In an ideal world the force of my achievements in driving forward the wagon of Music into new landscapes of progress would simply bring me recognition on my own terms. My records would appear modestly and without hype. But people would pause deciding how best to respond to the new world in which they find themselves, debating earnestly where it is that Chimmie is taking them now. I would be famous as a Citizen. I would be accorded respect like a Vaclav Havel or a Jean Paul Sartre or a Socrates. No-one would harass me when I'm checking the price of Irn Bru at my local Tesco's.
Well that's what I've been doing. But it's not fucking working. Yet.
Why am I not better known? Is someone trying to stop me?
Why do I suffer the indignity of having BNP style goons in some monstrous curiosity shop get the better of me? I Am For Progress, for God's sake.
Anyway I have been watching a programme on TV entitled "Stars Behaving Badly" which explains what you have to do to become famous and I am determined to profit from it, even if some people don't agree.
I know there are some very dour, narrow, little people, rather
like that Free Church crowd that my mother kept having to avoid
when she went back home, very literal minded fuckers who may say I am
abandoning my "principles": "Selling Out".
And These Ones don't even have the Psalms to redeem them. All
They've got is the NME letters page.
Anyway what you need to get started in the fame game is Breast Implants and an Entourage. I'm not sure that I should take the bit about implants at face value as I think that may only apply to women, although I believe Marilyn Manson has had them done and he's no beauty. So that leaves the Entourage. I'd really better get cracking here.
I need to be able to slam into places like one of those trolley teams in hospital dramas. I need to have people walking in front of me, with walkie-talkies jammed into their faces, shouting at no one in particular things like: "Chimmie's just coming through the ticket barrier now!"
I was wondering if there was a way I could trick Inglesfield
and Ellis into being my entourage.
I've decided I could get in practice if I got started on it using the Maiden and the Dove as my entourage. Forget about Telephone Girl. Later on, I'll be able to replace them with a team of Bristol dreads.
The Dove's head is poking out of the side of the couch, eyes
unblinking and staring at the TV. There's a man moving into the
lonely menace of the screen, his hands out in front, clutching
Right. Lets's get started. Equipment? Well I've got these ones that I bought in the Radio Shack New Year sale for 10 quid. They're probably not quite industrial strength components but they'll do for a start to train them up.
"No, no, no! If you press the button at the same time as
him, He can't hear You, You can't hear Him," bit of a
learning curve here, gentle reader."You've Got to say