Confessions of a Pop Star

‘The toffs come here because they fancy a bit of slumming,’ says Sid. ‘It’s the nearest most of them ever get to villainy until they join the stock exchange.’

‘Creme de menthe frappé and a packet of crisps?’ I say as I push my way into the crowd round the bar. Sid’s reply is not the kind of thing I would like to quote in a book that might find its way into the hands of minors – or even miners for that matter, and does not stay in my mind long. The reason? I find myself face to face with a really knock-out bint. She is dead class. You can tell that by the string of pearls round her neck and the little pink flushes that light up her alabaster shoulder blades.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I go out of my way to brush past her. ‘There’s a bit of a crush in here.’

‘That’s quite all right.’ Her voice goes up like the cost of living and she turns a few shades pinker.

‘Are you on your tod?’ I say. I mean, it’s favourable to ask, isn’t it? You don’t want to lash out on a babycham and find that there is some geezer with her.

‘I’m with friends,’ she says, very dainty like. I take a gander and see another filly and a couple of blokes who look as if their stiff white collars do up on their adam’s apples.

‘Be presumptuous of me to offer you a drink then, wouldn’t it?’ I often chuck in a long word like that because it shows an upper class bird that there is more to me than meets the thigh. I may not speak very proper but I have a way with me – I have it away with me too, sometimes, but that is another story.

‘Are you a waterman?’ says the bird, with a trace of interest.

‘Only when all the beer has run out,’ I say, wondering what she is on about.

‘Eewh.’ I don’t know if that is how you spell it but it sounds something like that. It is the kind of noise the Queen Mother would make if she found you wiping the front of your jeans with one of the corgis.

‘Daffers!’

The voice belongs to a herbert with a mug built round his hooter. Daffers makes another uncomfortable noise and pads off.

I get the beers in and join Sid.

‘You’ll never get anywhere with her, mate,’ he says gloomily. ‘Apart from the fact that she probably finds you repulsive, she’s not going to blot her meal ticket.’

‘I don’t know so much.’ Daffers keeps shooting glances at me and experience has taught me that where there is life there is poke. ‘When are we going to see old Rumbling Tum?’ I ask.

Sid does not have to answer because a bloke with a red velvet jacket appears on a small stage and grabs a microphone.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Doom. Tonight we’re very fortunate to have a return visit from that popular son of the sod–’

His voice drones on but I find myself concentrating on a geezer with a big black beard who is clearly pissed out of his mind. He is barging into tables and cursing and muttering fit to kit out a TV comedy series. I don’t know why they haven’t chucked him out.

‘Do us a favour, Timmo. I don’t want to miss any of this.’ Sid shoves his empty glass into my hand and I am fighting my way back to the bar again. Blooming marvellous, isn’t it? Working with Sid is always the same. The outlay is more guaranteed than the return.

Daffers has not pressed forward with the rest of her mates and I can see her trying to think of something to say. That makes two of us.

‘You look like an ’ore,’ she says.

For a moment I cannot believe my ears. She looks such a nice girl too. What a thing to say. No bird has ever spoken to me like that before.

‘Nobody’s perfect,’ I say. Maybe it is the diamante on the lapels of my shirt. Mum thought it was a bit much.

‘I thought Thames Tradesmen were awfully unlucky at Henley,’

Now she has really lost me. What is she on about?

‘I’m in the entertainment business,’ I say. ‘Do you fancy something?’

‘I think I’ve had enough already.’

‘Force yourself.’

‘Well, a glass of white wine, please.’

Sidney must be right. They are all at it. And it costs as much as a pint of bitter, too. Diabolical!

‘ “And the brave young sons of Eireann came pouring through the door. And the snivelling British Tommies fell grovelling on the floor.” ’ I turn round and – blooming heck! The bearded git must be Rambling Jack Snorter. His accent is as thick as an upright shillelah and the first three rows are reeling under a hail of spittle.

I tear myself from Daffers’ side and return to Sid.

‘What do you think?’ he says.

‘He’s all right if you’ve got an umbrella,’ I say. ‘Does he always go in for this anti-British stuff?’

‘He’s very committed,’ says Sid.

‘And frequently, too, I should reckon,’ I venture. ‘I think he comes on a bit strong, myself.’

