A couple of years ago, me and a couple of friends had an occasional short-story competition around a different theme. The theme of this one was Graham off Jeremy Kyle.
FAME
Beneath a cracked mirrorball, he glowered at the sticky bar his elbows were folded on. This again. It was always the same, they take their glasses off, rub their eyes, look down at the pitch notes, and starting with that little laugh: 'Look. Graham. You know we love you and you're the best at what you do, but...' Always the but. And that fucking little laugh again. 'We just don't see a place in the schedule for "The Graham Show"'. He'd even done the inverted commas. Smug little fuck. He'd bet good money it was him. He'd found out and had a word. Them and their fucking golf course buddies.
He'd propped up that cunt Kyle for too long now. That wasn't talent or skill, it was just shouting cliches at imbeciles and palming them off on him in a production office so tiny he could smell their stale council house breath. He'd even written to Dr. Phil for advice. No reply. And again it had come to this, Reflex on a Monday night.
This had been their club. The best times were here, back when they’d been a team, taking on the world, before all that head-butt bullshit kicked off. Saturday nights, they owned this place. The amount of tits bursting out of pink PVC dresses he’d signed or licked on that dancefloor or in the smoking area. But not now. He’d ended up out on his own again on Saturday and barely anyone recognised him apart from that 50 year-old with 40-a-day wrinkles round her gob who'd seemed keen enough when he'd bought the champagne but started bleating about a husband and fucked off (He was dreading the next credit card bill). Oh, and some podgy bird with a wonky eye. He’d tried to sign her tit and singed her with his cigar.
Forty-eight hours later and he was here again, on the Cheeky Vimtos. Filth, but he couldn't take the scotch he loved so dearly anymore. Where was the aftercare when he got upset again?
He needed to sort it out. He'd send his demo off. That'd be good revenge. Just him and his acoustic guitar. His song, 'Life's River', about the crazy paths the events of his 52-year existence had hurled him down (Springsteen was an influence). He must remember to get those copies out of the glovebox.
Five people were dancing to 'I've Had The Time of My Life' on the revolving dancefloor, the barmaid was refilling the bottle fridges. He looked out of a window into the empty street and accurately predicted himself three weeks from now, back on the whiskey, being wrestled out the door by three bouncers in a whirlwind of ripped clothes and shattered glass, screaming over and over 'GRAHAM'S ON THE SHOW! GRAHAM'S ON THE SHOW!'
Beneath a cracked mirrorball, he glowered at the sticky bar his elbows were folded on. This again. It was always the same, they take their glasses off, rub their eyes, look down at the pitch notes, and starting with that little laugh: 'Look. Graham. You know we love you and you're the best at what you do, but...' Always the but. And that fucking little laugh again. 'We just don't see a place in the schedule for "The Graham Show"'. He'd even done the inverted commas. Smug little fuck. He'd bet good money it was him. He'd found out and had a word. Them and their fucking golf course buddies.
He'd propped up that cunt Kyle for too long now. That wasn't talent or skill, it was just shouting cliches at imbeciles and palming them off on him in a production office so tiny he could smell their stale council house breath. He'd even written to Dr. Phil for advice. No reply. And again it had come to this, Reflex on a Monday night.
This had been their club. The best times were here, back when they’d been a team, taking on the world, before all that head-butt bullshit kicked off. Saturday nights, they owned this place. The amount of tits bursting out of pink PVC dresses he’d signed or licked on that dancefloor or in the smoking area. But not now. He’d ended up out on his own again on Saturday and barely anyone recognised him apart from that 50 year-old with 40-a-day wrinkles round her gob who'd seemed keen enough when he'd bought the champagne but started bleating about a husband and fucked off (He was dreading the next credit card bill). Oh, and some podgy bird with a wonky eye. He’d tried to sign her tit and singed her with his cigar.
Forty-eight hours later and he was here again, on the Cheeky Vimtos. Filth, but he couldn't take the scotch he loved so dearly anymore. Where was the aftercare when he got upset again?
He needed to sort it out. He'd send his demo off. That'd be good revenge. Just him and his acoustic guitar. His song, 'Life's River', about the crazy paths the events of his 52-year existence had hurled him down (Springsteen was an influence). He must remember to get those copies out of the glovebox.
Five people were dancing to 'I've Had The Time of My Life' on the revolving dancefloor, the barmaid was refilling the bottle fridges. He looked out of a window into the empty street and accurately predicted himself three weeks from now, back on the whiskey, being wrestled out the door by three bouncers in a whirlwind of ripped clothes and shattered glass, screaming over and over 'GRAHAM'S ON THE SHOW! GRAHAM'S ON THE SHOW!'
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Sutton Coldfield, August 2010
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