When will I be famous...?

This is sort of the 'anti-christ' of this week’s question…

The following harrowing tale tells of the lengths I went to in order to avoid the semi-aryan, blond, leather-jacketed, bell-end-tastic, twins-and-another-one 80’s pop ‘phenomenon’ that was …Bros.

And how I (epic) failed.

I used to work for a newspaper, and regularly rode the roller coaster of bliss and misery that was to meet the supposedly superior race that apparently pass for modern day celebrities.

Every now and again it was a joy to behold, I have many good memories and could drop names until my arse turns inside-out. But sometimes it was a curse – I would have to meet and greet, and in the name of good media relations, fawn, brown nose and butt smooch my way in a vain effort to obtain some vaguely writable content from some seriously smarmy, simpering shitcakes.

But nothing prepared me for the day my editor discovered that none other than Bros, the illustrious insult to music and purveyors of sugar-flavoured-spunkbubbles, were about to hit my godforsaken city with a whimper.

What made it even worse was…this wasn’t in their heyday…oh no, this was when they were ‘past it’…clinging to fame’s last threads…way after they had successfully ejaculated their collective royalties and advances, before deciding they were 'too big for the greedy management and record company’ (that had got them success in the first place), and that they were to blow the remaining wad of their non-existent talent on ‘work to challenge their artistic integrity’. Dear god.

For the love of Jumping Jesus Jizz on a Jaffa cake.

I begged and pleaded with the editor to get someone else to cover the story. I feigned illness, offered bribes and said I had other appointments…but it was to no avail. I was assured that I could ‘fit them in to my schedule’ because as part of their self-promoting pap-a-thon, they were going to visit Mercia Sound, the radio station not 100 yards from the newspaper offices. Doh.

So inevitably, the time arrived, and with a face like a freshly raped arse, I stomped miserably next door and waited for their ‘fashionably late’ arrival. As I stood by the car park I was at least expecting there to be a throng of some sort but it was so sad…there were about 12 people…if that…and no serious commitment made on any particular fan’s part…it was just a mild smattering of folk who had grown up and simply forgotten to ‘let go’ and move on to a similarly mindless worship of somebody like ‘the Backstabberstreet Boys’ or some other crusty plate of wank fluid.

Eventually, they pulled up to the building…and it was a sight to behold.

Gone were the days of Limousines, champagne and wall-to-wall minge-biscuits, they were driven to the Radio station gates in a Ford Granada.

Despite looking old for their years, and wracked with the healthy glow you can only obtain with years of serious drug abuse, they strode out, insisting on making ‘sweeping’ gestures with their arms in order to deflect the ‘waves’ of adoring and gagging-for-it young split-arses…that simply weren’t there. They still insisted on being divas, going out of their way to push past people.

As if I didn’t despise them enough already.

After refusing autographs for the couple of indifferent people and passers-by, they made a bee-line for me, despite the fact I was hiding round the corner of a concrete pillar to avoid them.

What had I done to attract this attention? I was holding a pad, a pen, a camera and my press badge.

One of them tugged on my sleeve and with an arrogant snarl he said “Heeeey, you”, grasping at any opportunity of extending their ‘fame’, even if it meant getting a quote in my meagre rag.

They continued: “What’s your question?”

I tried to think.

“Erm…” I replied despondently. I couldn’t think of anything to ask them.

They simply couldn’t tell that I didn’t want to be there. It became painfully apparent that they, too, were finding it difficult to detach from ‘The Glory Days’…

“Well, what is it?, come on man, we’re busy” They pressed further, yelping impertinently…(possibly thinking that I was to starstruck to speak).

Shocked by the scenario, I thought long and hard…how could I quickly get this over with? Delving deep within my subconscious I stumbled across a question that I was hoping they’d not been asked a million times before. Looking one of them square in the eye I spoke:

“My Question is…….Why?”

“Why…what?” asked the slicked back mongoloid, the veins now visibly bulging in his forehead in frustration at my obvious lack of man-muck spurtage at merely being in their mighty presence.

I then replied stoically…whilst shaking my head:

“Nope…nothing else…just……‘Why?’”

This seemed to somewhat disgruntle the stumpy peroxide covered cuntwits, and they replied with a quote so self-absorbed that it made my ankles swell.

“Oh, fuck off”, he snorted. “We haven’t got time for twats like you, we’ve got music to make!”

I recoiled in faux horror….“I’m sorry?” I said

Instantly, he rolled his eyes, sighed loudly, and began to repeat his insulting sentence, spitting the words back at me : “I SAID……”

And then I cut him off with:

“Oh…I heard what you said……I’m just sorry”

The two brothers then had an almost psychic connection as they performed an earth-trembling collective ‘Harrumph’ then shoulder barged past me and strutted into the building like out-takes from Saturday night fever.

I understand they’ve sorted themselves out now…which is good. I hope that was just a dark patch in their careers. But if it took somebody to sit them the fuck down, give them a firm shake and tell them to stop being such selfish pre-Madonna prima donnas, to pull their shit together and have some respect for ‘normal’ folk, then that person, in my humble opinion...is the hero.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 23 Apr 2009, 9:37, 6 replies)

Top story
as ever, but unfortunately for you the bit I laughed at most was 'pre-madonnas'.

I think the phrase you're looking for is 'prima donnas', which means first ladies, and conjurs up visions of exactly the kind of self-absorbed petulant behaviour you describe, rather than conjuring up visions of a music scene not yet aware of madge. What does that even mean?

Don't let that detract from a marvellous read, it just made me chuckle, is all.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:00, closed)

oh
I thought it was on purpose
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:02, closed)

It was a 'play-on-words'...
sorry.

EDIT: Cos now when I think about it...Madonna probably came first*.

*She did when she was with me...Fnarr

EDIT 2: Post now edited to say 'pre-Madonna Prima Donnas'..which hopefully makes it clearer, whilst still not making sense. Thanks for the nudge.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:07, closed)

Oh, I see
To be fair, it is entirely like me to not get a joke that is not 100% factually accurate.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:49, closed)

Good for you.
To some extent you can understand why people who have been in the music or film business a long time become like this, although I don't condone it, but groups like that who are around for 5 minutes should get a bloody reality check.
( girlinthehole, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:02, closed)

they couldn't answer
they couldn't answer that.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 10:37, closed)