‘He’s controversial, I’ll grant you,’ says Sid. ‘But that’s a good thing these days. He can create a dialogue between himself and the audience.’

‘You mean, like that bloke who just threw a bottle at him and told him to piss off back to Ireland?’

‘That kind of thing, Timmo.’ Sid grabs me by the arm and steers me away from the stage. ‘I think we might see if his voice carries.’

‘Good thinking, Sid.’

‘ “So here’s to all brave Irishmen, God bless their sparkling eyes. And hatred to the English filth whom all true men despise.” ’

‘I like the idea of the fiddle,’ I say.

‘Yeah. But they break easily, don’t they?’

‘They do if that one is anything to go by. Does he always finish his act by being thrown out of one of the windows?’

‘Not usually,’ says Sid, ducking. ‘It’s just that some of these dockers are a bit touchy. They’re big men but very sensitive. Do you fancy another beer?’

‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to get one, Sid. That’s the governor draped over the partition, isn’t it?’

‘You’re right. It’s a lively little place, no doubt about it. I must come again some time.’

‘Give them a couple of years to rebuild.’ I duck as another bottle shatters against the wall above my head. If we keep under the table and push it towards the door we may be all right.’

Sid nods and turns up the collar of his jacket. ‘Yeah, I don’t like leaving the car for too long around here. Last time I was in the neighbourhood the kids were playing tiddly winks with hub-caps. Some little bleeder whipped my aerial. It wouldn’t have been so bad but I was doing forty miles an hour at the time.

Daffers is sheltering under a nearby table and I nod to her as we crawl past. ‘Super to meet you,’ she says. ‘Good luck with the rowing.’

‘What was she on about?’ says Sid. ‘What have you been telling her?’

‘Search me. I think she’s a bit touched.’

‘I wouldn’t mind touching her and all. Lovely the way her bristols were hanging down like that.’

The sight has not been lost on me and I would be very willing to show the lady that what I don’t know about rowing I know about in and out. I mean, it’s practically the same thing, isn’t it? Women on their hands and knees are always a favourite with me. A bit of dangle and a nice inviting curve to the backside – Down Lea!

We get to the car just as the fire engine comes round the corner and nearly collides with the first of the police cars.

‘Lovely publicity,’ says Sid, enviously. ‘It’s a shame we don’t have him under contract.’

‘Sign him up and you’ll have us all under six feet of earth,’ I say. ‘He’s a raving nutter, that bloke.’

‘He’s outrageous,’ agrees Sid. ‘But that’s what a section of the market wants, these days. I wonder if I could get him to wear drag and dye his hair purple.’

Sid rambles on in this vein until he informs me that we are approaching Plonkers.

‘Yeah. Diabolical name, isn’t it? I told her people would associate it with bonkers and she said that was the idea.’

The place is down Fulham way and there are a load of high class wheels parked outside the front door. All lean and hunched-up like greyhounds crapping in the gutter. Inside there is a long bar and lots of alcoves and small tables. There is sawdust on the floor and a few geezers wearing striped aprons who cater for the wine-drinking public. I have to admit that quite a few members of the grape-group are present and they make a marked contrast to the regulars at The Prospect of Doom. Some of them are even wearing suits and the whine of their upper class rabbit would drill holes in the side of a battleship.

If Rosie is glad to see us, the fact is not communicated by any movement of her features.

‘Oh, you’ve come,’ she says.

‘Only metaphysically,’ says Sid for some reason that I find hard to explain.

‘What can I offer you to drink?’ says Rosie, all posh-like.

‘I’ll have a glass of the house white,’ says Sid.

‘I’ll try the pillar box red,’ I say.

Once again Rosie’s features do not spring into smile position with whippet-like swiftness. ‘Don’t treat the place like the public bar at the Highwayman,’ she says coldly.

And to think I can remember when she used to believe that the sun set every time Sid fastened his pyjama cord. Some birds go off faster than last year’s turkey.

I turn away from this timely warning to anyone considering getting nuptially knotted and take a butche’s round the room. Imagine my surprise – go on, please do – when I see Daffers and the bloke she was with, sitting in one of the alcoves. I can recognise him by the black eye and the lump on the top of his nut – he went out of the window just after Rambling Jack Snorter.

