Fail.
Interior. Day.
A shabby office, one phone, one desk. The year is 1986.
Barry is a failed popstar but slightly talented song-writer who carves a living writing tunes for other people. He tries not to be bitter.
[Off screen] Phone rings.
Barry: *sigh* Hi.
Listens.
Barry: Yeah whatever. What’s the pay? {pause] Yeah that’ll do. Let’s recap. Slightly saucy pop hit, not so suggestive it won’t get airplay – don’t want a repeat of that Frankie Goes To Hollywood thing – but enough to sell. Ok. Who’s it for? Cher again?
Some time passes.
Barry: Sam fucking Fox? Are you shitting me? Do you know who I am?
More silence.
Barry: Well yeah that’s who I am NOW, but I could have been…..right. Whatever. Yeah. I’ll do it.
Barry hangs up, and reaches for a folder marked ‘Absolutely Terrible Analogies For Awful Pay’
Fade to black.
.......................................................................................................
24 years later (this is me now).
I’m in the check-out queue at Poundland during my lunch hour, faintly excited by the thought of my evening shower that I’m promised will be an ‘energising deep cleansing experience’ according to the label on my one quid bottle of shower gel.
Trying not to think of how hideously ugly the poor actually are (this isn’t John Lewis), not to mention how smelly - it’s Poundland for God’s sake and it’s 2 for 1 on deodorant – I listen to the plaintive strains of Sam Fox wailing from the speakers.
……. ‘like a tramp in the night I’m begging you’……………..
Honestly. ‘Like a tramp in the night?’ The writer was so disillusioned he went for the hobo analogy?
She got the last laugh I think to myself as I queue to pay for my purchase. All those photos making over-exciteable adolescent boys imagine she were available, the hit single entitled ‘Touch Me’ that would of CONVINCED them of it, and all the while she was a carpet-muncher.
The chap ahead of me is a disorientated Middle-Eastern who obviously hasn’t much English.
‘How much?’ he asks, gesturing at his hoped-for purchase.
The man behind the counter glances at him.
‘You’re in a pound shop sir and I’ve no time for comedians.’ Is his helpful reply.
Unlike Sam Fox, it seems some people have no sense of humour.
A shabby office, one phone, one desk. The year is 1986.
Barry is a failed popstar but slightly talented song-writer who carves a living writing tunes for other people. He tries not to be bitter.
[Off screen] Phone rings.
Barry: *sigh* Hi.
Listens.
Barry: Yeah whatever. What’s the pay? {pause] Yeah that’ll do. Let’s recap. Slightly saucy pop hit, not so suggestive it won’t get airplay – don’t want a repeat of that Frankie Goes To Hollywood thing – but enough to sell. Ok. Who’s it for? Cher again?
Some time passes.
Barry: Sam fucking Fox? Are you shitting me? Do you know who I am?
More silence.
Barry: Well yeah that’s who I am NOW, but I could have been…..right. Whatever. Yeah. I’ll do it.
Barry hangs up, and reaches for a folder marked ‘Absolutely Terrible Analogies For Awful Pay’
Fade to black.
.......................................................................................................
24 years later (this is me now).
I’m in the check-out queue at Poundland during my lunch hour, faintly excited by the thought of my evening shower that I’m promised will be an ‘energising deep cleansing experience’ according to the label on my one quid bottle of shower gel.
Trying not to think of how hideously ugly the poor actually are (this isn’t John Lewis), not to mention how smelly - it’s Poundland for God’s sake and it’s 2 for 1 on deodorant – I listen to the plaintive strains of Sam Fox wailing from the speakers.
……. ‘like a tramp in the night I’m begging you’……………..
Honestly. ‘Like a tramp in the night?’ The writer was so disillusioned he went for the hobo analogy?
She got the last laugh I think to myself as I queue to pay for my purchase. All those photos making over-exciteable adolescent boys imagine she were available, the hit single entitled ‘Touch Me’ that would of CONVINCED them of it, and all the while she was a carpet-muncher.
The chap ahead of me is a disorientated Middle-Eastern who obviously hasn’t much English.
‘How much?’ he asks, gesturing at his hoped-for purchase.
The man behind the counter glances at him.
‘You’re in a pound shop sir and I’ve no time for comedians.’ Is his helpful reply.
