Visitors were asked to write a short story on modern celebrity. The winner would get star billing on the Steffi site as well as having Andrew Crofts as a mentor to help work up the story into a novel, find an agent, publisher and so on.

Short Listed: King of the Show
By Andy Szpuk

 

This is it. I’m back.

I’m sitting in a dressing room waiting to go on set, just like the old days. It’s been a while. Far too long if you ask me.

See, thing is I used to be a big star. Back in the early seventies I was a cabaret singer. In those days I’d be all dressed up Las Vegas style with the tight fitting suit, ruffled shirt and big bow tie.

Started off in working men’s clubs didn’t I? Thing is though I could sing. I was a proper crooner like. Belted out all the cabaret classics and went down a storm most times.

Struck lucky and won a talent contest and got on the telly. Then I got myself an agent. A record deal came along and next thing I know I’m in the top ten with ‘Sugar Me Twice’.

I was right at the top. Doing gigs all over. Over here and in the States, The audiences loved me. I put on a proper show for them every time; lots of high kicks and a full on show with orchestra and dancers. We got some great reviews. I sold a lot of records.

I was riding high back then. Must have been the biggest star in the world at that time. That was when I met Trudi, a Vegas showgirl. We got married.

It wasn’t long before I got her in the family way. Twice. Seemed like I only had to walk past her.

Meantime I was everywhere. Tony Taylor. King of the Show. I had two years of it. A massive success I was. Must have made buckets of money.

But I don’t know what happened to it all. See, things started to go wrong.

It all went downhill when punk rock came along. Those snotty nosed kids with their ripped up clothes and chains, and spiked up hair. Looked a right fucking mess they did. And the racket they made was horrible. They didn’t like me; proper slagged me off saying I was a dinosaur and all that.

Almost overnight I flopped. Record company dumped me. Couldn’t get another deal anywhere. My records stopped selling, they all ended up in bargain buckets. Had to cancel most of my gigs due to poor ticket sales, and TV appearances dried up. My agent dumped me; then he ran off with Trudi and the kids.

I was rock bottom.

Course I’d bought a big house and half a dozen flash cars. So I still had them, but it wasn’t much fun kicking around in an empty house on my own.
Then Trudi divorced me. Screwed me for every penny she did. I had to sell up and give her most of the money. I ended up in a crummy little flat.

I was thinking what I might do next. Had nowhere to turn really. What could I do? Fake my own death? Or just disappear.
Then a pal of mine came to the rescue. Got me back on the telly like. It was as a guest in some of these game shows like ‘Celebrity Squares’ and ‘Blankety Blank’.

Okay, I wasn’t exactly tripping the light fantastic as it were, but at least it paid the bills. Thing was though, my image had changed pretty drastic like. I was seen as a bit of a loser. As a bloke who had everything and then lost it. The punks loved to wipe my face in it; always poking fun at me they were. Proper took the piss out of me for doing those tacky game shows.

Seemed like I’d never hit the top again. I’d tasted it. Had the proper high life. Lost it all though, mainly cause of them fucking smelly punks.

Anyway, the years just seemed to fly by, and my kids grew up. The maintenance payments to Trudi weren’t crippling me so bad. She was on her own again, so I saw her now and again. Never forgave her though.

And it seemed like things had swung round again. The old timers such as myself weren’t seen as dinosaurs anymore. The Stones were doing sell out tours. Tom Jones had reinvented himself, and put out a load of great songs. Rod Stewart was still going strong. So it got me thinking. Why not?

Then I got my second lucky break in two decades. Met Ross didn’t I. I was at a party when he came up to me. Turns out his mum was a big fan. She had all my records, and he grew up with it. Well, now Ross was in the industry and he offered to be my agent.

I sat down with my guitar and wrote a dozen new songs right off just like that. They were bloody good ones and all. Ross got me in a studio to record some demos and we were all set. Just needed a record deal.

But Ross wanted me to get my face known again first. Got me booked onto one of those reality TV shows, one of those jungle programmes where you have to do tasks and all that. I was all for it. See, I wanted to tell my side of things, let people see the real me, set the record straight a bit.

So there I was, sat in my dressing room, just waiting for the knock on the door. I was dying to get out there, get a taste of stardom again.
Sure enough there came a knock. I stood up and checked myself in the mirror, then opened the door. There were two police officers stood there, one in plain clothes,

‘Good evening sir. Are you Tony Taylor?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘I have to inform you sir that your ex wife has been found dead at her home. We suspect foul play, and we’d like you to come to the station with us to assist us with our enquiries.’

I just stood there, didn’t know what to say.