‘I guess I’d like one signed,’ he said finally. ‘I’m a big fan.’
‘What? Such a big fan that you don’t want a record until my mom toasts you?’ said Priscilla. ‘Fuck off.’
Later, heading home in the limousine, Priscilla’s disappointment gave way to tears.
‘I’m a joke, Mom. A fucking joke.’
‘Well, rock ’n’ roll’s a tough game, darling.’
‘I’m not in rock ’n’ roll. To be in rock ’n’ roll you have to sell an album, not just make one. You’re supposed to be a fucking “rock tutor” on that show of yours in England, you’re the Queen of Rock, the fucking teacher, the fucking mentor. How about mentoring your own daughter for a change?’
‘Oh, get over yourself, Priscilla.’
Priscilla lapsed into silence for a moment. It was tough to be a seventeen-year-old star and already washed up.
‘Mom?’ she said finally.
‘What?’
‘Do you think kids don’t buy my album because I’m like a reality TV star or because I’m actually a crock of shit?’
‘Hey, you wouldn’t have got to make an album if you weren’t a reality TV star.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking. Do you think I’m shit?’
‘What a stupid question, Priscilla. You’re my daughter, of course I don’t think you’re shit.’
‘I’m your stepdaughter; I didn’t get your talent, I only got your name. My real dad fried chicken.’
‘Fucking good fried chicken!’
‘Come on, what do you think of me, as a singer? I mean, you’re my manager, you must have an opinion. Can I sing?’
‘Listen, babes, I do deals these days. That’s my job. I got you a deal. What you do with it is your responsibility.’
A Star Is Born
Calvin had declined to inform the Prince of Wales’s office on what business it was that he wished to see His Royal Highness. In another age this would have presented an impossible breach of protocol and no invitation would have been forthcoming. These days, however, things were different. The royal heir was on the ropes, the unhappy subject of almost daily polls calling upon him to do the decent thing and bugger off altogether, leaving the way open for his more telegenic son. HRH needed friends like his organically farmed non-cross-bred English roses (grown from eighteenth-century seeds supplied by the Kew seed bank) needed rain. Particularly a friend like Calvin Simms, arguably the most famous man in the country, a man whose intuitive grasp of the popular zeitgeist had made Chart Throb into the broadcasting colossus that had crushed Pop Idol, X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing, Celebrity Morris Dancing and all those other shows into dust.
Calvin, who was more than aware of his own position in society and entirely realistic about the Prince’s, had been confident that His Royal Highness would want to see him and he had been right.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ the future king said, leaping from his seat in the window of the drawing room of his London town house. The Prince had long since ceased to reside at St James’s Palace, hoping that if he lived in a house instead of a palace the press might stop banging on about how much money he cost. They hadn’t, of course; they continued to catalogue his expenses as if they reflected the lifestyle of an emperor of Ancient Rome.
Only that morning he had found his modest fishmonger’s bill trumpeted in the press. Forty quid for a fish supper, sir! the headline had screamed. Guess who knows his PLAICE.
‘Hello, hello,’ the Prince continued. ‘How very kind of you to come. Have you come far? Was the traffic awful? I imagine it was. It always is, isn’t it? I did a talk about it and how we need people-scale planning for our cities. Didn’t do any good, of course. Nobody listened. Just old buggerlugs banging on again. Heigh-ho. Who’d be a prince? Have you been offered tea?’
There was then a lengthy hiatus while the Prince attempted to summon somebody to bring tea. Eventually he succeeded and a young work-experience girl
‘What? Such a big fan that you don’t want a record until my mom toasts you?’ said Priscilla. ‘Fuck off.’
Later, heading home in the limousine, Priscilla’s disappointment gave way to tears.
‘I’m a joke, Mom. A fucking joke.’
‘Well, rock ’n’ roll’s a tough game, darling.’
‘I’m not in rock ’n’ roll. To be in rock ’n’ roll you have to sell an album, not just make one. You’re supposed to be a fucking “rock tutor” on that show of yours in England, you’re the Queen of Rock, the fucking teacher, the fucking mentor. How about mentoring your own daughter for a change?’
‘Oh, get over yourself, Priscilla.’
Priscilla lapsed into silence for a moment. It was tough to be a seventeen-year-old star and already washed up.
‘Mom?’ she said finally.
‘What?’
‘Do you think kids don’t buy my album because I’m like a reality TV star or because I’m actually a crock of shit?’
‘Hey, you wouldn’t have got to make an album if you weren’t a reality TV star.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking. Do you think I’m shit?’
‘What a stupid question, Priscilla. You’re my daughter, of course I don’t think you’re shit.’
‘I’m your stepdaughter; I didn’t get your talent, I only got your name. My real dad fried chicken.’
‘Fucking good fried chicken!’
‘Come on, what do you think of me, as a singer? I mean, you’re my manager, you must have an opinion. Can I sing?’
‘Listen, babes, I do deals these days. That’s my job. I got you a deal. What you do with it is your responsibility.’
A Star Is Born
Calvin had declined to inform the Prince of Wales’s office on what business it was that he wished to see His Royal Highness. In another age this would have presented an impossible breach of protocol and no invitation would have been forthcoming. These days, however, things were different. The royal heir was on the ropes, the unhappy subject of almost daily polls calling upon him to do the decent thing and bugger off altogether, leaving the way open for his more telegenic son. HRH needed friends like his organically farmed non-cross-bred English roses (grown from eighteenth-century seeds supplied by the Kew seed bank) needed rain. Particularly a friend like Calvin Simms, arguably the most famous man in the country, a man whose intuitive grasp of the popular zeitgeist had made Chart Throb into the broadcasting colossus that had crushed Pop Idol, X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing, Celebrity Morris Dancing and all those other shows into dust.
Calvin, who was more than aware of his own position in society and entirely realistic about the Prince’s, had been confident that His Royal Highness would want to see him and he had been right.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ the future king said, leaping from his seat in the window of the drawing room of his London town house. The Prince had long since ceased to reside at St James’s Palace, hoping that if he lived in a house instead of a palace the press might stop banging on about how much money he cost. They hadn’t, of course; they continued to catalogue his expenses as if they reflected the lifestyle of an emperor of Ancient Rome.
Only that morning he had found his modest fishmonger’s bill trumpeted in the press. Forty quid for a fish supper, sir! the headline had screamed. Guess who knows his PLAICE.
‘Hello, hello,’ the Prince continued. ‘How very kind of you to come. Have you come far? Was the traffic awful? I imagine it was. It always is, isn’t it? I did a talk about it and how we need people-scale planning for our cities. Didn’t do any good, of course. Nobody listened. Just old buggerlugs banging on again. Heigh-ho. Who’d be a prince? Have you been offered tea?’
There was then a lengthy hiatus while the Prince attempted to summon somebody to bring tea. Eventually he succeeded and a young work-experience girl
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