Daffers recognises me the instant our mince-pies meet and I hear the familiar strains of the love theme from Tchaik’s Romeo and Juliet bashing a hole in my lug holes – with the last tinkling notes running away down the front of my Y-fronts. Surely fate must have thrown us together? Daffers clearly thinks so. She scampers to my side and informs me that Algie is on the point of passing out. A combination of booze and amateur brain surgery has reduced his already sub-standard sex appeal to vanishing point.

‘I think he ought to go home,’ she murmurs. ‘He’s not himself.’

I am tempted to suggest that any change must be an improvement but I control myself.

‘You have beautiful eyes,’ I say as if nothing in the world could make me think about anything else.

‘You mustn’t say that.’ Daffers squeezes my arm and her fate is sealed. Once birds start touching you it is but a question of minutes before their knickers are spoiling the cut of your jacket pocket.

‘Where does he live?’

‘Just round the corner, but he’s in no state to drive.’

‘I’ll drive.’ The words pop out of my mouth so fast that I think someone else must have said them.

‘Would you really?’

I knock back the red plonk so as not to offend Rosie and tell Sid that I am popping out for a few minutes.

‘Blimey, you’re a sucker for failure, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘Don’t hang about. I don’t want to stay here all night.’

I ignore him and help steer Algie out of the door. There is a glow in the east which makes me wonder if The Prospect of Doom is still burning. Algie has one of those little sports cars with about enough room in the back seat to lay a sausage roll lengthways and it is like fitting a broken umbrella into a shoe box to get him stowed away.

‘You should have gone in the back, really,’ I say. ‘Still, I’m glad you didn’t.’

Daffers pulls her skirt down towards her knees and runs her hand up my forearm. ‘Third on the left and I’ll give you instructions from there.’

‘Filthy Irish swine,’ drones Algie’s voice from the back seat. His head drops back and he begins to snore loudly.

‘Do you think we’re going to be able to get him out?’ murmurs my new friend. For some reason best known to herself her words accompany the pressure of dainty finger tips against my upper thigh.

‘No trouble,’ I breathe. ‘Now, tell me. How do you get this thing into gear?’

A few thousand fumbles later, we have arrived in a narrow cobbled mews which Daffers informs me is where Algie lives. I would have thought he could have done better than to kip over a garage but I don’t say anything. There is no point in hurting people’s feelings, is there? Not that Algie would speak up if I gave him a lantern slide lecture on the Kama Sutra. He is definitely out for the count. I, on the other hand, am now definitely out for something one letter shorter.

‘What are we going to do?’ Daffers’ concern sounds about as genuine as that of a bloke watching his mother-in-law drive over the side of a cliff.

‘I think it might be best to leave him here, don’t you?’ I gaze into the bird’s eyes and give a little shudder like a twig snatched away by a dangerous current over which it has no control.

‘Yes.’ The word urges her lips a few dangerous inches closer to mine and she shares my shiver.

‘Mmmm,’ I say. The noise savours the pleasures to come and the last ‘m’ accompanies the arrival of my north and south against Daffers’ soft, warm lips. At the same instant my right hand glides smoothly but purposefully between the lady’s thighs. She stiffens for a minute and then relaxes, sliding her arms round my neck.

‘Naughty,’ she says approvingly.

I don’t rush things but gently chew her lips whilst brushing my fingers against the fragile fabric guarding the entrance to her spasm chasm. At basement level percy is rolling out like a fireman’s hose and I have to effect a quick readjustment of my threads in order to rearrange the accommodation. Daffers is not slow to diagnose my problem and her thoughtful fingers arrive like a batch of flying doctors. As I hook my pinkies under the rim of her panties her own digits ease down my zipper and prepare to take percy for walkies.

We are now profitably involved in two areas of mutual interest and as our fingers glide and caress a certain urgency invades our actions. I slide my hand under Daffers’ back bumpers and with a little help from my friend tug her knicks towards an appointment with the carpet pile. For her part, Daffers is equally swift to expose my parts and percy soars upward like a twenty five pounder field gun released from its camouflage netting.

‘We mustn’t!’ gasps Daffers, eagerly. Even if your only experience of birds is helping old ladies across the road you soon get to realise that the hot flushes often coincide with the cold feet. They don’t mean it, of course, but a word of reassurance is always appreciated.

