It becomes harder to harbour dreams of pop stardom at twenty-six. As a sober individual, the reality is even more sobering: I'm still not Prince.
I am an unsuccessful nepo baby. Intelligentsia minus intelligence. Recently, while in Manhattan, I saw a ten-buck psychic. During my reading, "in the room with us" was my deceased Grandfather (Lord Maurice Peston). His verdict? I should've stayed in school.
The lead singer of Wings (Paul McCartney) is quoted as saying: "Work begets inspiration."
The lead singer of The New Sticky (Max Peston) is quoted as saying: "Social media begets success."
Max is right; all my most successful contemporaries are brilliant at TikTok.
Question: Like all the greats, I'm moderately handsome, an average guitar player and definitely interested in having sex. Where the hell is my limo?!
Answer: Your band of privileged white men are not exactly en vogue. Also, doing drugs was a waste of time.
I consider myself a safe-space Rick James.
An exceptional, albeit currently disillusioned, songwriter.
George Gershwin in a sea of George Ezras.
One former crony's recent musical output was so dreadful that I deemed it "career-ending".
Wrong again, Max.
(NOTE: I only said that last part to make all my musician friends feel insecure).
For the most part, my bitterness is alleviated by duloxetine.
Kidding!
My 90mg dose of duloxetine treats crippling depression and dark ruminations.
(NOTE: bitterness remains untreated).
The manic swings in self-worth are intolerable. Hitting the stage is like eating peanuts. Intrinsically good for me. Calorically very dense.
(NOTE: that was a load of bollocks. Funny though, right?)
The least funny joke is the industry itself.
Why do label executives dress like artists?
They're like Ronald McDonald.
They dress like clowns to sell product.
They're not even the hamburger.
I should know, I'm the McFlurry!
This Big Mac definitely won't be doing cocaine with you in the Groucho, Ronnie.
