marliyuop.

Marlboro Girl

1.
THE END OF EVERYTHING…

We’d had it all. We’d spent it all. The scene wasn’t typical of a couple of relatively fresh record producers. But our freshness was short-lived. I remember the scene well, although to be honest, I’d rather not.

We were coming to the end. The end of everything. The end of the money. The end of the booze. The end of the party. The end of the dream. There was nothing left. Apart from the usual dregs that are to be found at the end. Pure dregs. My record producing partner, two chicks - and I say that in the loosest sense of the word  - and myself. The scene was the epitome of the after party. Anyone with any level of self-esteem, respect, a sense of worth, or any intelligence whatsoever had gone home hours ago.

And then we were down to three.

The chick I had pulled suddenly claimed she had a shift to work. Whether that was true or not, was hard to tell. It could have been a get-out clause. I’m pretty sure the fact I was repeatedly tugging at her bra was not helping things. I had tried as hard as I could in the circumstance, but the bugger just wouldn’t come loose. It was one of those fiddly strap jobs, which meant you had to get your arms around the back and perform some sort of magic act to get it undone. The girl was slouched over me awkwardly, making it as easy as possible. Even then, it was a complete flop.

I’d pulled the girl from the local Chinese restaurant at a time that I was less pissed than I was now. I say restaurant. I mean take-away. Yes, there were a few plastic seats loitering in the foyay, inside, so I guess it qualified as a restaurant, but its not the sort of place you’d want to hang around in. The staff were pig-ugly for one.

In a drunken stupor, I thought it was a great idea to make a move on the bosses daughter. Not surprisingly she accepted. It was definitely her lucky day. It turned oout to be her lucky day too. After the crowd hasd depearted, we must have consuded a further 4 bottles of Krug. that’s about a bottle each. The other three hardly trouched a drop. I must have had about three bottles. And it felt like it. I couldn’t even undo a bra for gods sake. There was no hope for me. The take away did a runaway.

Steve = my production parter had only had mindly better success. He was showing all the signs of success - a genuie rolex, a farraeri parked ourtside, and some putrid smelling aftershave that he bought in barbadose at the duty free for a ridiculous sum of money. I guess the one thing he was missing was class. Tha’ts why he’d gone for the pump attendant at the local BP garage. He was going to turn her into a star. ‘I doesn’t matter if you can’t sing’ he finally said after telling her she had a beautiful voice for the previous six hours. There were a few broken glasses stucking out of the lawn. I wouldn’t be at all surpised if that was a result of her siniging.

She was good looking though. Way better looking than mine - or at least the memories I have of monie. I bet why recall is way out of presportion. Funny that we always see stuff in a much favourable light than reality. But having said that, his chick was a bit of a looker - I think. Sh’ed done a bit of moddiling too. Page three. Sdaily start. She was on the way up. She just needed to make the slight jump from page threee pin-up to wherever these girls go to. Actress? No way. Her voice was a monotous cockny wine. Singignner. Defdinly not. Hardcore poron? Most probably. She had the breasts for that. They were massive. I got to see them in the flesh. Steve had managed to get her topless by the pool three hours earlier. She seemed quite proud when the 40gg breats came exploding into the terrace. ‘44gg and all material she exclaimed’ with a smile on her face. Four hours later, and no change of voiew apart from a few more alcohol spills and a definite smewll fo sweat and the voiew was not so rosey. Its not usrpiring steve booted her out a few moments later. Her dreams to become a popstar quicker than you could say - right you better go now’.

don’t you want my number she said with a definewte turn of temprotament. her natural classlessness shone thorurgh for a moment as her face narrowed and she spoke through tight narrow lips - your goanna make me a start, init.

don’t bother - I know where you live. I mean work. Said steve. She looked startled. Marginally worse than the x-factor finals when pure hatreate comes into view of one of the failed singers. At least they could sing. This gurl was a looser. Ok, I busty loser.

Steve was quick to snap his fingers. Out. Now her said. I need to get the miad in to clear up this shite.


There was no maid. It sounded good though. And it worked. Ther girl was gone in a flash, forced to re-bra as she made for the garden gate of steves rented mansion on hither green.