‘You’re beautiful,’ I breathe. Not the most original words in the English language but they pull more birds than a fleet of tugs. The steam is now running down the inside of the windows and it joins my impulsive lips in drowning any more of Daffers’ half hearted objections. I settle back into my seat and pull my passionate playmate towards me. With encouraging haste she scrambles across my knees and suddenly the car is a very small place. In the circumstances the best thing to do seems to be to make use of every inch of space and I slot into Daffers with a speed that would bring tears to the eyes of any woodwork master in the country. My hands close about her back buffers and we thump happily while I watch the misty outlines in the mews rise and fall in time with the car springs.

‘Heaven!’ breathes my new friend. ‘Oh, it’s good.’

I am in no mood to disagree with her and as the warm currents stirring through my loins race towards the rapids I sense that a small weight loss in the Y-front area is imminent if not even nearer.

‘What the Devil!’

That didn’t sound like me? And it’s not the kind of thing I say.

‘What the hell are you doing, Daffers?!’

With a sense of extreme irritation I realise that Algie has woken up. Some people have no feelings, do they? What a minute to choose. Just when I’m–

‘A-a-a-a-a-a-’

‘Daffers! You swine!’

‘-a-a-a-a-a-gh-!’

I stretch out an arm for the door handle and – oh dear! – stand by for another Lea Golden Rule: always leave the vehicle in gear when you’re having feels on wheels. That way you avoid releasing the hand brake and rolling backwards into all those dustbins. What a good job I had just put down a deposit, otherwise there might have been a nasty accident. Terrible to be snapped off in your prime.

‘Take that, you–!’

Algie is obviously feeling much stronger and I think it is probably safe to leave him and Daffers to sort things out. I open the door and fall into a sea of bottles – well, it is difficult to be light on your feet when your trousers are round your ankles and you have got some bloke thumping you in the earhole.

They do all right for themselves in this mews, I can tell you. The contents of all the dustbins scattered about would stock a boozer.

‘What the Devil–!?’

This time it is a geezer leaning out of a window. He is probably fretting because Algie’s sharp little motor car has dug itself into his front door. I am feeling decidedly fragile at knee level and am grateful that Plonkers is only just round the corner. Even a glass of red wine will go down a treat in my condition. I am but a few feet from the door when a human body emerges from it at an angle of forty-five degrees. This trajectory is maintained for about six feet and then the body descends sharply into the gutter. By the cringe, but it is a night for violence, isn’t it? It is amazing that anyone dares to step out for a drink these days. No doubt some undesirable scruff is being given the bum’s rush from Rosie’s posh clip joint.

In a manner of speaking I am correct. The stream of filthy lingo rising from the gutter could issue from only one cakehole.

‘What happened, Sid?’ I say, seizing the arm which is swinging back into punch-up position.

‘No bugger talks to my old woman like that and gets away with it.’ Sid surges towards the door but I manage to hold him back.

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he was going to liaise with her the weekend he got back from Amsterdam. Imagine that. He’s hardly through the door and he’s off with someone’s wife. I bet he’s got some lovely kiddies at home, too.’

‘Liaise isn’t a place, you berk,’ I say helpfully. ‘It means to get in touch with someone.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Sid. ‘Are you sure? No wonder Rosie got so worked up.’

‘What did you do?’

Sid looks down at the pavement. ‘I punched him about a bit. Nothing too strenuous. It was only when they all went for me that I had to defend myself.’ Before he can say anything else I hear the shrill note of an ambulance approaching at speed. I do not have to consult my crystal ball to know where it is going.

‘I think we’d better get out of here,’ I say. ‘I don’t reckon it’s one of our evenings. Not unless you fancy our chances of finding a load of talent in the local nick.’

Sid thinks hard for a minute. ‘It’s a nice publicity gimmick,’ he says slowly. Poor old Sid. If the Indians gave him beads he would be grateful.

‘Come on!’ I say. ‘Take me home, I’m knackered.’

‘You can stay with us,’ says Sid. ‘There’s loads of room and we can talk about the proposition in the morning.’

‘Is that going to be all right with Rosie?’

