Tag Archives: motorhead’s The Ace of Spades

Friday 1st February – The Bastard Love Child Sub Plot

Now then.  February! I am very cross with you.  It should not be February yet at all.  What, what are you playing at you stupid month?  The year is spiralling out of control already and I blame you.  It is both my parents birthday next week and what have I done about it? Absolutely nothing, nothing at all, that’s what.  And why?  Because it just should not be February yet.  I am not prepared. I am not ready.  It is half term at the end of next week for God’s sake.  I’ve only just got used to them being back at school and now they’ll be mooching around the house all day again complaining of boredom while tasks multiply like the broomsticks in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice before my very eyes.  Madness…

Right then. So, today will probably be a reasonably uneventful day as we have no great celebrity happenings which have caught my eye, and with which I might distract myself and everyone else from the random boredness of my own life.  Normal service is resumed, which is a shame really as I got my greatest blogging day ever yesterday, thanks to, and I’m amazed to say it, teeny handed Jezza.  Mind boggling eh?  140 people, most of whom wanted to find out about the Beadlemeister.  Who could have known he was so popular?

Now, I am brewing an idea where I randomly throw things into the mix that I think my audience might be interested in and then monitor the stats for confirmation or otherwise.  I mentioned this briefly before, as a way to garner information for my magnum opus (or should it be opus magnum? I’m never entirely sure.) to ensure that it will be a best seller.  This brought forth the amazements of Celine and her nude death.  Now we have Jezza as well.  So, the protagonists are shaping up nicely.  Here’s my thoughts on the plot so far.

I am playing with the idea of the bastard love child of Celine and Jezza.  Let’s say that Celine had a night of passion, a wayward fling way back in 1985 during a power cut at a particularly frenzied Christmas party.  She was celebrating the release of ‘My Heart Will Go On version o.3’ (the extended pre-release acid jazz version.  It languished in the bargain bin at Woolworths for many years until Kate Winslet picked it up and had a brainwave.) at her London record company.  It was late, she was lonely, she had had one too many babychams and Jezza had seized his chance (he was there to pitch the idea of a novelty record.  A re-recording of Motorhead’s ‘The Ace of Spades’ as a duet between him and the famous glockenspiel player Patrick Moore.  Sadly, it never came to pass). 

It was late, it was dark, Celine was already feeling pretty weird as she had accidentally put both contact lenses in the same eye, and wondered why she kept falling over.  After several brandy and Babychams with gin chasers she just didn’t care.  She didn’t remember a thing the day afterwards, thanks to a stonking headache and the fact that the office photocopier had melted her hair extensions and she had a nasty weave burn to contend with.  Her mind, shall we say, was on other things. 

Jezza was jubilant but slightly shamefaced.  Celine after all, is French Canadian and liable to ridicule.  He had enough to contend with being ‘the curly haired idiot with the weeny hand off the telly.’  At that time in his life he couldn’t cope with any more pressure.  He was just about to be replaced by Lisa Dingle on You’ve Been Framed and things weren’t going well.  He opted for a discreet silence with the idea he could always sell his story to the papers if he got as desperate as Timmy Mallett.  He had already been featured in Hello Magazine with his perspex bath full of goldfish, and was worried that he might be cursed.  He moved on with his life.

Nine months later Celine gave birth to a tiny, dark haired child with an impish grin.  She herself had been unaware that she was pregnant.  She was one of those sickeningly skinny women, and had only put on three ounces during the pregnancy, which she put down to eating a packet of those weird salty fish biscuits they give you on long haul air flights.  She had by then entirely forgotten her night of passion with Jeremy, the only lasting reminder being a tiny trumpet shaped bruise on her left buttock which she sustained when falling on a defunct brass section in the Parlaphone lost property cupboard.  She just thought it was a sign that she should give up the acid jazz.

She decided to keep the child, but in secrecy.  She couldn’t face the shame of being a single parent.  She didn’t like the new Bill Amberg leather papoose’s that were all the rage.  She felt that they wouldn’t give her the gravitas she craved, and frankly she couldn’t keep her arms still long enough to put one on successfully.  It was all too difficult to contemplate.

She bought the island which was later to become Celination, her own private country (she had a flag made, tartan with Cath Kidston Floral highlights and a hint of beige.  Tasteful as ever), and built the child a secure underground home, complete with a miniature recording studio and bandstand (modelled on the one in Trumpton).  She christened him Geoff, hired him a firm Mary Poppins style nanny complete with carpet bag and parrot handled umbrella, paid for a lifetime of music lessons with Andre Previn (Eric Morecombe was unavailable.)  and gave him her entire back catalogue on CD, before heading back into the world to seek fame and fortune. 

She knew she loved Geoff, but music was her passion and would not be denied.  She started putting money into a box every time she said, ‘merde’ or ‘zut alors’, saving for the day she would have to pay for Geoff’s therapy when he worked out that he was effectively an orphan to music.  She lived with the guilt of his abandonment and put it into her music.  It accounts for the strangled warbling sensation of her finest musical oeuvre.

