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-> Ooh Look, it's a story department <-
We get to meet Simon Bowell at Xmas time,in a reworking of the classic
Charles Dickens tale of Scrooge the miser!
And just for something different, we've avoided ascii art, and gone for a
straightforward narrative, painting pictures with words in a more orthodox
form!
Chapter 1 - Simon says...
It was Christmas eve, and the hour was getting late and the snow lay on the
ground. As his breath misted in the cold air, Simon Bowell, the boss of
Phoneygraph records mused that perhaps this global warming thing was a tad
overhyped. Otherwise, he was quietly content with his lot.
In an adjacent recording studio, listening with his headphones to the blare
of 'Cratchit and the Orphans', the latest boyband venture for his
talentlessness, Robotic Pop Idol looked up anxiously, wondering if he had
finished work for the day. Simon caught his gaze, and without enquiring
further, swiftly worked out what Robo was going to say to him.
"I suppose you'll be wanting tomorrow off then?" Simon answered the unspoken
question.
"Well it is Xmas day, no-one else will be working, all the technicians and
studio wonks will be at home, and I've got my own family to think of as
well..." Robo justified right back.
Simon sighed, a cross between an angry and a resigned noise. "Xmas, bah
humbug! It's a crowd of unwholesome people chasing a pile of suspect
merchandise, oh wait a minute, what am I saying? That includes the drossy
Xmas tunes that we foist onto the public too. So in that way, Xmas is my
friend. Still, it doesn't excuse people slacking off work for a day."
He thought about a bit more, and relented a little.
"Well take the day off if you must, but don't forget that multi-million
dollar music empires don't grown on trees you know, especially Xmas trees!"
He chuckled at his own bad joke, as Robo grabbed his coat, and scuttled out
of the back door as quickly as his little tin legs could carry him.
Very soon, Simon was left alone in the gathering gloom of the evening. The
rest of the workers at Phonygraph having better and more thankful things to
do with their lives. As he set off for home, a voice piped up beside him
from a bundle of rags at the side of the street.
"Big Issue guv, make things a little bit better for the homeless!" The
bundle of rags resolved itself into a student-thin emaciated stick figure of
a half-man clutching a handful of periodicals.
Simon was quick and to the point, "The big issue, from my point of view is
that you should get a proper job and stop bugging the rest of us!"
And with that, he stormed off, muttering to himself.
"What a miserable wanker!" The newspaper seller muttered to no-one in
particular.
Chapter 2 - An old associate re-met...
Stomping and cursing to himself at that unwanted encounter, Simon soon
arrived home at his luxury penthouse apartment, located in a smarmily
upmarket part of London. Only when the front door closed, did Simon relax.
"Xmas, what a load of old cock, everyone and their guide dog is trying to
get their sticky paws into your pockets for a free hand-out!" He murmured.
"Oh yes, and how would a man who has never expressed a single act of
generosity or kindness know?" Came a totally unexpected reply.
In the full-length mirror normally reserved for preening and self-
admiration, Simon saw a terrible sight. It was Pete Waterworks, formerly of
the Stock, Aitken and Waterworks production company, a long-time business
partner of Simon, and currently deceased..
The ghost of Pete didn't look too well either. He looked like he was pale
and traumatised, as if he had been given some very bad news about his
untimely death for instance. He was dressed as he was, on the day of the
awards ceremony, when he dropped down dead live on stage after being given a
lifetime achievement award for parasitism of youthful talent by an awestruck
recording industry. You had to allow for the greenish tinge from the rotting
flesh on display. Then there was also the small matter of him being
festooned in a bunch of metal chains, in a sick parody of Xmas decorations.
"Bloody hell, it's my old mate Pete Waterworks!" Simon exclaimed. "You're
looking a lot better that I remember you when you were alive!"
Suddenly animated by the unexpected supernatural company, Simon related an
amusing anecdote about the early 'Flop Idol' auditions. "There were a bunch
of no-hopers in leather bondage gear calling themselves Tight Fit. I think
they may have been around in the 1980's. Anyway, it only took me a couple of
seconds to send them packing."
