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: Muso
by Tony Edge

The taxi driver was looking at him through the rear-view mirror and Tommy Rowan was just waiting for the question, but the question didn’t come.  He wanted to tell him that yes, he was the singer from Guttersnipe; and yes, they did have a number one single a couple of years ago.  He’d just done the mother of all lines before he came out and he was ready to chat to anyone about his music; even a fat sweaty taxi driver. 

There was a time when he’d be mobbed as soon as he stepped one winkle-pickered toe outside his front door, but that seemed like a long distant memory and he couldn’t even blame the drugs for that.  The simple fact was that there were others around who were just like him and worse and he was no longer front page news, or worth even half an inch in the gossip column of the celebrity magazines.  He looked at his finger nails and had to agree with his manager’s comments that they were far too clean.
 “You wouldn’t see the other fella going out with nails as clean as that,” Mal would tell him.  “They’re fuckin’ spotless.”

Even his skin was in good condition considering the amount of drugs he’d shovelled into his system over the last couple of years.  There was never a blemish on his face when he was snapped by the paps, but he hadn’t been blinded by the flashing cameras now for longer than he could remember.  They swamped around that bastard with the hat and Zeta La Belle, and no other star could get a look in. 

As the taxi turned the corner and headed towards ‘Zoo’ Tommy could see groups of photographers waiting in the shadows and a steady stream of revellers dressed to impress if only they were given the chance to enter.  The doormen stood at the velvet rope picking girls out by looks alone and giving the nod to the money men.
 “Just let me out here mate,” said Tommy, pulling a crumpled tenner from his pocket and handing it to the driver. 

As he opened the door of the taxi with one hand he slid on his Ray-Bans with the other and stepped onto the pavement.  A few paparazzi rushed forward with cameras raised and excited faces of the general public turned in his direction but then the paps mumbled disappointed comments and turned away and the faces in the queue turned back towards the bouncers pleading to be let in.

Tommy strolled purposefully past the waiting punters, choosing to ignore the bitter comments of those he had passed.  He didn’t want to cause a scene.  He did hear his name being mentioned along with the name of his band and he allowed a smirk of satisfaction to find his lips as he approached the velvet rope.  The coke was kicking in and he was starting to feel pumped.  The doorman was black, about 6’4” and Tommy doubted that he’d be able link his fingers should he wish to put his arms around him.
He nodded to him though as he went to follow two scantily clad bimbos into the club, but a large black hand thumped against his chest.
 “Back of the queue pal,” the doorman snarled.

Tommy’s face reddened and the superior feeling brought on by the coke was fading quickly.
 “I’m Tommy Rowan,” he said weakly.
The doorman wasn’t interested.
 “You queue up like everybody else,” he said.
There were a few cheers from the crowd.
 “But I’m a muso mate,” he said desperately.  “You musta heard o’ Guttersnipe.”
The doorman shook his head as a taxi pulled up to the pavement and the paparazzi swarmed towards it as the door swung open and Zeta La Belle stumbled drunkenly
onto the pavement with a couple of fellow crack whores for company. 

There was a buzz of excitement in the air that even Tommy could sense as she staggered, like a new-born giraffe, towards the velvet rope.  Cameras flashed to signal her arrival and people behind Tommy pushed against him just to get a better view.  The doorman put his arm across Tommy’s chest as Zeta approached, giggling like a lunatic and trying to wipe the traces of cocaine from her nose with the back of her hand.  He couldn’t believe the reaction of everyone around him.  They were going mad for this scruffy cow and she hadn’t even had a number one.  Guttersnipe had been at the top of the charts for three weeks and he felt like a forgotten man.  And then, just as she was tottering past, she stopped and turned to face him.
“Guttersnipe!” she yelled excitedly, pointing a dirty fingernail at him.  “Let him in Paz.”

Tommy smiled triumphantly at the doorman as he allowed Zeta to grab him roughly by the wrist and lead him into the club.  Zeta La Belle knew who he was, or so he thought.  She actually thought his name was Guttersnipe and even though he told her his real name she continued to call him Guttersnipe for the rest of the evening even though they drank champagne and snorted cocaine together.  Punters came up to their table, but hardly any knew his name.  It was her they wanted to speak to.  She was the big celebrity, but he didn’t care.  He knew that by the morning he and his band would be famous again.
It was near the end of the night and they were cramped in a toilet cubicle.  She’d just called him Guttersnipe for the last time and was bent over the cistern snorting a line when he grabbed her roughly by the hair and smashed her face into the porcelain over and over again.  When he left the toilets with Zeta La Belle’s blood on his hands he was suddenly back in the limelight.  It was him everyone wanted to look at, and he knew he’d be front page news again come morning.