Monday, July 18, 2005

Five

Blunkett eyed up the scenes of depravity backstage at Wembley Stadium. Teenage chicks in Hitler Rally t-shirts were giving head to security goons in specially made SS uniforms. The band were number one in the album and singles charts and this prestigious Wembley gig was the crowning glory. They hadn’t been out of the news for weeks now. This superstar business, it’s a piece of fucking piss, thought Blunkett.

Other power electronics acts had jumped on the bandwagon and were clogging up the charts like whopping great turds down a u-bend. A lot of them were record company manufactured fakes. Take Dirtfuck, who had a hit with "Jewish Beck Entry" - Blunkett knew for a fact that those guys had been in a teenybop band until three months ago. Their manager Richard Baker was one of the old school of pop entrepreneurs who didn’t give a fuck for the artist’s "creative ideals" — he just wanted to see his act make money the fastest way. And power electronics was certainly the biggest craze the music biz had known since Beatlemania.

Still, I’m the one at the top, thought Dave as he snorted a great big line of Columbia’s finest. The band were due on in ten minutes. Dave had introduced himself to the two stooges who were being Hitler Rally session man tonight. One of them, Jim Theakston, had until recently been a promising keybordist in the neo-prog scene, but now took session work wherever he could get it. The twiddly-fingered concept album fan had realised that sensitive artistry doesn’t pay the rent — or get you laid. Theakston was now enjoying the oral ministrations of two power electronics groupie chicks with multi-coloured hair. One was wearing a T-shirt depicting grotesque laboratory animal experiments and the sight of it was putting Jim off his orgasm something chronic.

In the stadium the lights dipped and the crowd let up an almighty roar. Dave Blunkett smiled to himself as he heard the pre-show tape kick into action. He’d persuaded EMI to pay Manchester Police an under-the-counter substantial sum for a dub of the notorious Moors Murders tape to use as the intro at Wembley. People were paying £20 a ticket, and up to £100 from touts, he rationalised — so we’d better give ‘em a show to remember. As the sicko tape recording of the young lad's murder blared out, Blunkett noticed with grim amusement that one or two twats out there were holding lighters up above their heads.

And this wasn’t the only surprise Hitler Rally had for the sell-out audience. Towards the end of the set tonight they’d be showing a genuine snuff movie on a giant screen. It was a horrible shaky video of a gaggle of schoolkids being tied up in some shed, then eaten by wolves. Dave had received it from Brazil in a batch of fan mail at the Nazi Sex Murder Records address, with just a scrawled note accompanying it saying "Best Wishes, Marty B". He was pretty blown away by its sicko power and it sure made a change from the usual gormless fan mail of "you guys are evil, I love you" standards... or the endless paranoid letters Dave had been getting from Mike Read in the loony bin. That poor cunt has really lost it — scrawling in crayon stuff about "you’re in above your head Dave" and "secret forces are at work".

Theakston and the other bloke, whatever his name was, sidled onto the stage as "The Little Drummer Boy" faded out. The crowd screamed their tits off but really reached a crescendo when Dave Blunkett shambled on and grabbed the microphone. "Hello London, how ya doin’?!" he yelled. "KILL! KILL! KILL!!!"
The synths began to let out horrible sounds which sounded fucking amazing through the Marshall stacks and Blunkett started ranting about "dismember the body" and "torture the blind scum". You couldn’t tell what song it was, maybe he didn’t even know himself. And you could only hear about one word in every five. But what you could make out clearly wasn’t very nice. The whole thing was bang out of order.

The security SS guys were really getting into their role. As Hitler Rally screeched on, they were cracking the skulls of any kids near to the stage they could find. It’s a bleedin’ bloodbath, thought Dave to himself whenever he looked down from the stage at the carnage. He used the thought as an improvised lyric - "it’s a bleedin’ bloodbath - die you cunts!". It just drove everyone wilder and random scraps were breaking out everywhere in the crowd as people lost the thin veneer of civilisation and reverted to savagery.

"Survival of the fittest" he yelped - "und das ist gut! Fur diese unstellung mit angeschlleimer!" He didn’t know what the fuck that meant but it seemed to fit. The gig was going really well. The St John’s ambulances were packed with bloody casualties and Blunkett was really grooving on the power of his situation. Hitler Rally started on their last number, the epic closer of "FISTASHITTER FUR HIMMLER", a vile celebration of snuff porn entitled "You’ve Been Snuffed". The genuine South American snuff movie flickered into life on the 100 foot high video screens. As Blunkett was mumbling the well offensive lyrics ("Your death on my camera bitch, that’s entertainment") he noted with amusement that mass vomiting had broken out in the crowd. Kids were puking on the SS officers and the security were too fucked up by it all to even crack their skulls. He was fucking knackered by now, it was a long gig — but what a fucking way to end it. This was what showbiz was all about.

Blunkett was badly in need of some marching powder as he stumbled backstage guarded by the SS. He was too fucked to bother with a groupie. "But we’ve got the finest selection of babes in the stadium gathered for you, Mr Blunkett sir!" said the security head, "and the young ladies will be expecting to meet you".

"Just Fuck ‘em all in the arse" growled Dave and slumped on a settee near the drug bowls. As he relaxed alone he was surprised by the appearance of Howard Jones sidling into the room. Jones was a journo for the ‘Observer’ - he'd done a huge, sympathetic feature on Hitler Rally a week ago. He was a posh fucker but Dave had hit it off pretty well with the cunt.
"Alright Howard, how’s it goin'?"
"Splendidly, dear chap — that was a marvelous spectacle tonight, David! So delightfully mischievous!"
"Cheers Howard. What brings you here, anyway"
"Well David — I’m sure you know that before I became entertainment and culture correspondent for the Observer, I was chief political correspondent for the Sunday Times... the contacts I made back then were very interesting and I’ve kept in touch with a few people in very high places. A lot of powerful people are very interested in your work, David...I wonder if you’d like to attend a party at Buckingham Palace next weekend?"
"Fuck me, Buckingham Palace! Yeah, why not, the more the merrier" gabbled Blunkett incoherently.

"Excellent - I shall be in touch regarding precise arrangements. And David — don’t mention this to anyone."
Howard Jones’s eyes bored into Dave’s as he stressed this last point. The power electronics guru knew that he was getting into some really weird heavy shit here.