Pete rattled his chains in a distinctly unamused fashion. "One of those no-
hopers was my wife!" He grumbled. "Anyway, I'm here to discuss your future
well-being. You might well have worked out that I'm a ghost."
Simon arched his eyebrows in a sarcastic "No really?!" fashion.
Not noticing this, or affecting not to notice, Pete carried on.
"To be blunt, I'm dead, I've been damned by my actions, and I'm on a day-
release from the bowels of hell, to warn you that you are in grave danger of
joining me there, Simon Bowell, if you don't lighten up and mend your ways!"
Simon didn't quite grasp the significance of the occasion. "So what's hell
like then?" He replied.
"It's a terrible place, every day is an audition where the artistes voice is
like fingernails scraping down a blackboard! It's a bit of a reunion party
with all the recording industry types and their tame lawyers down there and
all, so maybe it's not all bad.." Pete's dead and dried-out eyes would have
glazed over in a wistful fashion, if they could.
Simon glanced at the chains once more, a question, waiting for the right
opportunity to appear, suddenly leapt to his lips. "And the chains? Do they
have bondage parties in hell then?"
"No Simon, you don't understand at all, the chains are for a contract more
binding and enslaving than anything even you make your young and dumb
artistes sign up to! With my contract, I'm tied down forever! Wait until you
see the wording for the one they're drawing up for you!"
At this point, the ghost of Pete reared up to twice its normal height,
becoming darker and more menacing, but Simon was unmoved.
"Fluff and nonsense! Why should I believe you are real! For all I know you
could be a bio-chemical reaction to something I ingested earlier today. I'd
say there's more of you that is cocaine than the crypt!" He sneered.
The ghost of Pete Waterworks looked sadder than at any time before.
"I am just the first visitation you will get this evening. You will meet
with three more ghosts, of Xmas past, present, and future. Heed their words
well...." Pete faded to invisibility, and his voice faded out with him.
Simon was dismissive. "Well for my new year's resolution, I'm not buying any
more drugs off that prat with a stupid goatee beard and Jamiroquai hat! God
knows what he puts in them! Toilet cleaner, no doubt!"
Chapter 3 - The biggest ghost in the music business...
And with that, Simon huffed off to bed. It took a while for him to get to
sleep, as the strange events of the day flitted in his restless mind.
Eventually he did get to sleep, but as if it were no time at all, he
suddenly woke with a start.
Standing at the foot of Simon's bed, was the spectral figure of Nobbie
Williams, with his characteristic half-smile and half-leer.
Allowing Simon just enough time to take in his appearance, the ghostly
figure spoke "I'm Nobbie Williams, the ghost of Xmas past, and I've got the
biggest cock in the music business!"
Simon was unimpressed. "Bloody hell, it's a show-off fat dancer of a ghost!"
"Well I'm NOT the one wearing those stupid high-waisted Oswald Moseley style
trousers!" Nobbie struck back, stung by Simon's cruel but accurate
assessment.
"Anyway, I'm here, to show you what bitter fruits of the past you tasted.
Come back with me to your childhood days, to a Xmas past!"
Simon wanted to say no, but didn't have a choice, as the darkened bedroom
walls dissolved to reveal the sights and small random noises of a suburban
Xmas morning. The sights clearly included an untidy pile of brightly
coloured paper from recently opened presents, a middle-class family at
contented repose. The sounds included a childish voice cutting through the
pleasantly natured hubbub.
"I'm gonna sing my latest hit, Anchovy around the U-bend!"
"Oh not now Simon!" A more feminine adult voice countered. "Gerald, can you
talk some sense into him?"
"Simon old chap, run along and play quietly with your lovely presents. What
about the Action Man tax inspector figure we got you? The 'My Little
Accountant' kit. Singing and playing at pop idols isn't going to make you
rich!"
The small child wilted at this fatherly approach, "Alright dad, I suppose I
must.."
