Maybe I should start my story here, lying beside an H-shaped swimming pool in Beverly Hills on my 27th birthday, taking in the spectacular sunset through the LA smog. Maybe I should shoot from the hip and start where the fancy takes me. Maybe, even though I’ve already done my laps for the day, I should go for another swim. Maybe I shouldn’t get the story started at all. Maybe I should just tell her to go back to London. Maybe I should smoke the second of my cigarette ration. Maybe I should get in the car and drive and drive and drive until the Hollywood bubble is bearable again. Maybe I should ring my mum. Maybe I should write the bloody thing myself, I mean to say, how hard can it be?
Maybe you shouldn't've binned that first one, that bitter hack of a scribbler, bald pate and podgy chin like an un-photoshopped Nick Hornby. Maybe you should take a leaf out of Elton’s voluminous tome and wipe your over-ample arse with it! Maybe you should just get your agent to cover my expenses and politely tell me to kindly fuck off.
Maybe we shouldn’t overstate the straightforwardness of the project. Maybe we should only do fifteen hundred words this morning’s session and break for decaf and Zumba. Maybe we should... Maybe I should lighten the load for you. Maybe we should start at the beginning for a change: after all, the poolside scenario in celebrity-infested Beverly Hills is a well-trodden treadmill. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve got famous in the first place. Maybe I should ingest another spoonful of psychotropic chemicals. Maybe we should focus on the human experience; the smog motif makes a powerful statement of emotionality. Maybe I shouldn’t listen to the seven and half billion voices in my heart. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that the Tupelov went down and the Red Army Choir perished. Maybe we should ignore the faulty flaps and cut straight to the singing career.Maybe I should show them my sad face; the one I can see from inside here, the one I glimpsed in the mirror this morning, the one that knows how it feels with clarity and certainty. Maybe I should emote about Uncle Arthur.
Maybe we should kick off with that sentiment writ large through the LA smog, the oppressive nature of celebrity over which you triumph with lower-middle class, girl-next-door grit and state-capitalist four-quadrant appeal . Maybe we should start with my Nan, she was always moaning about the London smog, she reckons it took her old man, that and the drink, and the fags, and the heroin.
Maybe we should separate out the family strands before we delve into the allegations. Maybe we should run with the Beverly Hills kudos, you’re a bit of a hottie in your prime, etc., etc., and yet despite – or dear readers, hint, hint, maybe because of – the A-list celeb LA lifestyle, the squillions of dollars, and You Tube hits, basically you’re a gawky teenager from the Home Counties struggling with the male gaze, big boobs, early periods and being a ginger. Maybe I should just give you a slap, ghost girl.
Maybe we should go with the thing dad used to say about reaching for the Moon on a stick, or whatever. Maybe we should save that till the end. Maybe I should hold onto the preface about the allegations until we get the legal jazz back from the lawyers. Maybe you should interpret the hollow feeling at your core as fragmentation of psyche. Maybe you should take it as a moot ontological point not to be glossed over with shiny pics and lipstick and short tight dresses shaped out of nationalism and fear. Maybe you should have done a jokier sort of thing like Sporty did, darling.
Maybe we should go avant-garde and forge it into a constructivist statement on technological Armageddon. Maybe the ghost writer should keep her big conk out of it. Maybe I shouldn’t edit out the implicit racism and have you bang to rights, you anti-Semitic cow. Maybe I should tell them about dad and his affiliations.
Maybe we should take that break now. Maybe I should take another tablet. Maybe you should end the story here by the pool, lying.
Maybe we shouldn’t overstate the straightforwardness of the project. Maybe we should only do fifteen hundred words this morning’s session and break for decaf and Zumba. Maybe we should... Maybe I should lighten the load for you. Maybe we should start at the beginning for a change: after all, the poolside scenario in celebrity-infested Beverly Hills is a well-trodden treadmill. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve got famous in the first place. Maybe I should ingest another spoonful of psychotropic chemicals. Maybe we should focus on the human experience; the smog motif makes a powerful statement of emotionality. Maybe I shouldn’t listen to the seven and half billion voices in my heart. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that the Tupelov went down and the Red Army Choir perished. Maybe we should ignore the faulty flaps and cut straight to the singing career.
Maybe we should kick off with that sentiment writ large through the LA smog, the oppressive nature of celebrity over which you triumph with lower-middle class, girl-next-door grit and state-capitalist four-quadrant appeal . Maybe we should start with my Nan, she was always moaning about the London smog, she reckons it took her old man, that and the drink, and the fags, and the heroin.
Maybe we should separate out the family strands before we delve into the allegations. Maybe we should run with the Beverly Hills kudos, you’re a bit of a hottie in your prime, etc., etc., and yet despite – or dear readers, hint, hint, maybe because of – the A-list celeb LA lifestyle, the squillions of dollars, and You Tube hits, basically you’re a gawky teenager from the Home Counties struggling with the male gaze, big boobs, early periods and being a ginger. Maybe I should just give you a slap, ghost girl.
Maybe we should go with the thing dad used to say about reaching for the Moon on a stick, or whatever. Maybe we should save that till the end. Maybe I should hold onto the preface about the allegations until we get the legal jazz back from the lawyers. Maybe you should interpret the hollow feeling at your core as fragmentation of psyche. Maybe you should take it as a moot ontological point not to be glossed over with shiny pics and lipstick and short tight dresses shaped out of nationalism and fear. Maybe you should have done a jokier sort of thing like Sporty did, darling.
Maybe we should go avant-garde and forge it into a constructivist statement on technological Armageddon. Maybe the ghost writer should keep her big conk out of it. Maybe I shouldn’t edit out the implicit racism and have you bang to rights, you anti-Semitic cow. Maybe I should tell them about dad and his affiliations.
Maybe we should take that break now. Maybe I should take another tablet. Maybe you should end the story here by the pool, lying.
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