‘But you’re all right, aren’t you, father?’
‘Yes, of course I am, Audrey,’ I told my concerned little dog. ‘I’m just ever so slightly a bit exhausted. The doctor says I have been running myself into the ground and need to have a few days off just doing nothing.’
‘Oh,’ she barked, somewhat relieved, and went on scanning the road ahead for cats.
We passed a new piece of graffiti on the rec’ which read ‘Simo is a homosexal gay’ which made me chuckle to myself – not that Simo is gay; I was aware of that already, but the fact that he is a homosexal gay, which is a damning qualification and singular piece of public information that I’m sure will surprise quite a lot of the local inhabitants.
‘Laughter is the best medicine,’ my doctor had just told me.
‘I know; but what about drugs? Can I have some drugs? Drugs are good medicine.’
‘I can’t prescribe you any drugs, Mr Lawrence – you just need a rest.’
Thus it is I have decided to take myself off to the Kellogg’s Sanatorium in the hills and spend a few days in equable convalescence.
‘But you are incapable of relaxing, father. The experience will cause you to become even more anxious than you are already.’
‘Be quiet, Audrey!’ I told her. ‘Let’s go home and get some work done.’
A young woman in a short skirt was delivering leaflets when we turned into Lansbury Avenue. She was beautiful. I tugged Audrey’s lead and quickened our pace, feeling a sudden and urgent need to return home and prepare for my inevitable eleven o’clock tumescence.
I just don’t get the Klaxons (or is it Klaxons), the south London band that last night won the Nationwide Mercury Music Prize for their album Myths of the Near Future.
I have never understood the ‘new rave’ tag that has been used to describe them. Never having been a fan of rave music originally, perhaps I am missing the point. (As usual – Music Crit Ed.)
I suppose their songs are accomplished and catchy enough but, to me, they hardly fit the ‘innovative and forward-thinking’ description that the judges were apparently looking for.
It was gratifying to see Amy Winehouse (the person who most people thought was going to win the £20,000 prize) perform at the ceremony though. Her album was deemed too ‘retro’ – whatever that means in these post-modern times – to have any merit, but the fact that she made an appearance at all, against expectations, underlines the way in which the tabloid press in this country can sometimes get it so spectacularly wrong.
And, as well as stealing Winehouse’s prize from under her nose, the Klaxons also proved that they could out-drink her too. The band were set to be interviewed on BBC News 24 at 8.30am BST, but turned up at the studio still to drunk to appear.
Good to see the new-ravers demonstrating that rock’n’roll is not dead – even if they are a bunch of boring toffs.
Nelson Galaxy tells me he bumped into George Michael as he was leaving Brent Magistrates’ Court in London yesterday. ‘He didn’t look guilty,’ reported Nelson.
But there really is no reason for George to be contrite, is there? His offensive driving only came about – allegedly – because of tiredness and ‘prescribed’ drugs; so one would really have to blame his doctor.
I wish my GP would sometimes prescribe me some exciting and glamorous drugs instead of the boring painkillers he usually hands out. The last time I felt like indulging in some naughty substances, I was stopped in my tracks by Audrey. She looked up at me with her soft brown eyes, and her little dog face seemed to say: ‘Stop.‘
I flushed the small amount I had down the toilet and have not had any since. That was five years ago.
At the time, my ‘dealer’ said to me: ‘Come on, Napoleon, play the game. If you don’t do business with me, I’ll put dozens of your songs on the internet for people to download for free.’ I ignored his threats because I knew his childish reasoning was just petty, spiteful rubbish generated by an ignorant, little mind.
On the Fantastic hi-fi today:
Almost Everything – Enormous
Jarvis – Jarvis Cocker
Nelson Galaxy and I were in San Diego yesterday.
Nelson is launching a new range of lollipops aimed at the musical sweet-toothed transvestite market and he had a meeting with some Californian venture capitalists who are interested in investing in his fruity idea. He took me along for moral support. He was showing off a little, too.
The business get-together went very well (keep a keen look-out on your supermarket shelves for the TV Frooty-Pops) and in the evening we decided, by way of a modest celebration, to hit the town and perhaps take in a show. One of Nelson’s favourite bands, The M&M’s, were billed to appear at the House of Blues club and after swiftly finishing off a couple of bottles of bubbly in the swish hotel bar, we ventured out into the night and enthusiastically made our way to the famous venue.
