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Authors: Ben Elton

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BOOK: Chart Throb
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Beryl turned on the shop manager, who was trying to hide behind the coffee and mini muffins.
‘Why the fuck didn’t any staff get an album signed?’ she shouted into his face. ‘You call yourself a record store! You have a major celebrity recording artist here today and none of your fucking staff are even interested. What the fuck is going on here? Borders were
begging
me to deliver Priscilla! We are doing Virgin a fucking favour here!’
The manager could only stand and whimper. ‘I guess I’d like one signed,’ he said finally. ‘I’m a big fan.’
‘What? Such a big fan that you don’t want a record until my mom toasts you?’ said Priscilla. ‘Fuck off.’
Later, heading home in the limousine, Priscilla’s disappointment gave way to tears.
‘I’m a joke, Mom. A fucking joke.’
‘Well, rock ’n’ roll’s a tough game, darling.’
‘I’m not in rock ’n’ roll. To be in rock ’n’ roll you have to
sell
an album, not just
make
one. You’re supposed to be a fucking “rock tutor” on that show of yours in England, you’re the Queen of Rock, the fucking teacher, the
fucking mentor.
How about mentoring your own daughter for a change?’
‘Oh, get over yourself, Priscilla.’
Priscilla lapsed into silence for a moment. It was tough to be a seventeen-year-old star and already washed up.
‘Mom?’ she said finally.
‘What?’
‘Do you think kids don’t buy my album because I’m like a reality TV star or because I’m actually a crock of shit?’
‘Hey, you wouldn’t have got to
make
an album if you weren’t a reality TV star.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking. Do you think I’m shit?’
‘What a stupid question, Priscilla. You’re my daughter, of course I don’t think you’re shit.’
‘I’m your stepdaughter; I didn’t get your talent, I only got your name. My real dad fried chicken.’
‘Fucking good fried chicken!’
‘Come on, what do you think of me, as a singer? I mean, you’re my manager, you must have an opinion. Can I sing?’
‘Listen, babes, I do deals these days. That’s my job. I got you a deal. What you do with it is your responsibility.’
A Star Is Born
Calvin had declined to inform the Prince of Wales’s office on what business it was that he wished to see His Royal Highness. In another age this would have presented an impossible breach of protocol and no invitation would have been forthcoming. These days, however, things were different. The royal heir was on the ropes, the unhappy subject of almost daily polls calling upon him to do the decent thing and bugger off altogether, leaving the way open for his more telegenic son. HRH needed friends like his organically farmed non-cross-bred English roses (grown from eighteenth-century seeds supplied by the Kew seed bank) needed rain. Particularly a friend like Calvin Simms, arguably the most famous man in the country, a man whose intuitive grasp of the popular zeitgeist had made
Chart Throb
into the broadcasting colossus that had crushed
Pop Idol, X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing, Celebrity Morris Dancing
and all those other shows into dust.
Calvin, who was more than aware of his own position in society and entirely realistic about the Prince’s, had been confident that His Royal Highness would want to see him and he had been right.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ the future king said, leaping from his seat in the window of the drawing room of his London town house. The Prince had long since ceased to reside at St James’s Palace, hoping that if he lived in a house instead of a palace the press might stop banging on about how much money he cost. They hadn’t, of course; they continued to catalogue his expenses as if they reflected the lifestyle of an emperor of Ancient Rome.
Only that morning he had found his modest fishmonger’s bill trumpeted in the press.
Forty quid for a fish supper, sir!
the headline had screamed.
Guess who knows his PLAICE.
‘Hello, hello,’ the Prince continued. ‘How very kind of you to come. Have you come far? Was the traffic awful? I imagine it was. It always is, isn’t it? I did a talk about it and how we need
people-scale
planning for our cities. Didn’t do any good, of course. Nobody listened. Just old buggerlugs
banging on
again. Heigh-ho. Who’d be a prince? Have you been offered tea?’
There was then a lengthy hiatus while the Prince attempted to summon somebody to bring tea. Eventually he succeeded and a young work-experience girl brought in a tray.
‘Ex-offender,’ the Prince explained. ‘One of the youngsters from my charity, aren’t you, Kira? I just find you need to give young people a sense of purpose. Don’t you agree? I’m sure you meet a lot of young people in your line of work. Biscuit? I bake them myself from stone-ground sunflower seeds and raw sugar. People think I’m mad, you know, but what’s mad about a home-baked biscuit? Kira, do pass them over, would you? Don’t worry, she’s not one of the ladies of the toilet! Ha ha ha!’ The Prince roared with laughter. ‘Good to laugh, don’t you think?’ He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief he pulled from his sleeve. ‘Sometimes I think if I didn’t laugh I’d go stark raving bananas. Do you know they try to record my phone calls so they can publish the transcripts? Can you imagine anything more beastly or low? When I was at school that was called eavesdropping.’
Calvin realized he had not spoken once since entering the room. Clearly the Prince was used to filling in the gaps in the conversation.
‘Sir,’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Cowell?’
‘Umm, Simms actually, sir. Calvin Simms. Cowell’s another bloke. He used to do a show like mine. That’s gone now. We’re bigger.’
‘Really? Extraordinary. Well done.’
‘I wonder if I might explain why I’ve asked to see you, Your Royal Highness.’
The Prince leaned forward attentively. ‘Please, call me sir. Everybody does.’
‘Well, sir, I hope you won’t think me forward if I say that it strikes me you have a PR problem.’
‘Yes. Yes, I rather think I do. I was saying so to my wife only this morning as we de-snailed the herb garden. Sometimes it seems as if every bugger in Britain’s got it in for
yours truly
.’
