Confessions of a Pop Star. Timothy Lea
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sawdust down the boozer and you must be on the game if you went into one. A wine bar was different. That was refained, somehow.’
‘So it’s just a load of judies, is it?’ I say thoughtfully.
‘Used to be. Until there was this article in the paper that said just that. It went on about how a bird could drink in peace without being molested and that there were thousands of little darlings sipping their full bodied rioja–’
‘Blimey, they must have been desperate, Sid.’
‘That’s what everybody thought, Timmo. The day after the article appeared there were blokes fighting to get through the door. Now it’s just one great knocking shop.’
‘Poor Rosie. She must be heartbroken.’
‘Yes, she’s crying all the way to the bank. Do you want to see one?’
‘Not really, Sid. I’ve thought about opening an account but–’
‘I didn’t mean a bank, you berk! I was referring to one of Rosie’s wine bars. We could look in later.’
‘Very nice, Sid. But we’ve got some business to discuss, haven’t we?’
‘Too true, we have. All this chat about Rosie’s business.’
Success has whetted my appetite. If she can do it why not her attractive brother?
‘Right,’ says Sid knocking back his scotch. ‘Let me reiterate. I think there are some fantastic opportunities in the entertainment field. I don’t mean performing ourselves but finding talent and, and–’
‘Exploiting it?’ I say helpfully.
‘The word I was looking for was managing,’ says Sid, sternly. ‘But you’ve got the general idea. If we take the risk then it’s only right that we should take some of the profit.’
‘ “Some”?’ I say.
‘Nearly all,’ says Sid. ‘And we don’t want to let ourselves in for too much risk either.’
‘What exactly did you have in mind?’ I ask.
‘Park your arse.’ Sid waves me towards this scruffy old leather settee that looks like fifteen feet of Hush Puppies. It’s a shame really. A nice chintz cover would brighten the thing up a treat. I don’t suppose Rosie has the time.
‘The public are very fickle these days. You don’t know which way they’re going to turn. You’ve got to appeal to all age groups, as well. What I mean is, we can’t afford to have all our eggs in one basket. I learned my lesson when I got stuck with all those bleeding hula hoops and pogo sticks.’
‘What happened to them in the end, Sid?’ I am always interested in news of Sidney’s business ventures. It makes a change to have first hand suffering instead of all the stuff you read about in the papers.
‘I sold most of them off as a Christmas game. You hang up the hula hoop and chuck the pogo stick through the middle of it.’
‘Sophisticated stuff, Sid.’
‘Don’t take the piss, Timmo. Kid’s toys are far too bleeding complicated these days. All they want to do is smash things up. I got the idea for HULAPOG from Jason.’
Just in case you do not know or have forgotten, Jason is Sidney’s firstborn and as nasty a piece of work as ever smeared its jammy fingers down the inside of your trouser leg. Seven years old and dead lucky that he still has the wind left to blow out the candles on his birthday cake. There is also the infant Jerome who is the spitting image of his brother – all he does is spit.
‘He’s an aggressive little chap,’ I say.
‘Spirited is the word I would use,’ says Sid. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Jason. That kiddy has got charisma.’
My face falls. ‘Oh, Sid. I’m sorry to hear that. Still, they can do wonders these days if they get onto things in the early stages.’
‘What are you bleeding rabbiting about?’ snarls Sid. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s got star quality, that’s what I was saying. He figures large in my plans.’
My heart sinks until it is practically resting on my action man kit. ‘Not another David Cassidy,’ I groan. ‘You can’t walk down the street without tripping over some spotty kid belting out golden mouldies before his balls drop.’
‘Shut your face and listen,’ says Sid unsympathetically. ‘I want to give you the broad picture before we start going into details.’
‘We’re going to have broads, are we?’ I say, perking up a bit.
Ever since some half-witted bird told Sid he looked like Paul Newman he has been inclined to pepper his rabbit with Americanisms.
‘Are you trying to take the piss? I’m talking about the range of our activities, aren’t I? We want to appeal to all sections of the public so we got to get together a variety of acts. We want a kid for the teeny boppers, a group – and one of those Hermasetas would be a good idea.’
‘I don’t get you, Sid. They’re those little things you put in your coffee, aren’t they?’
‘I mean one of those blokes who looks like a bird. They’re very popular, they are.’
‘You mean a hermaphrodite, Sid.’ Sidney tries hard with the Sunday newspapers but when you have had most of your education off the labels on sauce bottles it is difficult not to get confused.
‘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