by Dillon Khan
‘Your aunt? No. The rapper? Yes. Been on the scene for a while, waiting to break through.’
‘Well, with a name like that, it’s no wonder.’
James III kept his plastic cup by his mouth, his teeth gripping the edge as his eyes shifted above at every move. ‘Well, shall we go sharking?’ he said, making a gesture of a fin above his head.
‘Sharking?’
‘Hunting. We swim gracefully through the fish and then make a move. But I can’t shark alone. I need a Goose,’ he said.
‘Why are you talking in animal terms?’ I asked, confused.
‘Have you never seen Top Gun? I need a wingman.’
‘Oh! That I can do,’ I said, finally getting it.
We ‘swam’ around the apartment smiling and saying hello to people we did and didn’t know. Once James III hooked a girl in, I went in search of the others. I spotted them dispersed around the party socializing. Or were they? I noticed Sonya was using her charms on one of the exec producers, as was Tola, who had a member of senior management hanging on her every word. Cara and Sam were at it too. I felt a faint panic rise in my stomach. Was I missing a trick or was this being overly competitive? I wanted to get in on the action as well but knew I was too drunk to make a good impression. I had to sober up first so went for the table in the kitchen that held an array of top-notch nibbles, from hummus and Italian bread to samosas and Thai spring rolls. Thank God, my stomach rumbled. As I scoffed another samosa, I felt a tap on my arse again.
‘I take it you didn’t score?’ I said, turning round, expecting to see James III looking jilted. Instead it was one of the hosts, Alyssa, in a super-hot outfit. My eyes nearly fell out of their sockets.
‘Hungry?’ she said playfully.
‘Oh no,’ I responded nervously, wondering if I was eating all the food.
‘Can I get you some wine?’
‘Thanks, but I better not, I’ve already had quite a few.’
She ignored me, grabbed my hand and took me to the table of drinks, pouring us two. We spent the next half-hour talking about London, Milan and travelling across the world with a backpack. She was so much more fun and easier to talk to than Vicky the Trustafarian.
‘Want to dance?’ she said, suddenly getting in the mood.
‘I’m not very good, plus I’m slightly drunk,’ I warned as Montell Jordan’s ‘Get It on Tonite’ played in the background.
She smiled flirtatiously. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.’
My guilt-radar kicked into action. Sophia would not be happy about this scene. ‘OK … but I warn you I have two left feet,’ I said nervously, wondering if I could escape without seeming rude.
‘Really? That’s nice.’ She led me to the dance floor.
What am I doing?
But you’re only dancing, said the voice inside my head. Tonight it was Mick Jagger.
Yeah, but I’m sure she’s eyeing me up, I replied.
It’s official, you are drunk and clearly deluded, said Mick. She’s a hot Italian, out of your league, clearly bored and just wants to dance.
At first we danced a few feet apart until she got fed up with me being so awkward and grabbed me closer. She began laughing at the expense of the squirmy Englishman.
See, there’s nothing to worry about, said Mick.
Yeah, I said, still unsure. But is this a bad time to say she’s really turning me on?
So? Mick shrugged nonchalantly.
Is it cheating if you get a hard-on while dancing with someone other than your girlfriend? I asked.
No, of course not. You’re not in charge of the fella downstairs, said Mick.
I’d never been in a position like this before and wasn’t used to the attention, especially from an older woman. I was waiting for someone to represent my conscience and speak up to bring a halt to proceedings. But John Lennon was hooded, bound and gagged by the agents of Alcohol, Perfume and the words of Salt-N-Pepa’s ‘Push It’. The music tasted like tangy peaches.
Sophia, Sophia, Sophia. John Lennon had finally broken free and was telling me to get a grip. It was now a wrestling match between Mick and John for control. Mick was trying to pin John down using my senses, which could smell, see, touch, hear but not yet taste Alyssa. Mick was winning with DDTs, backbreakers and clotheslines to hush John as horny impulses continued travelling down south.
