MY PERFECT DAY

A girl I know recently asked me what my perfect day would be like, from morning to night, anything I want. I explained to her that my perfect day would involve a continental breakfast in bed, riding my horse, Mr Pepperlungs, along the beach, a walk around Portobello Market shopping for cute little items for my bathroom, finished off with a hot bath surrounded by candles, essential oils, and Enya. But we all know, including the girl, that the words you’ve just read are blatant lies designed solely to ‘up’ the chances of an unlikely visit to the Impregnation Station. Now usually, if I were to think of a perfect day, it would be packed full of stories involving sensuous ships passing in the night and sweaty limbs glistening in the sun, but we’re not going down that road today. We’re keeping it clean. For the most part.

 

OK, The first thing that would happen in my perfect day would involve me being gently woken by Martha Reeves and the two remaining Vandellas, in the corner of my bedroom singing soft gospel music. One of my many Amazonian Nude Servants (my ANS’s) feeds me slices of melon as I listen to Martha do her thing. My ANS then pours me a coffee and leaves. I thank him for his services and tell him to help himself to a biscuit. Now it’s time to get up and get clean.

  As I stand upright in a shallow bath, two of my female ANS’s, Samu and T’shana, sponge me down, making me all nice and clean and ready for the day. Forty five minutes later and it’s time for breakfast, which would constitute a light toasted ham sandwich with melted cheese and a nice runny egg in the middle. I better go, there’s a helicopter waiting for me outside. (a Gazelle SA342 no less. Helicopter Life’s Helicopter of Season, Summer 2009) The chopper’s here to take me to Downing Street, for my weekly catch up with Dave, who likes to float a few ideas past me before he goes to parliament with them. “Easy up on education, Dave!” I tell him. “You’re making the job market too competitive.” He argues that in doing so, more people would be unqualified and on benefits. “Well make the people on benefits work for it. Make them clean up their areas, help with recycling and visit and chat with old, lonely pensioners. That way they’re doing the country a service. Simple politics!” He nods, knowingly, then orders his own ANS to make us a couple of Tequila Mockingbird cocktails. We throw a few darts, smoke some cigars then I hit the road, slightly tipsy. Time for lunch.

 

I’ve booked a table at The Ivy for myself, Paul McCartney, Paris Hilton and George Lucas. Paris has brought a bottle of tequila and a bazooka, and is intent on giving Paul, George and myself the wildest lunch of our lives. Vintage Paris. Before she flips however, George informs me of his plans for a Star Wars sequel, and wants me to play the son of Luke Skywalker, Gavin-Lee Skywalker, a poet and balladeer, who shuns the Jedi ways to embark on a more bohemian lifestyle of live music and free living. The Troubadour of Alderaan is expected in cinemas in Summer 2011. The ghost of Luke (who died during childbirth) will be played by Tom Arnold, who blew George away at his audition.

Paul’s there for a favour too, just as I expected. He wants to put Wings back together and he wants me in the band. I take a lot less convincing than with the Star Wars sequel proposal, but I keep my poker face on so that I can bargain my own dressing room out of him when we go on the road. Paul’s a notoriously tough negotiator, but I soon end up with not just my own dressing room, but a personal assistant, Boots vouchers and 5 free tickets to every show in China. In off the red! Then I slink out unnoticed before Paris starts shooting the chandeliers out. I’d better get my skates on if I’m going to make my show.

 

That’s right, my sold-out Wembley concert is tonight, so it’s back on the chopper and off to North West London to rock Wembley’s socks off. The tickets sold out in 1 minute and 48 seconds, which apparently is a world record or whatever, but I don’t worry about things like that. I’d do it for free, but no-one’s ever asked, so...

  Support tonight is provided by Oasis, The Libertines and Chico, who do storming sets to be fair to the lads, but the 140,000 people out there (Wembley was extended solely for my concert) are all here for me. It’s my name their shouting, and my bootleg merchandise they’re wearing.

  I appear on stage in a haze of ice-smoke, both dry and wet. The lights explode and the power chords erupt. All night I stand, posture and groove in centre stage wearing my tight leather trousers, bare-chested and drenched in primal allure. Some women are throwing their underwear onstage, and some are throwing flowers. Some are even throwing their babies at me, but they are swiftly ejected by my security staff and taken immediately to a secure psychiatric unit. There will be no baby throwing at my concerts! We’re not going to have another Rio De Janeiro on our hands! No way!

  After a five-song encore (including a 40 minute version of Freebird) I leave the stage to rapturous applause, high on adrenalin and wired on poppers. All the usual back-stage groupies are there trying to grab my attention. Moss, Diaz, both Geldofs, Ariel the Mermaid, and they all want a piece. I take numbers, but more out of politeness than sexual intent.

I decide to stay at my Greenwich flat that night, and enjoy a glass of red wine and some vegetarian sushi on the balcony overlooking Canary Wharf and the Thames. I’m now going to snuggle up with some pasta and my The Hills: Season 2 DVD. Lauren is clearly still into Brody, and I think she’s going to kick off with Jen and Heidi. Good times.

 

So that’s my perfect day folks. But if this was in fact my reality, would I really be happy? Of course I’d be bloody happy, but in reality, having everything you’ve ever wanted would leave you with nothing else to wish for, or to look forward too. The positives would undoubtedly outweigh the negatives, sure, but we really do need something to drive and inspire us in our day-today lives. It’s different for everybody. Some want love, some want fame and recognition, where others look for money and power. But you can take it all back, because I don’t need any of it, just as long as I can keep my dear beloved ANS’s.