Imagine our surprise however, when instead of The M&M’s taking to the stage at the allotted time, it was actually our very good friend Britney Spears who stepped up to the microphone. ‘I knew something like this was gonna happen tonight,’ declared Nelson. ‘I could feel it in my water.’
‘Indeed. These things always do when you’re around.’ I told him.
It was Britney’s first appearance on stage since she left rehab. She only played five songs – bless her, but it was a wonderful evening. Twitching uncontrollably and smiling like a thrilled idiot, Nelson skipped over to her and thrust a lollipop into her hand as she left the stage. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she told him with a wink.
I have just consumed a whole family-sized tub of Häagen-Dazs Double Chocolate Chip Ice Cream. Again. (I didn’t mean to.)
It is often said that laughter is a great tonic; well, so is ice cream. However, I am now staring at my extended gut in my full-length mirror and the laughter – ironic though it is - is exuberantly loud.
It is me who is laughing: I am laughing my bloody socks off. Why? Because I am thoroughly disgusted with myself. I have just polished off, in one greedy sitting, enough delicious melting ice cream to feed a family of four. Not funny: laughable.
I have an excuse of sorts – though it is rather a predictably pathetic one.
Comrade Graham Boffey, the adroit drummer from Enormous, and I were out celebrating on Saturday evening. We met up with our very good friend, David Graham, who used to be the bass-player for Slaughterhouse 5, the band that all three of us were in about ten years ago. It had been that long since we last saw David, and we had a lot of catching up to do. We also had, as it turned out, a lot of beer-drinking to do. (For my part, I also had a lot of ogling to do. All the bars that we visited were full of very pretty girls – and being single, and as I haven’t been out very much recently, the sight of them was music to my eyes. Alarmingly, I even started to feel quite fruity at one point and had to hastily quaff more frosty beer, in order that my rather obvious and increasingly over-heated sexual angst be calmed.)
It was a great night, and yes, I’m afraid I let my resolution slip somewhat, becoming dramatically inebriated as I did. I even ended up, in the early hours of Sunday morning, walking home along three or four miles of dark and muddy footpaths, eventually getting lost, and ended up sleeping drunkenly in a ditch. (Last part not true, but when I did eventually return to my lodgings, covered in dirty sods and oily stains, I must have cut rather a dashing figure as I stumbled in over the threshold on all fours and greeted Audrey with a burpy kiss.)
Rehab? At my age, one is simply forced to sleep off the effects of over-indulgence for about 36 hours. Problem is, for a couple of days after that, I crave ice cream – well, anything sweet, really – but ice cream mostly. However, that’s definitely it for now – until the next time, which won’t be for about four weeks. I promise.
Watch this space, Häagen-Dazs lovers. Oh, and: Cheers!
Larry Rudolph, Britney Spears’ manager, informs me that the troubled pop singer has gone back into rehab. Apparently, the poor girl checked into an unnamed facility at the request of her mother and other family members.
Britney has been trying to contact me periodically since her much-publicised split from erstwhile paramour Kevin Federline, but we haven’t actually got to talk yet, what with my busy schedule and all.
I met her in London a few months ago and we got on famously. We later met up again in the studio and enjoyed an agreeable little shant together one sunny afternoon in June. It was obvious that we were destined to have congress, but, since that charming day, neither of us has been able to find a suitable window in our busy diaries for a further assignation – though our mutual attraction was so obvious at the time, you could see it from space.
I hear that Larry and the other people who are ‘looking after’ Britney have built, for her immediate protection from the media, a big colourful tent with clowns and lions in it. Oh, no, sorry… silly me! That’s a circus. I’m getting confused.
Postscript: I just heard on the grapevine that for a minimum starting bid of one million dollars one can buy Britney’s hair on the internet – http://www.buybritneyshair.com. This is it, the opportunity of a lifetime! It is being sold by the enterprising owner of Esther’s Haircutting Studio in Tarzana. If you have that kind of money, you can be the proud owner of, as well as her hair, the Omega clipper used to cut it all off and even the can of Red Bull that Britney was drinking at the time. You also get her blue Bic Lighter that she left behind and a DIY cloning kit, which, in combination with the severed locks, you can presumably use to create your very own Britney Spears in the privacy of your own bedroom once you get the precious stuff home. I must say goodbye now as I’ve just lost the will to live.