John decided it was time to play dirty. What would be the one thing that would work? Eureka! John readied his combination moves and let rip on Mick. Pritz’s feet. Pritz’s extremely manky feet. Alyssa’s feet. Alyssa having Pritz’s manky feet. As I looked down at her feet I imagined crusty soles, long dirty toenails, corns, bunions, athlete’s foot and every other disgusting foot funk.
John had applied a reverse pin and won. The voices became faint as calm was restored in my Calvins.
‘Hello there, lad,’ said a real voice in my right ear. I turned round to see a pair of green eyes staring at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Room in there for another?’ It was big, bungling James the bloody third. How I could kiss him. He’d saved the Goose’s goose.
‘Plenty of room,’ I said, disconnecting quicker than a sprinter from the blocks. ‘I need to go to the bathroom and then I feel it might be good to order a cab home. I have a really important thing to do in the morning and laundry and cleaning and shopping and work stuff to prepare.’ I was rabbiting.
Alyssa smiled but she wasn’t giving up so easily. ‘Well, the bathroom’s that way and I can call you a cab if you like, or you can always sleep here on the spare bed?’
‘Thank you. Um, maybe next time. Thank you, though. Thank you,’ I said, walking backwards.
She carried on smirking, enjoying my discomfort. Even James III was smiling like a Cheshire cat. I turned and staggered to the hallway to find the toilet.
I stood in an orderly queue outside the bathroom, using the wall to help support me while I sobered up. What seemed like two poos, one piss and a tampon change later, I stood over the toilet trying my hardest to aim straight. Wow, I really had drunk a lot. I had to call for my uncle – Uncle Lee that is – to rescue me. It was time to find the emergency exits and ditch this party.
12
Every Breath You Take
Hungover from the previous night, I sat in the flat with the TV on, staring at it but not watching anything. I had concert tickets but didn’t want to move from this vegetative position. I’d already used up all my energy going home to see Mum for Sunday lunch, even though I could barely face eating anything.
Daylight was fading fast outside by the time Pritz returned from his parents’ house, with freshly laundered washing, to see me looking glum.
‘Listen to this, mate – this will make you laugh.’ He tried his best to cheer me up with a story about attempting to explain to his mum why the back seat of her car had red marks on it. He’d told her it was Ribena, and it was in her best interests to believe him. With Pritz, ignorance was more than just bliss, it was keeping your sanity. I got the true story: all the sordid details of his fumble in the back seat with a childhood sweetheart from next door, who’d been home for the weekend too.
‘I’m not sure what it was. Do you think I took her virginity?’
‘Pritz,’ I laughed, ‘spare me the analysis. I don’t want to know!’ But he’d successfully lifted my spirits. Now it was my turn to return one of many favours. ‘I’ve got tickets to Puff Daddy at Wembley,’ I boasted. ‘Wanna come?’
‘Pump Daddy? Why not? There will be loads of hot girls at that concert. All that “I’ll be missing you” emotional drama, with hands in the air. I’m in.’ He started chanting, ‘Wem-b-leee Wem-b-leee’, like a football hooligan, stuck his arms out like a plane and glided round the front room and into the shower, singing as many Puff Daddy songs as he knew – words all wrong – until he was ready to leave.
On the Tube we chatted about my Italian experience the nig
ht before. Pritz shook his head.
‘Damn, Jay, that sounds like hot sex on a platter. You idiot!’
‘I know, I know,’ I admitted. ‘But I couldn’t do that to Sophia. I’m, you know …’
‘In love?’ He sighed exaggeratedly.
‘I’m not you.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, well I love my mum, but the veg curry at Sakonis beats hers hands down. I just wouldn’t think of telling her. Hear what I’m saying? Live the dream.’
I nodded but we were living in two different worlds. Pritz saw relationships like a deep-sea diver saw a lead weight: they just dragged you down.
We got off the train and headed down the famous Wembley walkway towards the stadium’s two towers, a worldwide icon of football. It felt odd not to be wearing an England scarf, eating a hot dog and singing ‘Inger-land, Inger-land, Inger-land’. Instead we were surrounded by girls dressed up to the nines with flashing bunny ears on their heads. Pritz tried chatting one of them up as we were hurriedly marshalled through the gates by stewards in bright yellow jackets. Some kids without tickets were readying to bum-rush in.