This grisly but informative tableau faded to a milky nothingness mostly
occupied by the preening mass of Nobbie. Simon really wanted to get away at
this point, but his legs refused to co-operate. Nobbie hadn't finished with
him yet!
"So the branch is bent when it is a young twig. Now we take a look at your
teenage years, and we can see you are well on your way to becoming that most
feared and despised of creatures, a critic!"
This time, they went back to 1976, where the kids are alright, and spitting
in the gutter. The scene resolved itself to the back room of a seedy pub in
the less nice part of town. Several dozen dancing punks, all aglow in wild
hair and black plastic binliners, pogo furiously in time to the primal
sounding music. One person remains unmoved and unmoving, I think we can
guess who! Then the music stopped.
A well spoken voice, with a distinct tinge of sarcasm, cut through the fetid
air.
"Sid, I loved the raw energy, but the rest of your act is lacking. Those
haircuts have to go for a start, and I think that two-chord guitar played at
high volume won't have lasting appeal. Punk is going nowhere, you're right
when you sing, you have no future! In fact, I'd say this is worth about two
out of ten."
The Sex Pistols, just before they became famous, took one look and yelled
"F*ck off you little tosser!" Simon fled the scene, as the outraged audience
started to spit in his direction.
"And most of your later judgements have been this well appreciated too."
Nobbie smirked.
"Well you're proof, performers are the most ungrateful people in the world
when it comes to taking constructive advice!" Simon yelled.
Nobbie smirked annoyingly once more, "Well that's all from me, I see that
this whole moral re-education thing is going really well, but I'm going to
hand you over to your second visitation for tonight, so seeya!"
Chapter 4 - The immaterial girl...
And with that, Simon woke up once more, heart pounding, he looked around the
familiar contours of his bedroom, nothing out of its place. Surely this had
all been a dream as well?
He started to turn over, to try to get back to sleep, when he heard the
first faint chords of dance music. Muttering "Not again!" he looked up in
time for the appearance of the ghost of Xmas present. It was none other than
Madonna, in that leotard!
Simon was more appreciative of this visitation. "So the second ghost is the
mighty Madonna herself, dressed for an expensive wet dream! Now you're a
classic case of someone who has made an entire career out of wearing
clothing two sizes too small!"
Madonna was unappreciative, "This evening is all about YOU, weird trouser
boy, so knock off the bullshit, stop staring at my crotch, and follow me!"
Yet again, Simon was compelled to follow where the first lady of pop wanted
him to go. This time around, they were firmly settled in the present day.
Simon shivered against the biting wind and snow, as his unwilling feet
dragged him through the slum quarter of town. Unseen by the occupants, they
entered the humble home of the Robotic Pop Idol.
Inside, preparations for Xmas were in full flow. There was a lively chat
going on between the family members of Robo's family, and a lighthearted
feeling of enjoyment. Suddenly the conversation took a downward turn as if
they somehow sensed that the spirit essence of Simon had entered the room.
Mrs Robo Pop Idol spat. "That damned boss of yours, he's a good for nothing
shyster with a bulgy forehead and stupid trousers, who takes everything
you've got!"
Suddenly, Simon recalled the specific reason why the spouses and partners of
his employees weren't welcome at his premises.
Being at the subservient heart of the matter, Robo Pop Idol felt compelled
to defend his boss.
"Don't say that about Mr Scroog, erm Bowell. He's a kind and generous man
who allows me to work and put oil on the table!"
Mrs Robo Pop Idol was unconvinced. "But if you don't get a bigger percentage
of your royalties, in fact, ANY percentage of them at all, then the future
looks bleak for Tiny Robosapien Tim!"
At this mention of his name, Tiny Robosapien Tim waved his tiny robot
crutch, and weakly flashed his LED's. A tinny voice uttered "God bless us,
every one!"
"I don't think he'll be here for next Xmas." Madonna looked significantly at
Simon.
Simon looked back in a 'So what do you want me to do?' pose. "Well he's
weak, it's merciful really, pointless in prolonged suffering..."
