Confessions of a Pop Star. Timothy Lea

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      ‘-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 СКАЧАТЬ