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Let’s face it, you are routinely ridiculed as a pampered dilettante who has a personal bum wiper, consumes 90 per cent of the nation’s tax revenues, eats a raw fox for breakfast, smears the fresh blood on his children and then goes off to deliver a lecture about how all post-nineteenth-century buildings are complete rubbish.’
‘Yes, that’s me. God knows where I’m supposed to find the time.’
‘I think you’re due for a change, sir.’
‘Well certainly. But what, if you’ll forgive me for asking, Mr Simms, has that to do with you?’
‘I can make you popular again. Bigger than your grannie was. I can make you a star.’
The Prince’s gentle manner hardened ever so slightly. He knew all about set-ups. He was still trying to live down the incident when he had received the Dalai Lama at Sandringham, only to discover that it was a Radio One DJ wrapped in a sheet.
‘Is this a joke, Mr Simms? Perhaps I am to be the subject of some hidden camera prank?’
‘Not at all, sir. The simple fact is that I want to see you win the next series of
Chart Throb.’
‘Goodness gracious. Whyever would you want that?’
‘Because I’m a monarchist, sir,’ Calvin replied.
‘No! Really?’
‘Yes, sir. I have a deep and abiding loyalty and affection for the great historical institutions of this country and I despair to see how low they have fallen in public esteem.’
‘Gosh, don’t we all!’
‘What is more, I am in a unique position to do something about it. I produce a show that speaks directly to the public. There’s no press or spin involved. I create stars. Real stars. Stars in the truest sense of the word, popular favourites, people with whom the public genuinely identify. I want to turn you into just such a star.’
‘You want me to audition as a singer?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But I am to be head of state, Mr Simms. That is a high and serious office.’
‘What’s serious any more? George Galloway, the nation’s foremost anti-war activist, went on
Big Brother!
The leader of the Conservative Party was asked on a chat show if as a lad he’d wanked over Mrs Thatcher! Politics isn’t serious any more, it’s showbiz. Nothing but sound bites and razzmatazz. You’re a man of conviction and it frustrates you that nobody listens to you . . .’
‘They don’t, it’s
maddening
.’
‘Well, sorry to have to tell you, sir, but people don’t want convictions, they want
personalities
. That’s why the Prime Minister’s on
Parky
.’
‘Did you see it? I thought he was rather good.’
Calvin did not wish to discuss
Parkinson.
He was an astute judge of human nature and he was about to arrive at the point where he was certain the Prince would be unable to resist.
‘Your problem, sir, is that nobody knows the
real you
.’
The Prince’s face lit up with an expression of surprise and joy.
‘Goodness gracious,’ he exclaimed, ‘I was only saying
exactly
that yesterday to my favourite aspidistra. How remarkably
clever
of you to spot that, Mr Simms.’
Calvin smiled. He knew it was not clever at all. He had never met a single celebrity who did not lament the fact that people did not know the
real them
. From weather girls to rock superstars, the condition set in the moment a person was first reported or described in the media. Instantly they felt misrepresented, and the more the media represented them the more misrepresented they felt, until their whole lives were consumed with the passionate desire that people might somehow come to know the
real them
.
‘I am offering you a fresh chance, a chance to reach a regular audience of
eight and a half million people
, sir. Think of that, eight and a half million people every week. Predominantly
young people
, sir, don’t forget that. Our demographic is a prince or a politician’s dream.’
Calvin knew that if there was one phrase above all others which was likely to appeal to the very soul of a modern prince that phrase was ‘young people’, that massive group of supposedly disenfranchised, disillusioned, dispossessed citizens who were already two generations away from any residual respect for the great institutions of state.
‘But I’d have to sing for it,’ the Prince replied.
‘What’s wrong with singing? People like singing.
Can
you sing, by the way?’
The Prince hesitated. His was a generation not raised to boast.
‘
Can
you sing, sir?’ Calvin pressed, sensing weakness.
‘Well, I confess I have been told that I have a pleasant light baritone. Nothing to shout about, you understand.’
‘There you are then. Come and sing on
Chart Throb
. You’ll have plenty of opportunities for sound bites, every bit as long as they’d give you on the news. While all the other contestants will be saying they’re singing for their mums or for their kids, you can say you’re singing for your charities or sustainable cities or to promote awareness about soil.’
Calvin had nearly pushed it too far.
‘You’re being facetious, Mr Simms,’ HRH protested.
‘No, I’m not. You are one of the few people in public life who still has the
conscience
to set themselves apart. To rise above the hysterical orthodoxy of the celebrity-obsessed media agenda and talk about things that
matter.
Architecture, soil, mutton, good vegetables, a lost generation becoming increasingly cut off from society and turning to crack cocaine and knife crime. You are that rare thing, a public figure of real
conviction
!’
‘I say, do you really think so? That
is
kind.’
‘Of course, it’s obvious to anybody who cares to think about it. But nobody ever does think about it. And why?’
‘Because I’m just
boring
old
buggerlugs
?’
‘No!’
‘No?’
‘No! It’s because your voice has been
crushed
by media hype and the celebrity culture.’
‘Well, do you know, I rather think it
has
.’
‘And what I’m saying to you is that if show business has conquered conviction, isn’t it high time that conviction conquered show business?’
‘Goodness!’
‘The monarchy is in crisis, sir!’ Calvin had stood up now, his teacup rattling in his hand. ‘Destroyed by the very people it represents! It is time to reach out to those people, sir! Reach out to them and save their treasured national institutions from the ridicule they have allowed them to descend into!’
BOOK: Chart Throb
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