Wed 2nd Sept 2009

Today I found myself in the House of Frasier; the department store for all the unnecessary things that affluent people buy. Since I work in the town-centre I’d agreed to buy some Clarins hand-cream on behalf of a friend (apparently Boots hand-cream is not good enough). As I headed to the House of Frasier cream counter (if that’s what it’s called), the lady eyed me suspiciously and immediately asked if I needed any help. I was, after all, an unkempt bearded male, wearing the same Adidas tracksuit top that actually pre-dated the mid-nineties Oasis popularisation of the sportswear, with a pair of hole-ridden trousers from TJ Hughes and a band logo t-shirt adorned with a small circular stain from last night’s lasagne. There I was standing at a counter of hand cream, looking all Cigarettes and Alcohol in a world of Cigars and Actimel. Her question seemed a fair one.

In case you’re wondering, a tube of Clarins hand cream cost £16.50 for 100ml. Shocking really. Never mind the preservation youth, for that kind of money you’d expect to be able to cure stigmata or even resurrect the dead. Though I did notice it had extracts of Myrrh in the ingredients, so maybe the cream does have some divine and holy powers. But still - £16.50 – that seems an awful lot just for some cream. Personally I’d expect to be rubbing the ejaculation of Christ himself into my hands for that kind of money. In fact, even that wouldn’t be particularly great value when you consider the average ejaculation is only 10ml. That’s one tenth of an average tube. I would willingly come and personally masturbate into your hands for £1.65 a time. But then I am fairly desperate for money at the moment. I started my career as a booker in the entertainment industry ten years ago because I wanted to work with, and bring, hip and cool artists to the local area. And I don’t mean those acts reforming with session musicians for cynical money motivated reasons. I wanted the chance to be a part of something new, promoting acts that have something to say, and who can tear honesty and emotion from the pits of their soul and potentially use their art to reflect or even influence the world on some sociological or artistic level. But nowadays what with the credit-crunch and all, I can no longer afford to be picky. Today, I definitely reached a new low. I realised this the very moment I sent an email to confirm an appearance from The Chippendales.

What would my 20-old-self say if he could see what I had become, reduced to booking an oily, aged male strip troupe? It is the final humiliation of a frankly already chequered career. The only defensible thing I can say is that at least it’s all the original line-up of The Chippendales, so maybe it’s not quite as cynical as it could be. It’s nice they still get on.

Lord knows what they must look like nowadays. I just hope they’ve been plastering themselves with loads of that Clarins cream over the years. For everyone’s sake.