CHAPTER ONE _Watching Transformers on Movie Channel
Despite what people think Megan Fox is a credible actress and I would say one of the foremost impressionists of our time. She just came round to show me her one-woman scouse version of The Iliad when we heard the key in the door.
“Quick, into the cupboard”
“RA, la”, she said, picking up her armour and sword before throwing herself into the cupboard. ”And make sure that shield doesn’t scratch the hoover.” I could hear the wife’s key struggling in the lock. Thank God it has rained, she must have slippery fingers and I could hear muttered curses from the behind the door.
“Do you think I should take the helmet off for Act two or leave it on?”
“I don’t think…”
“You see, every time I take me clothes off, I am not taken seriously, you know what I mean?”
“I appreciate your predicament”
…and I’ve been transformers. One and two.”
“Yes, if you just slip behind that Llama costume in there, she shouldn’t see you…Okay?”. I can hear the key in the door again. Megan presses her lips
“. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t coached me to do Confessions of Teenage Drama Queen…
“And revenge of the Fallen”
“It was my pleasure…Do you want this?”. I hand her a studded purple leather bustiere “Don’t let anybody tell you that you don’t have talent.”. I close the door and another one opens.
CHAPTER TWO _ Watching the England Montenegro game
Is it me or is Fabio Capello behaving a little strangely? Mind you if he continued with his therapy sessions and took his meds then….
The door knocks. “Come in”.
“I’m terribly sorry, Doctor, but its Mr Capello. I tried to explain to him that it is outside office hours but he insisted…”. Marjorie, 42-28-34, a former bed-wetter and compulsive liar, has been my secretary for the last five years.
“It’s Lampard again, isn’t it?”. I put down my still lit pipe on a pile of case notes and exhale a long wreath of smoke in the shape of a diamond, “Its okay, Marjorie, send him in.”
“Yes Doctor.”. She clicks away to the door on a pair of thigh-high black leather boots, puts her hand on the knob and turns, “Oh Doctor?”
“My name is Pamela”
“Yes Marjorie. Send him in.” As I put out the flames from the smoking papers, Fabio enters. He is dressed in the garb of his native land. Peckham.
“Alright me old cocker?”, he greets me heartily and I shake his hand and collection of pearly buttons slips from his sleeve and mingle with the ash on my desk. “Strewth what a night guv. I is all like fractious and vexed like.”
“Fabio. Before we begin I need to talk to you about this bill”
“You see. Everyone is against me. The press, the FA, the fans, the weather. Oh my days even God is against me and him what is english too.” He throws a bottle of water onto the floor and punches a picture of Stewart Pearce that David James gave me for sorting out his cross-dressing addiction. “It’s Lampard.” He sinks to the floor, all anger spent.
“Is he still not taking your calls, Fabio?”
“I is in love with him….be-yatch”
“Fabio, have you thought that maybe Frank needs more than just a holding role in midfield. He needs to be set free, to roam like the natural predator he is.”
“Blood, he is always on his iphone, or passing the ball to that slut Terry. If I can’t have him, then no one can. I’ll bench him for the rest of the year.” He takes up the shattered picture of Pearce and storms out the room.
I stare down at the pile of buttons on the table, the unpaid bill in my hand and the still smoking pipe. Football is a cruel mistress.
CHAPTER THREE After the England Montenegro game
“Murder is such an ugly word. I prefer to call it pest control, init guv?”. Fabio was back and this time he was fingering a stiletto and holding a VHS copy of Murder She Wrote. “Its Wayne…he’s gone and done it again”
“Do you want to put down that vicious looking Angela Lansbury and give Marjorie back her shoe?” It was going to be a long evening.
CHAPTER FOUR Watching the Pride of Britain Awards
Is it me or is Carol Vorderman looking a bit ropey? Mind you if she replied to my emails and sent me those picture texts of her factoring a few prime numbers that I requested.