Throughout his life she would visit him sporadically, amazed by his total musical idiocy and despairing of his need to play elaborate and crazy pranks on everyone.  She could not understand how he could be so English.  She indulged him with twenty four hour cable reruns of Mr. Bean, but it didn’t help.  Things just got worse and worse.  She went through twenty six nannies, forty eight tutors and twelve Andre Previns before Geoff reached his majority. 

By this time she had also had him in for a psychiatric evaluation and it was explained that he was a sufferer of that rarest of complaints, ‘office joker’s syndrome’.  If it had been caught early it was curable, but due to his years of isolation in the underground bunker it was now too advanced to stop.  The psychiatrist believed that eventually it would kill him, probably when someone got bored of his inane pranks and shot him.  Celine retorted that she had never been in an office in her life, but when pushed the repressed memory of her night of passion with Jezza came flooding back and she was filled with a strange sense of shame and foreboding.

She decided that the only decent thing to do was to get Geoff a job as head of HR at the world’s biggest salmon exporters in Toronto, and contact Jeremy to discuss a paternity test.  Jeremy was at this time, too unwell to respond and unfortunately passed away before Geoff could claim his true heritage.  This, coupled with the news of his imminent sacking for making the entire HR department come to work dressed as great figures from the world of silent comedy, meant that Geoff was plunged into a dark and hideous depression where he bandaged one of his hands in the hope that it would shrink like a Chinese lady’s foot, and give him a lasting reminder of his much missed and entirely absent father.  In a cruel reprimand to his mother, he started an ‘I hate French Canadians’ Society’ on Facebook, and deliberately sticks two cotton buds into his ears, rendering him deaf and insensible to the world of music.

Our story starts as he abandons his underground layer, comes to London and opens a shop: ‘Jokes u Like’, as an homage to his father while Celine pours out her repressed anguish in a multi award winning triple platinum double CD entitled: The tragedy of the merry prankster’.  Will they ever be reconciled?

So, what do you think?  It impresses the hell out of me…

I know it needs a bit of work, but the bones are there.  It could be huge.  I need a few more characters, which no doubt you will help me test out over the coming weeks and months.  I’m thinking of casting Gillian McKeith as an evil villainess somewhere along the line, and I really need a love interest for Geoff who will save him from a life of misery and impending deformity, but I just don’t know who it’s going to be yet.

It could be Britney Spears of course, who is indeed fair game for anyone wanting a larger than life mentalist to write about.  The problem is that Britters is her own worst enemy.  Nobody could write more bizarre and outrageous things about her than is already true of her life.  This renders her quite boring as a literary character with a lot of scope.  I have to say however, that I always knew the trailer trash in Britney would rise to the surface eventually.  You only had to look at the size of her thighs and the fact that she chose to go to her own wedding in a velour tracksuit with a slogan on the arse to know it wouldn’t be too long before it all went the way of the pear.  You didn’t need Mystic Meg, or Claire Rayner to tell you that.  It has been a done deal since day one. It’s just a miracle to me that she’s hung on this long before going Snooker Loopy.

Well, for a woman who wasn’t going to write a sleb type blog today I’ve not really managed to keep to my brief have I?  Mind you, what have I done today of note?  There’s the question…

I went to the dentist this morning. I was dreading it.  I hate going, and I hate the fact that they gouge you for every penny for the privilege of going.  I nearly chickened out, but I missed my last check up due to the fact that I had to take Tallulah to the hospital for eight hours of randomly inconclusive tests instead.  I weighed things up.  At least the dentist was better than the A&E department at the Royal.  I went.  Luckily there was nothing to be done apart from to sit their with sweaty palms while a man charged me seventy pounds to stick a load of sharpened cutlery down my throat.

During my time in the dentist’s chair I had another little thought about Jezza.  I expect this will keep happening until the shock of his demise wears off a bit.  I shall probably spot him on the school run tomorrow.  Believe me, you’ll be the first to know if I do.  Anyway, as I was in the chair I remember a friend of mine at Uni telling me that the reason that Jezza had a tiny hand was because he used to be a dentist, and one day when he put his hand in someone’s mouth to do something dentisty, the patient bit his hand, and their germs were so virulent it caused his hand to wither!  How cool is that?

I was very impressed by this story until the day, many years later, when I realised that it was complete and utter bollocks.  Bollocks of the finest, grade A quality mind you.  I don’t mind being scammed too much when the bullshit is of such fantastic material mind you.  I remember once telling a friend of mine that a bloke we knew who went everywhere barefoot was able to walk across sharp gravel without wincing because he had had the soles of his feet varnished.  I thought she would know I was lying through my teeth.  Three years later she hit me, when we were talking about it and I said what a great joke it was, and found out that she had believed me all along!  Awesome.