Unlike Sam Fox, it seems some people have no sense of humour.
posted by Tired Dad at
9:34 pm
20 Comments:
Why so aggro, Mr. Poundshop Guy? Was there a massive queue or something?
'Would have', not 'would of'.
That is all.
If he was middle-eastern, maybe he was just trying to haggle?
I am gay
This comment has been removed by the author.
I am disappointed that you have Poundshopps there. We have too many dollar shops here. Dollar Tree, Dollar General, Everything $1, Justadollar, etc, etc, etc.
And the goods are generally right shite - except for the laundry whitener which is only $1 and exactly the same stuff that sells for $7.50 for 1/3 as much at the regular market.
Ellie: I suspect it's one he'd heard before.
Pedant: Quite right. Can't be bothered to correct it.
Debs: Quality racial stereotyping right there.
Hi Dave.
Punx: Eh?
Sew: Sorry to shatter your illusions.
Sorry TD, I was being my sniveling twit self, feel free to erase me.
Looks like you erased it yourself. Shouldn't worry if I were you.
There's no real reason why you should care but I was just writing to say that I have really, really enjoyed reading your blog-you made me laugh out loud like, well, almost none of the ten billion blogs I occasionally have to read have done. And you made me think. So, thanks.
Also- have you heard of the "shit my dad says" guy? (yes, I live in the States, but I do have the theoretically redeeming quality of having convinced some poor Englishman to marry me...but I digress...) ...anyway, said "shit my dad says" guy, whoever he is, just made some pile of money with his stuff...and all he did was write down shit his dad says. You are a far better writer and thinker than he is.
The point, if there is one... You could be rich any damn minute now.
I hope so. I look forward to reading more. I hope you keep writing.
Best,
Ms. Sanity
Hello Ms.
And thank you so much. For saying that you enjoy this, not for anything else.
The only blogs that tend to make money elsewhere are either based around unique and marketable ideas as the one you mention - which is very good- or the product of genuinely very good writers. Not this, which is just ill-concieved and a lost home for the foolish thoughts of one individual.
But you have cheered me hugely.
Hi Tired,
You are more than welcome. I am not full of pride enough to think that my opinion carries real weight or anything, but I must say, that as an occasionally/former professional writer and one-time editor... I think you ARE a "genuinely very good writer." And I don't think this is ill conceived at all.
Oh yeah the way I "found you" was that I'm required to "rate" blogs for a client that will remain nameless...and yours popped up... and again not that it matters all that much but I (obviously perhaps) rated yours very highly. It was the least I could do!
Furthermore, I think that everyone who has read your stuff, would agree with me, that reading your writing is worthwhile.
I know, too, that you don't do this for money.
But I do know, too, for a very solid truth: even poorly conceived and poorly written blogs out there make money (and your blog is neither.) Not that money is so freakin' important.
Anyway, I'll be back. I've shared some of your stuff with others and will continue to do so. Yes, please continue. You have made my day! (and thanks for your response!)
I don't want to be too full of what looks like flattery (I rarely comment anywhere to any blogger, life is too feckin' short, and I am just "some woman," anyway.) but one thing I both thought and said after reading some of your posts was this:
"Tired Dad writes some rants John Cleese would think are funny!"
In my little world, if that's not high praise, I don't know what is. So there. I'm glad my little note cheered you. You deserve to be cheered.
Best,
Ms. S
I'm glad that rim job is over ms s!
Ms what the Fucking hell is with that? is it some title for sad lonely old women, who have to wring out their knickers after reading a blog?
Heh.
@ everyone, Yup, rim job is all over.
@ Dave, Nope, it's the name I write under for my blog, and elsewhere, which I didn't bother to link to cause it doesn't fucking matter. But I'm not that old, sad, or lonely.
But wring out my knickers, hell yeah....
I deserve the derision, I know. Can't argue with that.
Have a lovely fuckin day, all of you.
Points taken,
Ms.
Do you know, I very nearly overlooked all this.
Thanks to all concerned; it's this sort of nonsense that still makes writing a blog quite good fun.
Only quite....
Only quite....
Um. Yeah.
Sam Fox? There was a time...well..clearly there wasn't other than in my head but there you go.
'Touch Me' was played at my wedding reception and a bloke with ginger hair kept grabbing his balls and gyrating around the dance floor. The wifey's Gran seemed to like him.
...you had to be there
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