"They said you were a uber-creep, but I don't believe what I'm hearing right
now!" Madonna was genuinely outraged, "I'm done with you, goodbye!"
And with that, Simon was suddenly returned home once more.
Chapter 5 - A weight on his mind...
All notion of returning to sleep was banished. Simon sat up in bed, alert
and awaiting the third and final visitation with a degree of impatience. In
fact, it took a little while for the ghost of future to reveal itself, just
at the point that Simon was getting hazy and tired again.
The Ghost of Xmas Future was a silent figure. Simon started with recognition
as he saw John Lennon, as he was on the day when he was shot, complete with
bloodied bullet holes.
"John Lennon, wow man, you're definitely one of the all-time heroes! I've
always wanted to meet you, albeit in a slightly less corpse-like state?"
Silent John Lennon, the Ghost of Xmas Future said nothing, but gestured to
Simon.
"Ok, so it's walkies time again." Simon grumbled, as they both set off
through the dark and cold streets.
Then they were in a light and airy space. The smell of disinfectant and
soldering irons strongly suggested a hospital corridor, which was in fact
the place they were at. Simon vaguely recognised the interior of St Maplins,
the main robot hospital in London. He also recognised the saddened and bowed
figures of Mr and Mrs Robotic Pop Idol talking to one of the white coated
medical personnel in low voices. Simon drew nearer to hear what they were
saying.
"I'm extremely sorry, but we couldn't find a compatible battery for Robo
Sapien Tiny Tim in time." Said the Doctor.
"At least he's in a better place now, the great spare parts bin in the
sky!" Mrs Robo Pop Idol sobbed. "Yes it's a very sad time for us, two
tragedies in such a short space of time." Robo Pop idol added.
Simon was mightily confused, TWO tragedies? What was he on about? Then
suddenly, they were gone...
It was dark, it was cold. A bitter east wind howled through the gaps in the
cemetery fence. The silent ghost of John Lennon, as he was on the day he was
shot dead, gestured towards a tombstone. Simon felt himself drawn towards
it, even as he was willing himself to stop, somehow knowing what was coming
next.
The tombstone was new, and the inscription crisp and fresh, the letters
gouged out of the unrelenting marble harshly spat their message. "Simon
Bowell, betrayer of the music and breaker of dreams. Thankfully gone and
soon to be forgotten."
Simon was unimpressed, "It attempts to be hard-hitting, to confront me with
the sordid money-grubbing reality of my existence, but the underlying
cheesiness lets it down. I've been threatened by professional hitmen,
scottish people, and my granny. These are people who know how to scare you.
Well, this hardly touches me at all. I'd say about four out of ten!"
The ghost of Xmas Future momentarily registered a tic of irritation, then
resumed his impassive countenance, gesturing upwards.
Simon looked up, suddenly and sickeningly aware of the huge lump of metal
with "16 Tons" stencilled on the side in comedy letters, suspended in mid-
air, in a way that bricks aren't. It descended towards him, crushing the
breath out of his body, into blackness, crushing everything..
Chapter 6 - It's a groovy kind of redemption...
Simon sat up in his bed, bolt upright. He struggled against the just fallen
shelf, containing his recording industry "Bastard of the year" trophies
which were pressing down on his head. The first glimmerings of dawn peeked
shyly through the window, a welcome sight after this longest of nights. He
was suddenly re-energised with a new purpose.
Hurriedly he dressed himself, panting with excitement and impatience to get
on with the new day. He ran outside, eager to make amends. Just a few short
steps later, he encountered a butchers shop and dashed inside.
"Good day to you, Mr unfeasibly open on Xmas morning butcher. I see that is
a fine turkey in your window which remains unsold, when the majority of
people have actually started to cook theirs." Simon greeted.
The butcher, who was a strange fellow, replied. "Actually, I'm not a
butcher, I'm a homicidal maniac. I was a butcher but the European Union
regulations on slaughterhouses put me out of business. That was about the
time when I discovered I liked cutting up things for fun, so I just carried
on doing it. The fact there is a turkey in my window is down to sheer luck."
