every MIDEM there is a steady
flow of company plastic over the Barracuda’s bar. Last year, when
Trellick finally left the place after a seven-hour session,
staggering into the dawn clutching a bottle of bubbly and a sheaf
of Amex slips totalling three and a half grand, the only people
left were the cleaners and a few ‘waitresses’ rubbing their aching
jaws. As the madame held the door open for him she playfully thrust
her hand between his legs, grabbed the aching, drained raisins he
had instead of balls, and huskily intoned, “ Sexos
machines! ”
“I am sorry for the, ah, mix-up, Schteeven,” Rudi is saying.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. We got it fixed.”
“I know. You know I always want—ach! Softly, baby, softly!”
“I understand, Rudi, Graham made you an offer and, ah…”
“ Ja, ja! I was only trying to…ach, ah gut !”
Rudi and I—both paralytic—are sprawled on facing sofas in one of
the back rooms drinking champagne. I take a long swig and look
down: an absolutely gorgeous French girl of maybe twenty-one is
trying to take her tonsils out with my cock. She looks up and makes
perfect eye contact with me for a second or two before her dark
brown eyes flip upwards in their sockets and she moans softly, as
though my sour prick tasted like cherries and ice cream. Through
the beaded curtains that serve as a door we can hear the roar from
the bar drifting down the hallway.
I lie back and shut my eyes. We closed the deal with Graham
Westbourne calling Rudi’s suite the whole time going nuts and
upping his offer. Trellick has the signed contracts in his
briefcase and Darren has been comprehensively briefed on the need
for utmost secrecy as to why my indecision has cost us thirty
thousand quid.
Actually, we’re now in kind of scary territory—a proper bidding
war and a sixty-grand deal for a one-off single means you have to
have a proper hit. Number 18 is no use to anyone. This stupid,
dreadful, novelty record will have to be top five, minimum, for me
to walk away with any kind of aplomb. Top five and we’ll make the
cash back purely from licensing the utter piece of shit onto dozens
of Now That’s What I Call A Total Insult To Fucking Humanity,
Vol. 32 type compilations.
But this is all to come. Right now, tonight, we got the record
and the competition didn’t. This can be savoured for a day or two
before you have to worry about turning the fucking thing into a
hit.
I become aware of Rudi, only a few feet away, chanting “ Ja!
Ja! Ja! ” as he starts to come. I sit up and watch him roar a
final “ JA!!! ” as he blasts a jet of hot Teutonic semen into
the bobbing French head, which flies back as though a shotgun has
gone off in its mouth: “Ahhgroooughh!” she says.
After a moment Rudi gets up and zips up. We chink flutes over
the head of my girl and I watch him—this gentleman, this man of his
word—tooling off through the beaded curtains, wiping his forehead
with a handkerchief, while his waitress crawls to the corner where,
retching and coughing, she spits his cum into a wicker waste-paper
basket.
Going home in the morning, I think.
∨ Kill Your Friends ∧
February
Thanks to the Spice Girls, Virgin has an 88.9%
share of the singles market. Mark and Lard are confirmed as the new
hosts of the Radio 1 breakfast show. EMI’s share price is in the
toilet. Blue Boy and Vitro are hot new acts. NoDoubt have a N°1
single. Alan McGee is preparing to launch the debut album by 3
Colours Red. He says, “By the second or third record we’ll sell
five million. I’m serious. They’re going to be huge.” Some guys get
done for killing that black kid, Stephen something. The Brit Awards
happen .
∨ Kill Your Friends ∧
Four
“ A woman’s two cents is worth two cents in the
music business .”
Loretta Lynn
E veryone is up and
out of their seats and table-hopping now. The thrum of conversation
is rising and no one is listening to the Bee Gees, who, incredibly,
are still onstage
flow of company plastic over the Barracuda’s bar. Last year, when
Trellick finally left the place after a seven-hour session,
staggering into the dawn clutching a bottle of bubbly and a sheaf
of Amex slips totalling three and a half grand, the only people
left were the cleaners and a few ‘waitresses’ rubbing their aching
jaws. As the madame held the door open for him she playfully thrust
her hand between his legs, grabbed the aching, drained raisins he
had instead of balls, and huskily intoned, “ Sexos
machines! ”
“I am sorry for the, ah, mix-up, Schteeven,” Rudi is saying.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. We got it fixed.”
“I know. You know I always want—ach! Softly, baby, softly!”
“I understand, Rudi, Graham made you an offer and, ah…”
“ Ja, ja! I was only trying to…ach, ah gut !”
Rudi and I—both paralytic—are sprawled on facing sofas in one of
the back rooms drinking champagne. I take a long swig and look
down: an absolutely gorgeous French girl of maybe twenty-one is
trying to take her tonsils out with my cock. She looks up and makes
perfect eye contact with me for a second or two before her dark
brown eyes flip upwards in their sockets and she moans softly, as
though my sour prick tasted like cherries and ice cream. Through
the beaded curtains that serve as a door we can hear the roar from
the bar drifting down the hallway.
I lie back and shut my eyes. We closed the deal with Graham
Westbourne calling Rudi’s suite the whole time going nuts and
upping his offer. Trellick has the signed contracts in his
briefcase and Darren has been comprehensively briefed on the need
for utmost secrecy as to why my indecision has cost us thirty
thousand quid.
Actually, we’re now in kind of scary territory—a proper bidding
war and a sixty-grand deal for a one-off single means you have to
have a proper hit. Number 18 is no use to anyone. This stupid,
dreadful, novelty record will have to be top five, minimum, for me
to walk away with any kind of aplomb. Top five and we’ll make the
cash back purely from licensing the utter piece of shit onto dozens
of Now That’s What I Call A Total Insult To Fucking Humanity,
Vol. 32 type compilations.
But this is all to come. Right now, tonight, we got the record
and the competition didn’t. This can be savoured for a day or two
before you have to worry about turning the fucking thing into a
hit.
I become aware of Rudi, only a few feet away, chanting “ Ja!
Ja! Ja! ” as he starts to come. I sit up and watch him roar a
final “ JA!!! ” as he blasts a jet of hot Teutonic semen into
the bobbing French head, which flies back as though a shotgun has
gone off in its mouth: “Ahhgroooughh!” she says.
After a moment Rudi gets up and zips up. We chink flutes over
the head of my girl and I watch him—this gentleman, this man of his
word—tooling off through the beaded curtains, wiping his forehead
with a handkerchief, while his waitress crawls to the corner where,
retching and coughing, she spits his cum into a wicker waste-paper
basket.
Going home in the morning, I think.
∨ Kill Your Friends ∧
February
Thanks to the Spice Girls, Virgin has an 88.9%
share of the singles market. Mark and Lard are confirmed as the new
hosts of the Radio 1 breakfast show. EMI’s share price is in the
toilet. Blue Boy and Vitro are hot new acts. NoDoubt have a N°1
single. Alan McGee is preparing to launch the debut album by 3
Colours Red. He says, “By the second or third record we’ll sell
five million. I’m serious. They’re going to be huge.” Some guys get
done for killing that black kid, Stephen something. The Brit Awards
happen .
∨ Kill Your Friends ∧
Four
“ A woman’s two cents is worth two cents in the
music business .”
Loretta Lynn
E veryone is up and
out of their seats and table-hopping now. The thrum of conversation
is rising and no one is listening to the Bee Gees, who, incredibly,
are still onstage
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