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HELLO all you beautiful, beautiful people.  It’s time again for another snippet of Happy Ending, preceded by a few words of explanation.

This next chapter follows on from the last snippet I posted, which in turn followed on from the first snippet I posted.  Now, at the risk of putting you all off (if I haven’t already) I probably won’t post the whole shebang bit after bit after bit after bit.  I may post the odd chapter here and there, but my intention was never just to give away the whole story.  I was hoping to put the first few bits out there and test the water as it were.  Now, if you feel compelled to comment on this or any of the previous bits of Happy Ending I’ve posted, please do.  If your feedback is good, bad, encouraging, psychologically damaging, whatever; I don’t mind.  If you think it’s shit and I’m wasting my time then please say so.  If you think it’s OK but nothing great then say so.  I’m fairly thick-skinned.

I’m very grateful for the feedback so far.  I’ve had a couple of nice comments come my way, and a bit of negative feedback too (my favourite: “It’s weird.  The blog’s better than the novel.”).

So anyway, on that note, a brief word before I post the next chapter.  So far we have been introduced to three of the four main characters; Jack, Ray and Jack’s girlfriend Kate.  In the next chapter we’ll meet the fourth main character, Samantha.  Blonde hair, blue eyes, big tits: yes I know she’s a cliché but that’s kind of the point.

As for the format, if you hadn’t worked it out I’m trying to break up Jack’s narrative with newspaper articles, magazine interviews etc.  Might be obvious but I just wanted to point it out (the blog formatting isn’t ideal but hopefully it works).

So settle down for the next instalment, as our hero Jack gets to make a music video.

 

            PLASTIC WOMAN

 

            I’ve never seen Ray so excited, and consequently he’s never irritated me so much.  He doesn’t stop smiling in the taxi, fidgeting in his seat for the entire journey.  I stare out the window wondering how it ever came to this.  It’s a five-minute walk from Ray’s office to the video shoot, but Ray doesn’t want to arrive on foot.  Over and over again he says “I can’t imagine the Rolling Stones walking anywhere.”  I just ignore him.

            Ray introduces the models to me as the stars of the video when we arrive.  I’m not egotistical in the slightest but it would nice if he could refer to me as the star of my own fucking video.  My own fucking video which admittedly I don’t even want to make, and into which I’ve had zero input. 

            “Jack, may I introduce you to Kimberley…”

            I can’t believe he’s memorised their names.  The sad fuck.  “Hi.”

            “Hi.”

            “—Elin…”

            “Hi.”

            “Hi.”

            “—and Samantha.”

            “Hi.”

            “Hi.”  Fuck me, Samantha’s gorgeous.  “Pleased to meet you.  All of you.”

            “No introductions necessary,” Samantha smiles.  “I loved your first album.”

            “You’re just saying that.”

            “No,” she giggles, “I’m not.  I loved it.  Still do.  I bought both singles too.  I think it’s a really great album.  I can’t wait to hear your new one.”

            I lean closer and drop my voice, “I could get you a demo copy if you like?  I mean, it’s not completed finalised yet, and it doesn’t have a title, but I could get Ray to go and burn you a copy.  Hot off the press, as it were.”

            “Oh.  My.  God.  Are you serious?”

            I turn to Ray, but he’s trying his best to flirt with Kimberley and Elin.  “I’ll get Ray to fetch you a CD.”

            “Wow.  That’s great.”  There’s a second of awkward silence before Samantha is called for make-up.  “I’d better get ready,” she smiles.  “I’ll, erm, speak to you later, yeah?”

            “Yeah.  Sure.”

            That type of thing doesn’t happen much.  Occasionally people recognise me, but not very often.  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who seemed as pleased to see me as Samantha.  I struggle to think of a fan I’ve met who admitted to buying the album and both singles.  I didn’t think anyone bought either of the singles, let alone both.  The album sales were OK but the singles sales were frankly embarrassing, hence me losing my record deal and ending up recording my second album myself.