Simon looked more closely at some of the other things in the window,
retched, made a mental note to call the police as soon as he was away from
there, but persevered, purchased the turkey and got the hell out
of there.
A quick stop to follow, at Mr Patel's also open of Xmas morning nano-mart,
picking up an armful of other Xmas goodies. Then Simon was soon beating on
the door of the humble residence of the Robotic Pop Idol family.
It was Mrs Robotic Pop Idol who opened the door, she saw Simon, and was
clearly not pleased to see him. Her eyes narrowed, "And what do you want?"
she asked. "If you think you're getting my husband to work for you today,
you've got another think coming!"
"Ah no my dear, it's nothing like that. I'm a new man! I'm here to celebrate
Xmas with you, and look, I bring gifts and good cheer!" Simon joyfully
replied.
"Alright, come on in, but if there's any attempt to make him sign another of
your bent contracts, you're out on your ear!" She warned.
Simon scattered the assorted gifts and good cheer across the kitchen table.
"Come on, and see what I've got you!"
Mrs Robotic Pop Idol was smitten with her present. "Ooh look, a Firewire
cable!" She joyfully squealed, "And Robo's got a case of twelve year old,
oak-matured WD40, and what's this?" She encountered the fleshy mass of the
turkey.
"It's a traditional Xmas turkey, for the traditional Xmas dinner!" Simon was
quick to reply.
"That's all very well Mr Scrooge, erm Bowell, but we're robots, we plug into
the mains for our substenance, what use is a turkey?" Mrs Pop Idol demanded.
Simon paused for a moment, then explained.
"Actually, it's a little known design feature of the Robo Pop Idol series.
You're able to take in organic material, and render them down to a series of
long hydrocarbon chains, thus creating fuel oil. I, on the other hand, will
take my turkey in the traditional manner, cooked and served with seasonal
vegetables, thank you!"
Simon considered Robo Pop Idol with a fatherly expression. "I think we need
to do something about your working conditions. Tell you what, when you come
back to the recording studio on on Monday, we'll discuss paying some of your
royalties!"
Mrs Robo Pop Idol, ever suspicious, looked at Simon carefully for traces of
a head injury or drug abuse. Finding neither, she finally relented. "I think
you really mean it! Thank you, Mr Bowell, thank you!"
Then everyone's thoughts suddenly turned elsewhere, to a diminutive figure
in the corner of the room.
"But what about Tiny Robosapien Tim?" The family asked.
"I was saving the best to last." The Duracell logo reflected the sparkle of
the Xmas tree lights. "I think this will sort the little fellow out." Simon
moved to pick up Tiny Robosapien Tim, and levered open his battery
compartment. Simon got the new battery in, with a bit of a struggle. Flushed
with triumph, he looked up.
Just then, Tiny Tim's arm fell off...
Simon looked aghast, he had to think quickly. "It's alright, don't look at
me like that! I'll get him fixed!"
Tiny Robosapien Tim did not seem to be disturbed by this turn of events.
Indeed, he came back to life in a stronger and more confident manner than
before. He waved his remaining arm in a cheery 'I'm alright, don't worry!'
gesture.
"MERRY XMAS TO YOU ALL!" His voicebox boomed out.
Everyone laughed.
"AND MERRY XMAS, TO ALL ON THE ATARI SCENE!" They cried out.
"Now why did we say that just now?" Simon queried.
"There's a mysterious power up above, moving the letters of this script, he
made us do it!" Robo Pop Idol had the answer.
Everyone laughed again, then champagne corks started flying, and everyone
agreed this was the best Xmas ever. This consensus even lasted into the
hangover which clouded over much of the following day.
And with that, it is time to end this latter day (im)morality tale.
Merry Xmas to you all indeed! Don't worry, it'll all be back to business as
usual for the next cartoon!
CiH, for the Alive Mag Xmas special,Dec '05.
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