Our seats were awesome. We sat among VIPs, Pritz people-watching, his neck spinning nearly 360 degrees. As the lights dimmed and a big cheer went up, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. It was a text message from Sophia.
Where r u RV? U haven’t returned my call from earlier. U ok? LV xxx
Everyone was standing up and screaming now as Puff Daddy came out from beneath the stage, a solitary beam of light focused on him.
Yeah I’m ok. Recovering from hangover. Just with Pritz. How r u? X
The lighting show was in full effect, strobing and pulsating to the music as Puffy worked the stage.
Why didn’t you call me back babe? Where r u? I’ve packed so can we meet 2night? xxx
Pritz was still craning round looking for celebs. ‘Isn’t that what’s-his-name, the Arsenal footballer sat next to the Spurs one? In fact I can see Liverpool and Man U players too.’
Sorry. Went to see mum. Was monged out today. Watchin’ Puff Daddy@Wembley. When do u fly? X
‘The show’s actually better than I thought it would be,’ Pritz said, finally turning his attention to the concert.
‘Yeah. It’s not bad. He knows how to work the crowd,’ I said, distracted by another new message.
U didn’t tell me u were going? We still haven’t watched ur first show. I’m on my Easter holidays + I want to see you. Fly 2moro.
‘Who you texting all the time?’ Pritz asked, annoyed I wasn’t bird-watching with him. ‘You’re missing the show.’
‘Sophia,’ I said.
‘Everything all right?’
‘I don’t know, she sounds a bit off.’
‘Well, she’s probably wondering why she isn’t here with you,’ he suggested.
‘I wasn’t going to come till you got back to the flat. Besides, I only had two tickets.’
‘Did you ask her?’ he replied.
‘No, because I didn’t think it was her thing,’ I said dismissively.
‘Yeah, but did you ask her?’
Could he not follow my logic? ‘No, because I asked you.’
‘Well, there it is,’ he said in conclusion. ‘Even I know girlfriends get first dibs.’
I sighed. My brain was too tired for this but I knew he was right. I should have offered her first refusal, even with the last-minute decision to go. Worse still was that I was being taught the lesson by Pritz, a man as capable of holding down a relationship as a bulimic with a BLT sandwich. I texted her back with lashings of grovel thrown in.
I’m so sorry, babe. Wasn’t going to come. Very last-minute. Wanted to do s’thing for Pritz as he’s been paying majority of rent. Sorry. X
My phone vibrated in my hand immediately.
Stop playing text tennis, put your phone away and enjoy the show. You’ve missed half of it already!
It was Max. I looked around to see where he was. I couldn’t see him anywhere.
My phone vibrated again.
Haha! Side of stage.
I peered at the stage and I couldn’t believe it. There he was, standing with Hugh, Oli, a heap of other people and some hot-looking girls next to him. Bastard. I should have considered myself lucky to even have tickets, yet seeing where Max was made me feel like I was sat right at the back of the auditorium behind a supporting pillar, with a blindfold and headphones.
My eyes shifted back to my phone, waiting for Sophia to reply. Nothing came. She was clearly pissed off. My favourite track about Benjamins came on as I left my seat and went out to the concourse to call her. The merchandise stall was setting up for the end of the concert as I dialled her number. It rang several times and then eventually went to her voicemail.
‘Hey babe, I’m sorry for being stupid. Honestly, I know I should have at least asked you first about the concert. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you when you get back. Please don’t be mad at me. Love you. Much-much.’
Back in the arena, I tried to enjoy the show but guilt was descending heavily on me. I was waiting for my phone to vibrate with at least a message. Puffy was now in his full glory and his finale was tinged with irony to me – it was his world-conquering ‘I’ll Be Missing You’. I felt like an atheist at the Vatican as everyone sang along beside me. Pritz grabbed me in a headlock and forced me to be a believer once more.