Sid says words to the effect that he is not going to be over-worried whether it is all right with Rosie or not. Furthermore, that if Rosie does not like it she knows what she can do with herself. It is obviously a subject that Sid enjoys talking about and he is still going strong when we get back to trendy Vauxhall.

‘Fancy a night cap?’ he says, advancing to the booze tray. I refuse and am directed to the third floor while my brother-in-law fixes himself another large scotch. He drinks too much, there is no doubt about it.

I am feeling dead knackered and the prospect of a bit of kip is very welcome. It has been a day rich in experience if not in achievement and I will have much to think about before the sand man dusts my mince pies with – knickers! For some reason the light in the room Sid directed me to is not working. Not to worry, I will do something about it in the morning.

I feel my way to the bed and start to strip off. I will have to sleep in the buff but that is no hardship. A bit chilly to start off with but – that’s funny. It seems quite warm as I slide a leg inside. Warm as the hand that grabs my action man kit.

‘Mr Noggett. You naughty man!’ The voice is full of East European promise and is not unknown to me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I squeak – and I mean squeak. ‘It’s not Mr Noggett. It’s me. I thought this was my room.’

‘Is my room. Everything in it is mine.’ Something about the way she says that makes me fear the worst – that and the way her mitt is still anchored to my hampton like it is a try your strength machine.

‘I’ll go.’

‘No! You come here for hanky wanky. You no need to be ashamed. It is always the same at the time of the potato harvest in my homeland.’ So that is where she gets her grip from. ‘The young men drink the Spudovitch and make merry with the maidens in the cow byres.’

‘Fascinating,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve often been tempted by those Winter Break holidays.’

‘Introduce me to your friend.’ Gretchen’s tone suggests that the time for cocktail party banter has passed.

‘I must go.’

‘No! My body will not be denied. Enter me!’

I would enter her for the Smithfield Show tomorrow but that is about all. Unfortunately she must have been taught unarmed combat at her mother’s knee and my left arm is forced up my back towards the nape of my neck before you can say Siberia.

‘Make frisky with me.’

If only I could remember what she looked like with the light on.

‘Maybe you like to make love with light on?’

‘No!’ Now it is my turn to bash the negatives. The sight of that face at a moment like this could put the kibosh on my sex life for keeps.

‘You like big titties?’ Gretchen pulls my face down onto her barrage balloon bosom and at that moment a flicker of lust passes through my action man kit. Never one of the smartest JTs in the business, my spam ram responds with animal urgency to the presence of sheer brute size.

‘Is good, no?’

The obvious answer to that question is no. However, an even more obvious answer has presented itself to me. The only way to get rid of the iron maiden is going to be to give in to her. Moving my head slightly so that I will be able to perform the vital movements whilst still alive, I hum ‘Rule Britannia’ under my breath and give brave, foolhardy percy his head. It may not be the end to a perfect day but at least it is the end.

Chapter Two

In which an attempt is made to turn nephew, Jason Noggett, into a six-year-old Mick Jagger and Timmy shares a few idyllic moments with lonely Mrs Blenkinsop.

‘I’d forgotten she was in the spare room,’ says Sid.

‘Forgotten! Blooming heck! She could have killed me. When she fell asleep on top of me it took me ten minutes to crawl out.’

Sid waves my complaints away and continues to clean his earhole with a teaspoon.

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s all part of life’s rich tapioca, water that’s been passed under the bridge. Clear your mind and start thinking about Noggo Enterprises.’

‘Noggo Enterprises? What’s that?’

‘That’s us, Timmo. The company that’s going to promote all this talent under the Bella label.’

I politely refuse Gretchen’s offer of a second helping of porridge and put down my knife and fork – well, it is that lumpy you have to eat it with a knife and fork. At first I thought she had dropped a few spuds in it.

‘Why “Bella”?’ I say.

‘It’s an anadin of label,’ says Sid proudly.

‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. “Raft” is an anagram of “Fart” but I wouldn’t use it as a name for an air freshener.’

As usual, Sid is slow to admit that I have a point. ‘In the world of entertainment, presentation is half the battle. You’ve got to be slick and with it.’ Sid scrapes egg off the front of his shirt and licks the knife.

‘OK, Sid. You’re the boss. Where do we start?’