The phone rings. “Is that Mr Earley?”. My mouth goes dry, I feel warm spit balls of cotton like insulating foam form in the roof of my mouth “Carol?”
“No. It’s Carol’s husband, Mr Vorderman, Mr Earley”
“Listen, you jobsworth, just because you married her doesn’t mean you own her. This isn’t the third world. This isn’t Somalia. Put her on.”
“Look, I don’t want to involve the police but if you don’t stop bothering my wife I shall have…”
“Oh, that’s the way it goes does it, MISTER Vorderman. You got her tied up in the basement, have you?, MISTER Vorderman. That’s not her on the Pride of Britain is it? That’s your doppelganger, you sick, calculating bastard. Put her on.”
“Look. She’s taken out an injunction….”
“You don’t what real love is do you, MISTER Vorderman? You sit there with your pringle jumper and your book of sines, cosines and tangents, with your flaccid member hanging limply over your texas instrument, you don’t know…..!”
“I’m hanging up now…”, he shouts.
“I’m coming for you Carol…”
“Leave us alone”.
Sometimes one plus one makes three.
CHAPTER FIVE _ Watching Ringer on Sky One
Is it me or does Sarah Michelle Geller look…a little ropey? Don’t get me wrong if she knocked on my door, tore off my lanyard and screamed, “Take me roughly from behind you brute.”
Slowly unbuttoning her dress she walks towards me
“You broke my lanyard”, I reply. Taking my shoulders in her surprisingly strong yet willowy arms she pushes me to the bottom of the stairs. We tumble to the floor in a heap blonde hair and pieces of plastic. “You have surprisingly strong yet willowy arms.”
She whispers huskily into my good ear, “Never mind that now, I want to feel your pulsating manhood thrust into my moist lady garden”
“Before we discuss the possibility of…er…gardening…shouldn’t we talk about possible compensation for the broken lanyard”
She kisses me roughly, her tongue like a slippery wet salmon forcing its way upstream looking for a place to spawn, seeking, searching, probing. “Take me, use me…I am yours”
“Sorry Sarah MIchelle Geller…but I am allergic to salmon….”
CHAPTER SIX Peter Andre turns on the Warrington Lights (Children in Need Night)
“Jeez. I’m pooped. I mean those crowds were humongous man and HArvey really freaked out.” Pete had popped round for a wheatgrass coffee because he had a gap in his schedule and we go back a long way. He likes to drop in whenever he can and he doesn’t hold a grudge. It was me that introduced him to Jordan, as she was then, when he was just an up and coming singer and she was a toilet attendant at the Fairfield halls in Croydon in 1998
Strangely it was the same night that the wife and I first cemented our relationship. Now of course she’s in a different kind of cement propping up a fly-over on the M6 (at least that is what I tell the cat, actually she is shacked up with a body-builder from Droitwich who sells insurance and wears scuba gear around the house, even when he isn’t in the water or covering himself in vaseline. Either way he is a slippery customer.
But Pete is feeling a little green around the gills and in need of a pick me up. ever since he got trapped in one of the en-suite’s at the Grovesnor Hotel in London with only a bottle of evian and prosthetic breast he had managed to get from the divorce he has developed a bit of a stutter. And a lisp. And a limp. And a tendency to wet the bed. “How was it tonight Pete?” I ask. “D-D-d-on’t ask” he replies and downs the wheatgrass in one quick draught.
It was going to be a long night. I lean over and speak into the speakerphone on my desk, “Hold all my calls, Marjorie…and see if you can find a copy of beautiful girl in the CD rack. The one played on the didgereedoo”
“Thanks mate”, Pete murmurs through his glass, “I really feel like I need to get back to my roots”
“Its okay Pete. Together we can work it out”. Pete puts down the glass.
“Hey, that could be a great idea for a song. Yeah….” Pete pats Harvey on the head who looks up from his bucket of fish-heads with unseeing eyes full of love, at his father. “Yeah. We can work it out….”