First up in answer to my last blogs question as to whether of not I'll have a job at the end of the month- The answer is YES! I've finally been told after being given the same information twice in 2 different meetings, but I'm going to be working as a guide in Shakespeare's House until the end of Feb which ties in nicely with Charlie Brown being born. Anyone wants to pay me a visit, please feel free.
Now down to business. As some of you may know I've written a sitcom called "Flattened" which I'm hoping one day to get commissioned. After a bright start when it won an ITV competition, it's gone through several rewrites and has fallen somewhat by the wayside. My latest plan to resurrect this sitcom phoenix from the flames of inertia is to serialise it through this blog in the style of a book. It's a working progress, as with so many things I haven't really thought too hard about it but I'm hoping that this will help me develop character background, insert new ideas and jokes and help me see the project from a different point of view. I'd be exceedingly grateful (I sound like Mr Kipling) for any feedback you might have. What works, what doesn't, what you would like to see more off etc. I'd find it very helpful and it might also help with publicising my work which can only be a good thing. If you know anyone who you think could help me, I'd be eternally grateful.
So without further ado, lets begin at the beginning-
Rob Saunders looked at himself in the wide mirror and wondered how he got here. How does a man born into a normal working class family in Birmingham find himself in the dressing room at Wembley Arena, about to perform in front of 50,000 adoring fans? It's ridiculous, it's absured, some would say it was unfair and yet, here he was. He was playing out everybodys childhood fantasy. He was a rockstar, he had the entourage, the girls, the drugs, the drink, everything. His album had the highest amount of downloads ever, he was on the front cover of every single magazine in the country, he was on the verge of cracking America and in a few moments time he would be able to utter those immortal words, "Good evening Wembley!"
There was a short knock on the dressing room door and the slim, attractive PA, who still managed to look sexy wearing knockabout clothes and huge headphones round her slim attractive neck simply said, "5 minutes Rob"
Rob didn't look around, he just stared at his face in the mirror. He was searching for something in those eyes. An answer perhaps? An answer to how he made it here but then did he want an answer? Wasn't it better to just accept what life, fate, God, whoever had given you and not ask any questions? Ask no questions, tell no lies. His mind raced, his heart thumped, the pulse in his temple throbbed so hard he thought it would burst out the side of his head and run out the fire escape and through the backstreets of London. This was no time for philosopical questions and soul searching, this was a time for doing what he did best, being a rock god! He pushed back his chair, checked his hair one last time, took a large swig of Jack Daniels straight out the bottle and walked out the dressing room to take hold of his destiny.
As soon as Rob stepped out the door, the 3 huge black security guards flanked him on all sides to shield him from the hangers on the paparatzi. Rob barely the noticed the hussle anymore. When he first encountered it, he had found it terrifing and more than a little bizarre. Why would so many people be interested in him? He wasn't anybody special. Now he was used to it and didn't even hear the questions being fired at him, the screams and pleadings from the nubile young girls who seemed to constantly follow him around. Nor did the constant flash of cameras trouble him. He was in the zone, all he could hear was his own heartbeat and the distant sound of 50,000 people chanting his name.
Rob reached the the edge of the stage. His band were already there, nervously jiggling their legs or just staring into middle distance. There was no need for group hugs, communal prayers, words of encouragement or any of the other crap that seems endemic when you're about to go on stage. They knew they were good, they knew they were tight. Nothing needed to be said.
The lights were beaming down on the stage, catching the dancing dust as they cut there way through the fug of sweat and stale alcohol. Some people had already started throwing the plastic glasses half full of cheap lager around the venue. The moshers down the front were hanging over the metal railings, straining every sinew to get as close to the stage and their idol as possible. Rob's heart started beating even harder. He could taste the aluminum of fear burning at the back of his throat when the lights dimmed. The crowd erupted, then band stepped onto the stage. Mick, the languidly cool guitarest, gently squeezed the back of Robs head in a single gesture that summed up everything and took his place at the front of stage. He strapped on his black and white rickenbaker and struck the opening chord of "Kick in the teeth". Rob took a deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped out into the wall of screams.
When Rob opened his eyes, the view was somewhat different. Wembley Arena had somehow transformed itself into a public toilet, and his adoring public had shrunk to a toilet attendent and dodgy looking man with a whispy beard and a dirty shell suit. Also neither of them looked particulaly adoring. In fact the attendent was growing increasingly hostile. His mouth was moving but nothing was coming out of it. The occasonal bit of angry spittle landed on Rob's face as the tirade seemed to grow in intencity. Why couldn't Rob hear him? The music! Of course, the music was drowning out this scary looking man with the wild eyes and nicotine stained fingers. Rob turned round to tell the band to stop playing for a moment, but the band weren't there. Where was the music coming from? His ipod! Of course. Rob pulled the headphones out of his ears.
".........You stupid wanker!". Rob looked confused. The attendent just stared at Rob as if waiting for an answer.
"Pardon?" asked Rob?
"I said what the bloody hell are you doing in here singing that shit into the mirror you stupid wanker?"
Rob just stared at the attendent. "Background music" replied Rob matter of factly
Rob was bundled out soon after that. He did start to play in defiance of the attendant outside the lavatory block but it came to a swift end when the contents of the attendents bucket were deposited over his head which made playing the guitar slightly difficult. Rob walked back home through the park being given a wide berth by everybody he encountered. Something told him it was going to be one of those days
Chaper two next time. TTFN