Hi y’all. Have decided to once again turn my talents to writing and am in the process of putting together some shit for an online publishing organisation. Going to try my luck - been putting it off for too long.
Some time ago I promised a series of adventures based on the adventures of our good friend voidhead and his gaggle of party goer hipster friends (I wish I could find that post).
I have changed my mind. To warm up before hitting the publishing company with my “goods” I am in the process of putting together a Prongs story. It follows the exploits of Grmpysmrf when he wins $75 million in the US lottery and becomes the very thing he so thoroughly despises - a rich pig.
In the story, I am a music journalist living in New York. At some point most, if not all, of you will feature in this piece.
I hope you enjoy. Here is the first page for a little taster (still only very early draft so don’t expect the world):
7am and the phone rings. It’s Grmpysmrf. Says he’s just won the lottery and would I be interested in a party at his new houseboat down in the Florida Keys. I mumble a polite go fuck yourself and hang up.
My head is killing me. Pounding like a kettle drum. Probably has something to do with the half litre of Moroccan rum and 9 screwdrivers I downed last night at the inaugural NME bash to raise money for beached whales or starving children or maybe starving children who have beached themselves I can’t remember and quite honestly don’t give a shit. Why anyone would pay out good money to help children dumb enough to swim in shallow waters is beyond me. Personally I’d pay good money to have them all put to sleep. Or at the very least blacklisted.
Ran into Bjork at said do and told her bluntly that I found her last album, Fidgeridoo My Apocalypse, was crap and bout as tuneful as a gang of African hyenas tearing at a wildebeest . She responded by slapping me across the face with a herring and then timidly hiding behind 50 Cent for the rest of the night, who was, incidentally, unsuccessfully trying to hit on a male cross dresser whom I later found out was Cher. Mr Von Trier I know how you feel. Fucking Icelanders! Can’t we find some reason to invade?
At the bar I nudge past John Mayer and Mila Kunis who were having a contest to see who can be the most repugnant. I think Mayer won by a hair but couldn’t be arsed sticking around to find out. So I asked Fiona Apple to keep an eye out get back to me. She responded by mooing loudly and then pretending to be a caterpillar. Silly girl.
Shortly afterward Bono got up and drunkenly made a speech, thanking everyone for donating to his wonderful little cause and that we should all feel glad that his mother gave birth to him some 50 odd years prior. He then climbed up on the nearest table and attempted an Irish jig, but was cut short when two African children escaped from his trouser leg and scurried off to call his lawyers in New York as he had promised them to Madonna and she was sure to sue. Bitch.
At some point I vaguely remember mistaking David Bowie for a house plant and tried to water him. Silly I know but we’ve all been there. Just ask Bieber (who was suspiciously nowhere to be seen – although I hear he turned up later when they were packing up and attempted to urinate on one of the bathroom attendants).
Fuckin’ hell, the pop world is no place for the faint hearted – so I leg it out of there at around 3am, sharing a taxi with a sullen Harvey Keitel and some hipster kid in a beret and feather boa, who was raving about socialism and why it should have been him what invented Facebook. I kick them out in front of a porno theatre in Greenwich Village and tell the cab driver to go full speed back to the apartment only to wake up some three hours later in an empty lot on the East side, to find that I have been robbed and am half naked and with a dazed and slightly tipsy Andy Richter hovering over me and pleading for spare change. Says he’s hungry and hadn’t been to a Denny’s for at least twenty minutes – which is incidentally a personal record.
Ended up walking home in the snow. Go figure. Bob Dylan never had to do this I’ll bet.
Back to the present and I sit bolt upright in bed. Look over to my left only to find Liz Hurley and that Perry woman slumped across the duvet. No idea how they got there but I give them 5 minutes to get dressed and get out before I set the Doberman on them. They’re out the door toot sweet and I head over to the kitchen for a cup of Good Morning America, only to find that I really do have a Doberman and it has just eaten the last of the apple crumble I was saving for when Yoko Ono comes over later in the arvo. Decide against making another one. Fuck her. Last time I asked her around and bring something, she turns up empty handed. When I complain she tells me she is unable too cook anything as the kitchen does not exist on an existential plain. Which is fair enough I. Fuck it, we’ll just go to Denny’s.
I put on some Nurse With Wound and light up…
…alright, fuck it. Houseboat party it is…
to be continued…
