Automatically Sunshine

“ I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then”.
Alice In Wonderland

I really don’t know quiet where to begin.
No, seriously. I mean, you’ve logged in expecting to be entertained and here I am floundering like a fish fresh out of the brine.
Not exactly what you expected, I’m guessing?
Unless, that is, you’re a fan of celebrity bad boys and girls.
C’mon…don’t switch off. Don’t come all Daily Telegraph on me man. After all, I think you know where I’m coming from.
Betcha watch a heap of those reality shows, afternoon soaps and late night chat fests. Gonna wager you wiggle it just a little bit in front of your bedroom mirror to some download where the latest superstar from the streets is getting’ down on it, stickin’ it to the man, ragin’ ‘bout hard times in the ghetto while hangin’ out in Beverley Hills with Tom Cruise and a bunch of his Scientology buddies. Am I right?
Okay, so you’re old skool. Like to air guitar in the bathroom to Bowie doing ‘The Jean Genie’, grinding out those Mick Ronson power chords like you’re a real gone Spider just checkin’ in from the planet Mars. Either that or it’s a hairbrush in the bedroom, maybe Freddie doing ‘We Are The Champions’ or Elvis croonin’ ‘Suspicious Minds’ courtesy of one of those FM oldies stations where you’re never more than three minutes from a hit and it’s always a better music mix. Magic is what I call it, although personally I always wanted to be Ian Hunter leading a chorus of ‘All The Young Dudes’ in front of a crowd of disaffected youth, circa 1972. Oh man, I need TV when I got T.Rex! Maybe baby.

Then again, maybe not. I mean, I’m middle aged, a good stone and a half overweight, have a bad relationship with my kids and, after a couple of beers, begin to seriously contemplate the validity of my marriage and the proximity (not to mention availability) of the worn out piece of jet trash that passes for a barmaid in my local watering hole. She wants my honey not my money, she’s a funky thigh collector, layin’ on Electric Dreams. Or so I’d like to think.
‘Fraid to admit, but it really is that bad.
Like The Quo, I’m heading down the dust pipe, although unlike them I’ve got a bit more than a ten dollar bill in my jeans and I get to keep most of my hair (not to mention nasal tissue).
Down, down, deeper and down.
Lost in showbiz.
Spending my days writing bullshit copy for The 3AM Girls to pass off as their own about how some X Factor nobody has caught the eye of one fifth of a boy band – the one who got the gig because he looks good in Superdry threads. The one the little girls get the hots for on account of his Top Man bad boy image. The one the bands producer never lets within a mile of a microphone.

See, I’m a bit like the dude in that old Stones tune – The Under Assistant West Coast Promo Man. ‘Cept I’m not based on the west coat (although I have journeyed down to Brighton a couple of times to stand bail for some washed up airport novel hackette whose best days walked out of the door the day she quit penning vitriol for the NME) and I don’t do promo. I’m more what you might call Damage Limitation. The guy that comes up with the bullshit lines that excuse away the inane and offensive (not to mention incomprehensible) ramblings of some c-list nobody after six drinks and one line too many in some West End watering hole recommended by their PR as the place to be seen on the arm of some airhead from ‘Hollyoaks’.
You guessed it – I’m the guy who has to explain away the bass players latest Messiah Complex as a deeply held religious conviction while offering to put a lid on those rape allegations in return for a little charity work. I mop up the shit, change the nappies and put the dummy back in the pram. Okay, so I may not be Simon Cowell, but it’s (almost) an honourable living.
That’s what I do. Make honest men and women out of fakes and liars. Place fine words on foul tongues, kiss the asses of asses and polish turds until they shine like silver. And for what? A little money, some close proximity to glamour and fame, and the sense that, at the end of the day, it’s a job well done.
And all so you can go on believing the lies.
Christ, sometimes I find it hard to look at myself in The Mirror.