Back at the flat, and having devoured his lamb shish as quickly as possible, Pritz went straight to bed, ready for his early morning start at ‘making rich people even richer’. I sat in the front room with the TV on mute and a VHS tape in my hand. The label read:
Defm8, TX Weds 21:00 – The Beat
My show. Sophia still hadn’t called back as I put the tape into the VHS player and sat down to watch it. The light from the TV flickered and danced around in the dark room as PJ read his opening link.
I began to reflect on the events of the past week that had shot by so quickly. The Doc’s speech; cycling around the office; filming in the studio; meeting Jay-Z and Puffy; Chinawhite; auditioning hot girls … and too many late nights. One week was under my belt and I had twenty-three more to go.
I was exhausted at the thought of the coming week and the one after that and the one after that. It was exciting doing all these things that most people would be envious of and I was living a dream I’d always wished for. But I still feared landing flat on my face, not wanting the dream to turn into a nightmare like it had for the captain of the Titanic.
As the end credits rolled a little ray of hope shone through. It suddenly made the thoughts of failure disappear to be replaced with a sense of pride, all achieved by four simple words on a TV screen.
Production Assistant – Jay Merchant
13
All Night Long
I was now almost a month into my internship, but every week was as hectic as the first. By day I was working like a dog, and by night I was with Sophia, who was back from skiing and spending the rest of the Easter holidays in London. I’d been busy saving up future stamps for her good books – some quality time together, a present from Selfridges, dinner dates and theatre tickets from the T.A.D. girls to see The Lion King. But now it was Me Time. Specifically, time to reap the benefits of my internship with my first Beat party. I’d never been to one as a punter because they were always sold out in advance. I’d grown up watching enticing adverts with beautiful people dancing and celebrity PAs in attendance. I was about to find out what the fuss was about.
We were driving into Middlesbrough from Manchester, where the night before we’d been treated to VIP tickets from Nike to see Max’s team, Manchester United, play Real Madrid. Thankfully Max was so drunk from the free hospitality drinks that he didn’t actually care what the score was by the end – his team lost.
By three p.m. we had checked into our hotel and were meeting Milly and
Stuey in reception to go for a sound and lighting test at the club. Different producers and presenters took it in turn to film the parties each month, and this was April’s dream team.
‘So here’s your crew room for your equipment and your rider, as requested,’ said Alison Cooks, the party promoter. The woman was ballsy, delivering the line seemingly with a sense of pride about the snacks she’d laid on for us in a room that was stacked full of beer crates with a smell of damp.
‘Smells lovely. Wow, a box of Quality Street, some crisps and a bowl of fruit too,’ Max said with fake incredulity to Stuey. ‘Now I know what it feels like having a Rolling Stone’s rider.’
Max had filled me in on Alison and the parties on the drive up the M62 while we listened to the Black Eyed Peas trying to bridge the gap. She got the promoter gig at a chance meeting with a member of The Beat’s senior management at a Brit Awards afterparty, where a lot of business was conducted – usually badly and under the influence. Allegedly she wrote a contract on a napkin and got him to sign it while he was off his face. Max reckoned it wasn’t so much the napkin that persuaded him to honour the contract but the pictures on her phone of him tonguing a male dancer. Nothing wrong with that – if only he didn’t have a wife.
The in-house marketing team was too small to be able to do this role full-time, and only attended events to oversee what was going on and get drunk partying with the kids. The Beat covered most costs, and all Alison really had to do was a bit of on-the ground promotion to reap the benefits of the ticket fee. It was a nice little earner and explained her Range Rover and two-bed flat in London’s Little Venice. The Beat was turning over too many millions to be bothered by the comparative scraps from the parties.
The Beat banners made things official and were placed everywhere to remind people which church they’d come to worship at. As we reached the pulpit – the DJ booth at the back of the club – the ceiling dropped low, giving the place a really intimate feeling. If you were claustrophobic, this wasn’t the place for you as later that night it would be packed with 1,000 people all gasping for The Beat experience.