My arrival in London was met with little fan fare. I had gotten used to porn queens and throngs of adoring women showering me in tidbits from their unmentionables drawers as soon as I stepped out, beshaded, from whichever plane I had arrived on.
My disappointment was palpable as grey skies loomed, threatening but failing, like The Bravery, to live up to their potential. My limo was nowhere to be found and I had to sift about the common as though I were but a speck amidst a dripping shower of colourless faces. Had I been forgotten in such a short absence?!?! My agent was so fired.
Celebrity is such a fickle and fantastic thing. The women, the blow, the cars, the complimentary face towels and pillow-top candies. Fick, what the shit was up? Culture had spun and lost me from a 45 to a 74 min crystalline coaster.
Somehow counter culture's 'Cid And The Smack Bunnies had pussied into a putrid slur of rhyme spinners whose talent couldn't amount up to the monetary worth their self-given names suggested. I want my 50p back. If not that at least a 20p spot to use the phone box. What about a mobile you ask, seems if you let lapse a bill payment or 5 they cut you off. Virgin ... Funny how with a name like that, one entity knows exactly how to fuck you.
Phone coinage in hand, its method of acquisition un-mentionable lest some equal rights, pro-soy milk conglomeration throw up their arms and hang me from the dangling pit hair, I rang up the only stupid c*nt I figured would be half arsed to pick me up. Funny enough, that's exactly what his nickname was in China when we lived there 6 years ago.
Jason answered and agreed on one condition, that I find him a father's day card for a man whose style I can only describe as Sahara-esquely dry. I acquiesced half thinking it would be fun to sort him out with a picture of a tot hugging his father with a caption underneath sayin, "this is a hug you rigid sod, would it have killed you to give me one growing up?"
After some consideration I decided against it, but had I known it would have taken me back into the bowels of Heathrow to find one, I might just as well have xeroxed my own middle finger and sent that off instead and watched with glee when the envelope was opened. The devil, I know.
After settling with a classic hot rod driving in gray and white glory into the desert, I set about finding my ride. I was half expecting him to have some sort of luxury sports car or something fancy so imagine my surprise when I found him with his car in all its green Mini glory. Mildly shaken, yet somewhat not stirred, it all seemed par for the course.
He hadn’t changed one bit since the last time I saw him; Disgustingly good build and looks of mixed heritage, a familial fortune waiting in the wills. Every friggin’ reason in the world to loathe him, yet a clown prince melded with panache and utter absurdity he was, and God was it good to see him.
I’d heard also that he’d gotten a proper gig with some degree of professional responsibility but I just couldn’t see it. This comedy of errors shackled with propriety… Like me given another chance, a fist full of money, locked in a room of sexy and seductive vices on one side and redemption on the other, it just didn’t seem at all plausible.
After a warm welcome and genuine hug (possible the only real thing I've experienced in at least a fortnight. Well there was Angelique and those were lovel... oh wait, nope.) I was loaded up, luggage wise, and we were off along the M25 to the house in Henley.
Before the all mind numbing, "how're you doin" could get asked, I was informed that it was my duty as passenger to keep my eyes open for any nursery that was open. I even had my limits when it came to a potential dating pool and I was in no way going to participate in anything that could see me back in the hag rags for all the wrong reasons. (again)...
After my slightest "what the fuck" protest, he explained that we had to find a flowering plant or two for his father's present. I thought the card would have sufficed especially since I had been the one to find it, and didn't even want to think of what I'd have to go through to la-botanize myself...
As we drove I began to wonder if strapping myself in was enough protection. I'm a firm believer in putting on a helmet when the situation deems it necessary... but I figured a trip down the motorway to pick up plants was a safe bet not to be one of those. As we flung again and again through the round-about while Jason consulted his mother which exit we should take, I nearly opted for the open door... surely death would be the end result either way.
After shopping for orchids and the what not we did the next most non-gay thing possible and hit up the vendors outside the nursery for ice lollies... "Ah sorry, out of money at the moment, do you mind?"... "Fuck you, Ok".
TBC'd
