be a star!
A few miles down the Ml, Christian Appleyard, winner of the first-ever Chart Throb contest, left his Docklands flat for the last time and headed home to his mother’s. There was a photographer there to record the event. An ex-number-one artist having his mortgage foreclosed was definitely still news.
The Prince does the King
His Royal Highness had also been summoned to attend the Birmingham audition, in preparation for which he was trying out songs on his long-suffering wife.
‘I expect I shall look an absolute muggins,’ he said.
‘Yes, I expect you will,’ his wife replied, polishing a riding boot.
‘Do you think people will laugh?’
‘I certainly would.’
‘Well really, dear, I do think you might be more positive about all this. I am trying to save the monarchy, you know.’
‘Yes, darling, I know and I’m very proud of you. But it is all rather droll, do admit.’
The Prince had been working on ‘Burning Love’, a song made famous by Elvis Presley. He drew a deep breath and began again.
‘It’s hunkah, darling,’ his wife interrupted. ‘Not hunk of. You’re saying hunk of, it’s hunkah.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘Goodness, I can’t say hunkah, it’s appalling. I’ve been banging on for years about the importance of diction and the need to teach proper grammar in schools. Not that anybody listens, of course. But honestly, if I can’t be bothered to take the Queen’s English seriously, who can? Children watch this programme, I have a responsibility to set an example.’
‘Well, all I’m saying is that if you say hunk of, not only will you sound silly but it won’t scan.’
‘Won’t it?’
‘No, of course it won’t,’ the duchess said, putting away her brushes and her boot polish. ‘Just listen: hunk of is two syllables, hunkah is one and a bit. It fits, surely you can see that.’
‘Well, I suppose so but it does seem an awfully lazy use of English.’
‘Have another go and for heaven’s sake try to give it some swing.’
The Prince of Wales sang the verse and chorus of the song once more, this time being careful to say hunkah.
When he had finished, his wife considered for a moment before finally saying, ‘I think we need a different song.’
The Prince sighed and poured them both a small glass of Riesling.
‘One of the boys suggested something called “Smack My Bitch Up”. Ever heard of it?’
Hello, Baby
The man upon whom all the dreams were focused was in his hotel room indulging in a dream of his own.
‘Hello, Emma,’ he breathed into the telephone, ‘what are you wearing?’ ‘I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I’ve been at work.’
‘Shoes?’
‘No. I’m at home now. I’ve taken my shoes off if you must know.’
‘What about your socks?’
‘Calvin, I thought you were a busy, important man. Don’t you have anything more interesting to talk about than my socks?’
‘What could be more interesting than your socks? Except your feet?’
‘I’m going to hang up in a minute if this conversation doesn’t improve.’
‘Take off your jeans.’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Please.’
‘No! Absolutely not! I’d feel ridiculous. Why, anyway?’
‘Well, because I’ve asked you to, I suppose.’
There was a pause.
‘I’d have to put the phone down.’
‘No, keep it in your hand.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Hold the phone close to your zip as you undo it. Do it slowly.’
‘No!’
‘It isn’t a lot to ask.’
‘In my opinion it is.’
‘I think about you all the time.’
‘That doesn’t mean I’m obliged to let you listen to my zipper.’
‘I didn’t say you were obliged, I just asked. I don’t see why during this lengthy and, I might add, extremely demanding period in which I’m supposed to win your trust I shouldn’t be allowed some tenuous sexual connection with you, that’s all.’
‘And listening to me take off my trousers at a distance of a hundred and twenty miles would help, would it?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I think it would. Bit pathetic, I know, but that’s how much I love you.’
There was a pause and then Calvin heard the tiny, staccato clicking of a zip being pulled.
‘There. Happy?’ he heard her say.
‘Take them off, keep the phone in your hand and take them off. Pull them down over your knickers, right down your legs and over your socks.’
‘You take yours off.’
‘They are off. I’m in my suite. I’ve just had a shower, I’m wearing the hotel dressing gown and in a moment I have to go downstairs and have dinner with Rodney and Beryl and all I can think of is you.’
Another pause.
‘Well,’ said Emma, her voice a cross between defiance and seduction. ‘Take off your dressing gown then.’
‘Now you’re talking.’
Calvin did as he was told.
‘It’s off,’ he said. ‘It’s on the floor.’
‘So you’re naked then?’
‘Yes and I look fantastic. Totally hot, as they say. Now you take your jeans off.’
Calvin turned the volume on his phone up to full as he strained to listen to the muffled noises of someone disrobing.
‘They’re off,’ Emma told him, returning to the phone. ‘And I feel rather silly standing here in my knickers.’
‘So you’re wearing just knickers, a bra and a T-shirt?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Knickers lilac. Bra white. T-shirt pale pink before you ask. I suppose you want me to take them off too?’
‘No. I want to be there when you do that.’
‘If you were here I wouldn’t do it.’
‘But you will, one day.’
‘I might.’
‘Will you put the phone into your knickers and rub the mouthpiece against yourself?’<
br />
‘NO!’
‘Please?’
‘NO!! Absolutely not! Definitely absolutely not!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a bloody pervert!’
‘What’s perverted about that? I want to listen to the rustle of your bush.’
‘Don’t be disgusting!’
‘I think that’s a nice idea.’
‘Well, I’m not doing it.’
‘You do have a bush, don’t you? You haven’t done the full wax or anything horrible like that, have you? I hate that. Absolutely hate it.’
‘Have you seen many bald ones then?’
‘Loads. In America all the girls seem to do it, they think it’s sexy for some reason. It’s all part of this grim juvenilization of society. First grown women started to talk like they were little girls . . .’
‘Like Beryl.’
‘Yes, like Beryl for instance. Now they all want little girls’ twats. It’s actually sort of sick when you think about it.’
‘Do you get to see a lot of fannies then?’
‘Say that again.’
‘What?’
‘What you just said, it sounded so cute. Please say it again.’
‘Don’t be pathetic. Answer the question.’
‘Yes, in the past I have seen an awful lot of fannies, and, as I say, recently an increasing number of them have been bald, regrettably.’
‘And you like a fanny that makes a noise when you rub a telephone on it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m not going to do it. Get one of your other girls to, there must be some who haven’t Brazilianed themselves.’
‘There are no other girls, Emma. Not any more. And for what it’s worth I’ve never asked any girl to do this before. I’ve never felt the remotest interest in doing so. You’re the only girl who has ever excited me enough that even the thought of listening to the rustle of her pubic hair turns me on. This is all new territory for me.’
There was another pause, then Calvin heard a faint, soft, scratchy sound over the phone. After a little while he heard her voice again.
‘Can I stop now?’ she said.
‘A minute or two longer,’ Calvin replied. ‘I mean, only if you’re happy to. If you don’t mind?’