Ok ok reality is often stranger than fiction, trouble is it’s awful hard telling the difference sometimes, well I struggle in this area anyway. My friend ******** phoned just as I was resigned to another night trying to remember if I liked Adam and the Ants when i was a nipper and asked would i escort her to meet a poshbird in a poshclub in a posh part of town tonight. All true so far kids!
Thirty minutes later and we’re in The Wellington club in Knightsbridge, which is about as posh as it gets for people like me, who don’t look like horses and are not called Rupert. We settle down and sexyshoegirls friend inevitably asks me what I do.
This is where the fantasy/reality bit gets blurred of course.
“I’m a writer/musician/ ex-smackhead/rentboy/burglar of Buddhist yoga retreats.”
But I’m ok now….don’t even drink anymore….
I tell her sipping a small glass of coke (£8 in case you’re… interested)
“Oh she says, my friend drinks too much as well.”
People always say something like that.
“What are you doing for Christmas?”
I enquired politely
“Oh, you know that house in the Adams family?
“Well I’m going to stay at one just like that in Italy, where are you going?”
“I’m volunteering at a homeless person’s shelter in Hammersmith, I reply,”
Just as Simon Le Bon walks in with Mrs Simon le bon.
“Oh Yah, you’ll get good karma for that then”
Says poshgirl as she notices the taller and to be fair not quite as fat as you’d expect, talentless coked up to the eyeballs, ex very famous not very good at sailing pop star.
“I’ll probably get tuberculosis”
I reply but she’s off after chubby bollocks already.
It’s a shit club, frequented by over-privileged over-paid morons and those that pursue people like that, thankfully Its soon time to..return home, ********* has to work tomorrow and the novelty of watching low level royalty chatting up east European whores has worn thin, but as I go to leave I bump into the man who gave the world the song Wild Boys, (lets not forget the video too kids) who suddenly looms up in front of me as he strides out of the Khazi wiping his nose.
There is only one question a guy like me could ask a cunt, sorry guy like him at this moment…
“Hello Simon le Bon….
“Did you ever go to Weston-Super-Mare for your holidays when you were less fat, I mean a child.”
He looks at me, points to his throat and whispers.
“Sorry mate, can’t talk”
Then strides off sniffing.
“You couldn’t sing or dance either”
I shouted after him,
“But that never fuckin stopped you did it?”
No it didn’t..Dickhead
ps. don’t smoke crack you’ll end up like him but with less teeth and money, And you probably won’t get to shag Yasmin either.