......In Fact It's A Gas (Bill), Man!

Where to start? I've got so many tales to tell!
Right! I've been staying over in Big City East again with Ed Straker and Lady Di because, as I've explained before, they live near where I work and, what with my gammy leg 'n' all, they put me up and ferry me to and from the office each day. That's pals for you - if it wasn't for them I would be out of a job and sleeping under an embankment somewhere. To say I owe them one is a modest understatement.
Anyway, Eddy Baby and Di threw a bit of a soiree last night at their unlicensed creche and drop-in centre and, to quote Frankie Valli, "Oh what a night.....!" Now Ed is in a band - very big on the Help The Aged circuit, I understand - and the keyboard player set up in the garden to play through the night while we sang along and chair-boogied to everything from Frank Sinatra and Peter Sarstedt to the Rolling Stones and The Beatles. A great night and 14 cases of wine and beer really added to the atmosphere.
I fell to chatting to the keyboard player - to save his blushes let's just call him Micky (because that's his name) - and he turned out to be not only a A1 top bloke but also a mine of great stories from the music world. You see Micky used to be in a band which was huge in the '80s (I won't name them although think 'Royalty and burgers') and so he had tasted life as an international rock god with all the trimmings. "So, you must have made millions and be set for life?" Pither asked, hoping to tap him up for a fiver. Micky then told me a tale about an episode when his band was at the peak of its fame and not only does it explain what the rock world is really like to us outsiders, it is a salutary lesson for anyone who fancies themselves as the next big thing.
The story is of just one "day in the life" and, with apologies to Micky for embellishing it a bit (it's my job, maam) it goes like this:
Micky and the boys were currently riding at Number 2 in the charts and were wanted by the world and his wife - or in the case of the lead singer, the world and his husband. They were booked to play their latest smash on Top of the Pops and so they were ferried to the studios in a fleet of limos and duly did their spot. They were on a tight deadline though as they were due on the continent later that night to play a gig (Munich, I think?) so, no sooner had the editor shouted "that's a wrap, luvvies" than their entourage of security guards, record label executives and assorted hangers on was sped through the corridors of Broadcasting House to another fleet of limos to take them to the airport.
There is, of course, a supply of hot and cold running champagne and scantily clad rock chicks in the limos which deliver them to a waiting Lear Jet (seriously!!). The boys clamber aboard and Micky takes his seat. Off they roar, climbing almost vertically to cruising height and Micky pulls down the overhead compartment to find a goldfish bowl on a stem already filled with brandy, alongside stocks of other booze. There's rock music all the way, no doubt some of the other lads tuck into sugar bowls of Colombian Marching Powder thoughtfully laid out for them..........and this is where the fairytale fractures somewhat.
Micky considered his situation for a fleeting moment. "God alive!! I've arrived" he thought, not understandably. "This is THE life. Ferried around in limos, our own Lear Jet, en-route to a European gig after a live telly performance, booze, birds and the best the rock world has to offer. Wow!" At that very moment, our Micky reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper - it was his gas bill. Turned out there was still part of him which wasn't a God-like alien from the planet Rock 'n' Roll and Nazigas Inc. was into him just as it is into the rest of us. The bill was for £70 so Micky ferrets around in his belongings, searching for cash and, guess what? He hadn't got a fucking bean!! You see, even at the height of the band's fame, the most the members ever saw of the moolah was the £40-a-week they were each given as pocket money by their owners (seriously!!) He asked around the other members of the band and they had also spent their pocket moeny and were absolutely penniless as well. In the end, he had to borrow the cash off one of the record label bods so that he had the necessary to avoid being cut off on his return to Blighty.
There he was, living life in the fast lane, with luxury and decadence all around him, and he hadn't actually got any REAL fucking money at all in the world. Despite the mountains of money earned by their record sales and concert appearances, it turned out that the limos weren't complimentary, the booze and birds had been shelled out for in advance, the invoice for the Lear Jet was in the post and every member of the entourage, most notably the record label vultures, had all grabbed serious wedges for themselves!
Micky NEVER had any money at all at the time. The actual folding stuff all went somewhere else and the band hardly got to see any of it.
I found that a bit of an eye opener. I said to Micky: "Jesus, all that cash earned and you couldn't even pay a poxy gas bill! I bet you suddenly realised the whole bloody thing was just a con, a circus, and you wanted out of it?" I asked. Mickey looked down, pondering, and replied: "Urrrm......nah! It was fucking brilliant!!!"
Well, I liked that tale. Ok, maybe you didn't. Ok, well sod off then! Grantham shall not have Mickey, however.