            When Ray has finished drooling over Elin and Kimberley, I ask if he can quickly run back to his office and burn a copy of my new album that I can sign and give to Samantha.  He says he doesn’t want to miss the video shoot (unlike me he’s been looking forward to this all week), but I promise him if he brings me a CD then we won’t start the shoot without him, and off he goes.  He starts to call a taxi but I tell him to walk, which he reluctantly does.  He’s breathless when he gets back, and the first thing he pants when he comes back in is “What did I miss?” before he gives me a CD in a blank case which I take to Samantha, who’s being made-up in a corner.  When I ask if she’d like me to sign it, she smiles and says yes.  I scribble, “Thanks for your help” and sign the blank insert.  I notice that Ray hasn’t bothered to print out the track listing, so I quickly scribble it on the other side of the CD insert:

 

         1)      Everyone Knows You’ve Been Screwing Around (Except Me)

         2)      Katie

         3)      Plastic Woman

         4)      White Noise

         5)      There’s Nobody Home

         6)      Wish You Were Dead

         7)      Happy Ending

         8)      Goodbye, Cruel World

 

            The video consists of me playing my guitar in front of a black background, while the three models dance provocatively in skimpy costumes around me.  Filming it is nowhere near as much fun as I imagine the finished product will suggest.  I sing along to the song about a million times while the director (an old boarding school friend of Ray’s who, I’m told, is relatively famous for filming low budget pornography) gets a ton of shots of me and the models from every single conceivable angle.  Then—and I look across and note the enormous inane grin on Ray’s face—the director asks the girls to take off their tops and dance around exactly as before.  This is for a so-called x-rated version of the video which they hope will air late-night on the music channels and will appear on the CD/DVD single and as a download.  Personally I think Plastic Woman is an OK song, but I don’t think it should be the first single.  The record company, crucially, do.  (It’s the only track on the album that’s anything like upbeat.)  It was my previous record company who decided Daydreamer should be the first single from my first album (it reached 57 in the UK charts), so what do I know? 

            The idea for the video isn’t mine.  Ray pitched the idea to the record company without my consent, because he knew I wouldn’t like it.  I was vehemently opposed to the concept when Ray told me about it, but by this time the video had all been okayed by the powers that be and the filming had all been set up.  I was livid.  I didn’t know what I wanted the video to be, but I would have appreciated being involved in the decision.  Ray put forward two compelling arguments in his own inimitable way; firstly—sex sells (Ray’s golden rule), and secondly—I should be grateful to have a contract at all given my track record of successful singles to date, let alone cash to throw at a video.  So here we are in what looks like a disused warehouse with three glamour models writhing around while I mime to probably my least favourite—certainly the least meaningful—track on my new album.  Ray’s counter argument to whatever I say is that the record company are taking a gamble spending cash on anything to do with my album.  I tolerate this to a point, but I know deep down that Ray truly believes this is a great album.  Whether he thinks it will propel me to megastar status is debatable, but I think he really likes the record, and I think he wants it to be recognised critically as well as being commercially successful.

            As we finish filming—while the girls are having photos taken for possible covers for the single (Ray seems to think the single will do better if I’m not on the cover)—Ray pulls me to one side.  “That went really well.  Really well.”

            “You think so?”

            “Definitely.  If we can get this out there it will be huge—I assure you of that.”

            “Well, over to you then.  Get the publicity ball rolling.”

            Ray smiles and nods and winks and goes and gets us both a coffee, returning with the three models.  He explains—in his over-officious, self-important way; showing off, trying to prove that he’s the boss—that he thinks it would be a nice gesture if I took the girls to a restaurant for a nice meal, to show my gratitude for all their help today (i.e. standing around looking gorgeous and getting their tits out when instructed).  He says he’s booked a table for four in a very swanky restaurant in a chic part of London.  “Have a nice meal and a few drinks—enjoy yourselves.” he says.

            I pull Ray to one side.  Before I can speak, he jumps in; “No need to thank me.  Just go out and have fun.”

            “Fucking hell, Ray—what are you doing?”

            “Don’t worry.  Just keep the receipt and we’ll put it through the books as customer entertaining.  You should know that—weren’t you a tax inspector or something?”

            “No.  I wasn’t.”

            “OK, so, I’ll be off—” Ray starts to edge away from me.  I grab his arm.

            “Kate will go fucking mental if she finds out I’m out tonight with three topless models.”

            “Jack, please.  They’re glamour models.  And the video they just made about a million times better could just be the catalyst your career needs.  The least you can do is make polite conversation with them for a couple of hours as a goodwill gesture.  If you can get me Kimberley’s phone number too that would be great.”  He grins and winks and taps me encouragingly on the arm.

            “Ray, sorry, I can’t, it’s just that, this, all of this, it’s just so tacky.  I want to be a successful singer-songwriter.  I don’t want to be known as that bloke in the video where the girls get their tits out.  This is completely contrary to everything I set out to achieve.”

            “You’ll thank me when your video’s playing on MTV twenty-four seven.  Now take those gorgeous girls out, get pissed with them, and have some fun.”

            Poor, poor pitiful me.

 

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