A few monments later, and girl-less once again, steve and I looked over at each other. He was wreatiring a blue collared shirt that was sticking pout at the edges awkwardly, and I was in jeans and sangleds, the heat of the day had gone. The exictement of the day had gone, and the whole musical adventure was comnng to an end. The last case of krug was celbrating an end to the final dregs of the record advance. There was no more partying. We’d fucked the lot up the wall. Expensive sutiodes, expensive videos, loadied s of parties, loaded of cheap women. The partry was over. The gravy train had eneded. There was going to be no more cash. Not unless our trakcs hit number one. That wasn;t going to happen, because we hadn’t recorded anthing. The lease was up on the aprtment. The debt vcollerctors were in to pick up the farrari. The rented gear was to be returned. It was back to…

Back to what? I didn’t have a CV that everyone talked about. Send us your CV people would always say at mettings, parties, piss-ups and the like. I never bothered following any of them up, basue I didn’t have one. Playing around with sytheseeiers, stuudio gear and other epxensive stuff was my life since I scapred thought university with a degree in busineesse studies. And I alnosy scraped thoruh beuae they did;nt notive I had submitted the same paper for three of the modules. Why write papers called international marketing in the 21sr centure, bussiness ethics today, and the hisrty of business, whwen you can write one caLLED  the history, present and future of business? All I had to do was change the title, and cut bits out, wher apporpirate. It doesn’t take a genious to work out that the history, present and future of business can easily become xx when stonger regfferenbces are makde to the point in question. Oh that and underlining the valid points - so the examinier who has 600 of the buggers to look at can quickly identify the correct parts because disppaering down the pub to get pissed, or stoned ro whatever universities do with their speare time thses days. I made it easier for everyone.

But with a degree in my hands, the last thing I wanted to do wasd business. I had had enough of the history, the present and the futre of business to last me a lifetiume, take away the histoy, the present and the future  and there is mnothing left.
I’d always liked playing oround with keyboards. I say playing around, which is somewhat different to playing. Misgiving play. Enthusaists play around. I was enthusiastic about learning to play, but I couldn’t cut it. A musical mind is reuired to compise on evn the most simplest of computer software. Second to not knowing about how to not play keyboards, I also no nothing about computers. That and the reason that they remind mwe of the corporate world. That is enough to hate them for ever.

So I played with keyboards, and expensive toys. That was my ‘cv’ what on earth could I do with that? I could sell them if I had any sales experience. I didn’t. I hate salesmen. I wasn’t going to embark on a self lothing mission just so I could reamin loyal to my knob twiddling. Somthig needed to happen and fast. I had three quid to get home. The bus ride was 2. That left one pound left for breakfast, lunch and even meal - when ever that maybe  - I had lost complete track of time with 4 gallons of champagne inside me - and the rest of my life.

Then the phone rang. I was sorted. As easy as that. Some bloke over in Amsterdam needed a knob twiddler to set up a new studio. Word had got around (probably my drunken words at some part) that I was an ace at spending other peoples record rotalites on the best gear in the planer. That part was complety tutr. And that’s the only part they needed to know. As far as I could tell, there was an open check-book too. That sounded fun. All the gear I would have tto setll if I because a salesman, I could buy instead. How about that for a turn around. They were even going to pay for my ticket. I arranged a hundred quid ‘transfer costs’ (don’t ask me what that mean - I made it up on the spur of the moment) and they wired it over straight away. I took a taxi home - which cost 25 quid, and I spend the three quid in the back of my pcoket on a four pack of cheap beer. Now, cheap beer always tastes shite. That, everyone knows. Howver, it tates a damn site more shitre when your blood is 82$ alholhom. I learn from my mistakes. Sometimes.


When I work up, there was another call telling me that a flight had been paid, and they were expecting me the same day. Exaclt what I needed then.

Took a 25 quid taxi to the airport, bouiught some cheap beer, and waited for my flight. An impressive point to note was that they had gone ahead and bought me A TICKET for a decent airline. You could tell the people who are travling el-cheapo airlways. They have been living at the airport for aas lonbg as they can remember. They have forgotten what real food tastes like (they can’t cook) and they are spending money like its going out of fashon in the gamling halls. Why didn’t they spend that extra cash on a proper flight? Can’t they see beyond zoo class? Anyway, as I was there, looking at them, I nearly missed the final call for my flight. If I had actually missed it and had to travel with the zombies at the airport from terminal 129, it would have been a shorter walk to return home. I’d inist on a taxi of course. And if they could fit a taxi inside the building, I’de have to fake a breokren leg and get one of those passenger carts to drive me down. It was only then that I notived my flight was depating from terminal 128.

Faking a boren leg is surpising somewhat easier after with a hangober from hell and a fresh consupmtion of chgeap beer. The hobble comes natureally. The crutches didn’t so I had to instst on some. In the end two body guard types brunted the strain of my wight and positioned me on the passenger carrt. Now pretendin to have a broken leg is a pretty farfetched thing to do. Being driver down the inside of an airpot looking back at all the grossly unfit passangers as they realise they have a 12 mile hike to get to their plain isi nomething. Else. That is whewn I really because to enjoy myself.. This trip was going to be quite a ride.