Confessions of a Pop Star. Timothy Lea

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      ‘All right, all right. Have it your own way, Master Mind. As long as he can hold a guitar so the thin end is pointing towards the ceiling, that’s all I’m interested in.’

      ‘Where are you going to find all this talent, Sid?’

      Sid produces a large cigar and shoves it into his cakehole. Somewhere in Central London, Lew Grade must be feeling icy fingers running up his spine.

      ‘Quantity is no problem, Timmo. It’s finding kids with the right qualifications. Dedicated, talented–’

      ‘And prepared to work for nothing.’

      Sidney shakes his head slowly. ‘Somewhere along the line you’ve become cynical, Timmo. That’s very sad.’

      ‘Somewhere along the line I met you, Sid. Let’s face it, sentiment has never blurred your business vision.’

      Sid shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. Look, if you’re interested in seeing how I spot talent you can come with me tonight. There’s a folk singer I want to have a decco at. Rambling Jack Snorter. He’s on at a boozer in the East End.’

      My ears prick up when I hear the word boozer. I don’t fancy drinking at home except at Christmas.

      ‘What about the kids? Is Rosie coming back?’

      Sid looks sheepish. ‘Gretchen can look after them.’

      ‘Gretchen?’

      ‘The au pair.’

      Au pair? The words trip off the tongue like ‘knocking shop’, don’t they? I can just see her. Blonde, blue-eyed and with a couple of knockers like Swedish cannon balls. No wonder Sid is looking embarrassed. With his record he has probably been through her more times than the Dartford tunnel.

      ‘Don’t let your imagination run riot,’ sighs Sid. ‘Rosie chose her. She hasn’t won a lot of beauty contests.’

      As if to prove his point a bird comes in with a complexion like a pebble dash chicken house. For a moment I think she is wearing a mask – when I take a good look at her I wish she was. I have seen birds with warts before – but not on their warts. I don’t go a bundle on her hair either. It is like mousy candy floss, or the stuff that comes out of your Bex Bissell. One feature you can’t fault her on is her knockers. They are right out of the top drawer – in fact they are so big they would fill the whole blooming chest. They certainly fill hers.

      ‘Ah, Gretchen,’ says Sid, putting on his ‘Another glass of port, Lady Prendergast?’ voice. ‘I don’t think you’ve met my brother-in-law?’

      When I was a kiddy, I shut my digits in a car door. When Gretchen folds her mit around mine and applies ‘pleased to meet you’ pressure, the sensation is about the same. Strong? This girl could play centre back for Moscow Dynamo and only your shin bones would know the difference.

      ‘Pleased to do you,’ she grunts. ‘How do you meet?’

      ‘Gretchen is learning English at Clapham Junction College of Commerce,’ says Sid, chattily.

      I nod agreeably while I try and rub the circulation back into my pinkies and Sid explains about us nipping out for a few jars.

      Funny how first impressions can be misleading sometimes.

      ‘Must be a strain to control yourself, when you’ve got that about,’ I say as we scamper down the steps.

      ‘Yeah. I nearly swung for her a couple of times,’ says Sid. ‘She cooked us a stew once. I think she made it from old shaving brushes. Talk about diabolical. The cat took one look at it and ran up the chimney. We had a fire in the grate at the time, too.’

      Sid still has his Rover 2000 and I feel like Lord Muck as I settle back against the leather and watch the Thames twinkling away like the froth on a pool of piss.

      ‘We should have time to catch Rambling Jack and have a decko at one of Rosie’s places,’ says Sid. ‘You know the East End at all, do you?’

      I don’t really and it doesn’t look as if I am going to get the chance because they seem to be pulling it down even faster than the part of London I am living in.

      ‘Some right villains hang out around here,’ says Sid. ‘Mind how you go when you get the first round in.’

      I reckon if Sid made a million you would still think he had fish hooks sewn to the insides of his pockets.

      The Prospect of Ruin is packed out with everyone from candidates for ‘The Upper Class Twit Of The Year’ award to blokes who look as if they taught Bill Sykes how to scowl. You would think that two different dubs had booked on the same night.

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