Confessions of a Pop Star. Timothy Lea

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      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?’

      ‘Right here in this house. You must have noticed that young Jason is not with us?’

      ‘He hasn’t run away from home?’ I try hard to keep a note of delirious gaiety out of my voice but it is not easy.

      ‘Do you know how old he is?’

      I pretend to give the question a lot of thought. ‘Let me see. You and Rosie have been married for nearly six years, so he must be about six and a half.’

      Sidney’s face darkens beneath the stubble. ‘Watch it, Timmo. Just because he was a bit premature, there’s no need to go jumping to conclusions.’

      ‘Premature? He was so early he was practically singing at the bleeding wedding.’

      ‘I won’t tell you again, Timothy. The child is a mature six and very advanced for his age, considering everything. I believe he can open up a whole new child market for us. I’ve sent him upstairs to get his clobber on.’

      ‘Surely he’s too young, Sid?’

      ‘Not these days he isn’t. The kids are the ones buying most of the records and the real mini-groovers don’t have anyone to identify with. If we can launch Jason we make our own market.’

      When Sid talks like that I find it difficult to understand why everything we touch loses money. It seems such a good idea, doesn’t it?

      ‘Here I am, Dad.’

      Blimey! The little basket looks like an explosion in a sequin factory. Faced with that kind of competition, Gary Glitter might as well get a job as a bank clerk.

      ‘Can he play that thing?’ I am referring to the kidney-shaped guitar with more sharp corners than a lorry-load of hair pins.

      ‘He can strum it a bit. The backing group will supply all the noise.’

      ‘Jason and the Golden Fleas,’ I say wittily.

      ‘Uncle Timmy, stupid,’ says the only kid in south London to be given a new set of nappies for his fourth birthday.

      ‘Sing him our song,’ encourages Sid.

      I compose my features to receive the worst and, as usual, get it:

      ‘Stomp on your momma,

      Stomp on your pa,

      Stomp on everybody

      With a yah, yah!’

      ‘It sounds better with his guitar plugged in,’ says Sid. My first instinct is to say that I would prefer it with the little bleeder’s finger jammed up a light socket but I control myself. Criticism is always better received if it is constructive.

      ‘It’s a bit violent, isn’t it?’ I ask.

      Sid takes another swig of tea and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

      ‘Exactly, Timmo. That’s what we in the business call the difference factor. You take all the kids singing at the moment. Not only are they older than Jason but they’re all singing ballads. I see Jason as the first of the mini-bopper neo-decadents.’

      ‘Yerwhat?’

      ‘A seven-year-old Mick Jagger.’

      It takes me a few moments to come to terms with this idea but when I see the pout on Jason’s thick little lips – not as thick as they would be if I had my way – I begin to get Sid’s drift.

      ‘Blimey!’

      ‘Yeah. You remember how the Stones made the Beatles look like a load of fairies? Well, Jason is going to make David Cassidy and Donny Osmond look like Hansel and Gretel.’

      ‘My best friend called Gretel,’ interrupts Gretchen who has appeared with a plate of charcoal doorsteps which might once have been bread. ‘You like her. She big girl.’

      ‘Belt up, shagnasty,’ says Sid, unkindly. ‘Why don’t you push off and put the porridge through the mincer?’

      Gretchen must be doing badly at the Clapham Junction College of Commerce because she smiles happily and bears the vat of porridge away, humming what sounds like an old Slobovian sea shanty.

      ‘I think your mother must have taught her to cook,’ says Sid wearily. ‘She works on the principle that the quickest way to a man’s fart is through his stomach.’

      ‘Very funny, Sid,’ I say, humouring him. ‘But do you really think that the market is right for a hard rocking seven-year-old?’

      ‘He’ll come right through to the mini-market,’ says Sid. ‘He speaks their language. He is one of them. Not a manufactured product forced on them by their mums and dads.’

      ‘He’s a manufactured product forced on them by us.’

      ‘Exactly, Timmo. That’s the important difference. He’s a rallying standard in the battle against parental conformity. The leader of the mini-bopper rebellion.’

      I look at Jason who has one finger wedged up his hooter and is stirring circles in the sugar bowl with another and ask myself: can Sid be right this time? It is obvious that he has been getting ideas from the magazines in Doctor Naipaul’s waiting СКАЧАТЬ