Tom was one of nature’s gentlemen; he wore an old school tie around the neck of his many faces and always opened doors for ladies of the night. Peeping from behind his curtains, he watched Mrs Castle bustle past his house. “She’s put on a few pounds…glad she hires out her mind and not her body.” Like a polar bear, Tom awakened in the winter, gestating in the heat of the summer sun. As incongruous as an icicle, he melted his load, beneath the blankets of a creaky single bed.
With autumn about to dawn, Tom’s scowls had evolved into a smile. And anticipating the glory of the impending chill and the pleasure of the shiver, he had nearly said, “Hello,” that morning, to his next door neighbour. He was, however, determined not to succumb to the commonality of spontaneity and human speech. Tom turned on his TV and unwrapped a takeaway fish supper. The smell of grease caressing his nasal hair, like Lancombe’s finest, to a fastidious perfumer.
LET THE SHOW BEGIN
Bursting through the TV screen, the theme music announced the change in season. As perennially as trees shed their leaves, the X Factor filled his Saturday evenings with delight, so deep, that he, sometimes, hummed a tune sung by one of the contestants. When Tom watched the X Factor, he felt real. Sharon Osborne had returned to the judging panel; she was an unusual animal, part feral, but formed from plastic. Loose as knicker elastic and tight as Simon Cowell’s arse. Did Louis swing the other way? No, he was merely paternal.
The screen swallowed Tom whole, he merged with whitened teeth and seductive pixels. In the presence of cameras, he came alive, engaging in banter with the pretty American one and batting his eyelashes at the fat bloke from Take That, who was, really, rather dull. Then, arrived his opportunity to sing.
Tom was magnificent. He owned the stage, like a born professional. Thrusting his hips, he reinvented Elvis Presley’s song. Rock n roll for the hip hop generation, his rapped version of Suspicious Minds ignited Louis’ fire and Sharon was overcome with tears.
WHEN THE MUSIC DIES WHAT BECOMES OF THE SINGER?
Tom rubbed his eyes and realised that he had missed most of the show. “Oh, well, it’s repeated tomorrow afternoon. I think I shall try singing something more contemporary, then…maybe a dub version of Piccadilly Palare.” He entered his kitchen, opened a tin of cat food and walked upstairs into his attic. Bound to a chair, a young woman lifted her head. Tom took off her gag and spooning out the cat food smiled, “Dinner, dear.”