understand that if Alison comes home and finds twenty million calls to the States on our next phone bill she’s going to lynch me?
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir … but like I said, it’s really not Geffen’s policy to give out contact numbers over the phone. Perhaps you could try somewhere else.”
The already have. I’ve tried his management office and his
publishers and the snivelling little shit-bag in Pasadena that does all of his West Coast press.”
“There’s no need to get abusive, sir…”
“But it’s not fair. What’s wrong with you people? I mean, Ike Kavanagh… he’s hardly a threat to national security, is he?”
“Sir … sir… you are going to have to try and calm down…”
“How about his mobile?”
“No.”
“His girlfriend’s number, then?”
“No.”
“The hotel he’s staying at, the house that he’s renting, the number at his million-quid condo on Malibu Beach.”
“Ike doesn’t live near the beach, sir … he doesn’t like sand. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to have to terminate you…” Click.
Sod it. I’m not sure who else to try. His parents moved away years ago and his father’s factory got closed down on account of the ozone layer. Fuck it, fuck global warming. Fuck Ike Kavanagh and his money and his attitude and his Jiffy bags full of hot steamy turds. There must be someone else. There must be some other way of getting hold of him. His live agent. I haven’t tried his live agent yet the name’s at the bottom of the tour ad in the TIME. They’re called ICN. I’ll try them. I’ll try a completely different tack.
“Good morning. Brad Pearlman speaking… how may I help you today?”
“Er… yes… thank you, Brad… my name is Terry Stamp, I’m the front-of-house manager at The Shepherd’s Bush Empire in London, England.”
“I see.”
“Yes… er, and of course we are expecting Scarface over to play at our esteemed venue in October and I have a couple of queries regarding the band’s rider.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It says on our fax here that Mr. Kavanagh will be expecting a range of stationery to be supplied backstage along with the usual supplies of beer, spirits and hot-and-cold running buffet for twenty.”
“Well, yes, as you know, the band will be expecting a wide selection of beverages, spirits and cold cuts… but stationery, you say?”
“Yes, stationery, and I just wondered what kind of thing Mr. Kavanagh would be expecting… plain white, padded brown, W. H Smith’s note lets with kittens on the front or regular plain old Basildon Bond?”
“Baiziledon Bond?”
“Oh yes, Brad, a gentleman knows exactly where he is with Basildon Bond.”
“Hmmnimn… well, perhaps I should give you his tour manager’s cellphone number, then. He’s English so he’ll probably have more of an idea of what it is that you’re actually talking about.”
“OK, that’s very kind of you.”
“No problem, Terry.”
Thanks, Brad.”
“You’re very welcome, Terry.”
Bingo.
The number is engaged so I stand in front of the hall mirror for a while practising what I’m going to say. His tour manager isn’t going to be fooled by bogus queries about padded envelopes, so I’m going to have to try to convince him that Ike and I really were friends. Maybe I’d sound more convincing if I was wearing a different T-shirt. I wonder what I’d look like if I gelled my hair up into one of those shark’s-fin styles that everyone was wearing last year. Yeah, my yellow Pixies T-shirt, my secondhand Levi’s jacket and a bit of a sharky haircut. Excellent.
It hasn’t worked. My Pixies T-shirt has a huge stain on the
front. It’s so faded you can barely read the words any more and the stain makes it read “This monkey’s gone to heave’ instead of ‘heaven’. And my hair is a complete disaster. I’ve used nearly a whole pot of Black and White and something of Alison’s called Perfume Fudgey Whip. I smell like a rent boy. I
“Sorry to keep you waiting, sir … but like I said, it’s really not Geffen’s policy to give out contact numbers over the phone. Perhaps you could try somewhere else.”
The already have. I’ve tried his management office and his
publishers and the snivelling little shit-bag in Pasadena that does all of his West Coast press.”
“There’s no need to get abusive, sir…”
“But it’s not fair. What’s wrong with you people? I mean, Ike Kavanagh… he’s hardly a threat to national security, is he?”
“Sir … sir… you are going to have to try and calm down…”
“How about his mobile?”
“No.”
“His girlfriend’s number, then?”
“No.”
“The hotel he’s staying at, the house that he’s renting, the number at his million-quid condo on Malibu Beach.”
“Ike doesn’t live near the beach, sir … he doesn’t like sand. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to have to terminate you…” Click.
Sod it. I’m not sure who else to try. His parents moved away years ago and his father’s factory got closed down on account of the ozone layer. Fuck it, fuck global warming. Fuck Ike Kavanagh and his money and his attitude and his Jiffy bags full of hot steamy turds. There must be someone else. There must be some other way of getting hold of him. His live agent. I haven’t tried his live agent yet the name’s at the bottom of the tour ad in the TIME. They’re called ICN. I’ll try them. I’ll try a completely different tack.
“Good morning. Brad Pearlman speaking… how may I help you today?”
“Er… yes… thank you, Brad… my name is Terry Stamp, I’m the front-of-house manager at The Shepherd’s Bush Empire in London, England.”
“I see.”
“Yes… er, and of course we are expecting Scarface over to play at our esteemed venue in October and I have a couple of queries regarding the band’s rider.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It says on our fax here that Mr. Kavanagh will be expecting a range of stationery to be supplied backstage along with the usual supplies of beer, spirits and hot-and-cold running buffet for twenty.”
“Well, yes, as you know, the band will be expecting a wide selection of beverages, spirits and cold cuts… but stationery, you say?”
“Yes, stationery, and I just wondered what kind of thing Mr. Kavanagh would be expecting… plain white, padded brown, W. H Smith’s note lets with kittens on the front or regular plain old Basildon Bond?”
“Baiziledon Bond?”
“Oh yes, Brad, a gentleman knows exactly where he is with Basildon Bond.”
“Hmmnimn… well, perhaps I should give you his tour manager’s cellphone number, then. He’s English so he’ll probably have more of an idea of what it is that you’re actually talking about.”
“OK, that’s very kind of you.”
“No problem, Terry.”
Thanks, Brad.”
“You’re very welcome, Terry.”
Bingo.
The number is engaged so I stand in front of the hall mirror for a while practising what I’m going to say. His tour manager isn’t going to be fooled by bogus queries about padded envelopes, so I’m going to have to try to convince him that Ike and I really were friends. Maybe I’d sound more convincing if I was wearing a different T-shirt. I wonder what I’d look like if I gelled my hair up into one of those shark’s-fin styles that everyone was wearing last year. Yeah, my yellow Pixies T-shirt, my secondhand Levi’s jacket and a bit of a sharky haircut. Excellent.
It hasn’t worked. My Pixies T-shirt has a huge stain on the
front. It’s so faded you can barely read the words any more and the stain makes it read “This monkey’s gone to heave’ instead of ‘heaven’. And my hair is a complete disaster. I’ve used nearly a whole pot of Black and White and something of Alison’s called Perfume Fudgey Whip. I smell like a rent boy. I
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