Barnsey stumbles into your dressing room screaming: ''Cheap wine and a three day growth! Cheap wine and a three day growth! Who-oh, Who-oh, OH YEAH! So how the **** are you Angela?''
You settle uneasily in your red velour chair and adjust the sparkling gold outfit that truly defines your onstage rock presence. For a moment you recall that amusing day when your mum Dianne and Schrodinger fell into the concrete mixer as the pool was being fixed and provided the inspiration for your rock career.
''Oh Smange you are always so bloody QUIET!'' Barnsey screamed. ''You should yell more like me! Just do this: Hello I'm Jimmy Barnes and I'm a rock star YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!''
You try to remember how you got into touring with Barnsey. A vague memory stirs of a drunken night down at the local when Alasdair caught you successfully chatting up Kiera Knightley. You were escorting Kiera Knightley to the taxi when Alasdair descended like a ton of bricks. Barnsey appeared as if by magic (he was performing at the nearby RSL) and said ''Oh come on Alasdair, Angela here was just hailing a cab for me and Kiera Knightley. What a greeeeeeaaaaaaatttttt mate!'' And Barnsey drove off for a fabulous night with Kiera Knightley. Well the postcard he sent you indicated it anyway.
The flouro light flickers on the dressing room ceiling and brings you back to the present. With a loud sigh you drain the last of your Martini, polish off the last of the Thai Red Curry, then angrily throw the Lasagne against the wall.
''That's it! Barnsey roared in approval. Now you're becoming a rock star!''
''Showtime kid!'' Dianne said, poking her head around the door. ''Go give 'em a GREEEEEEEAAAAAAATTTTTTT show!''
''Don't I just love your mum?'' Barnsey said. ''She's the best manager I've ever had! Now get onstage and have a ball!''
You stumble on stage and the curtains roll up. A sea of Barnsey fans aged 45 plus look at you expectantly, then return to their beers in utter disappointment.
Such is life as a support act.
Alasdair looks up adoringly at you from the front row. With a brave smile you sit on the stool in the spotlight, pull the microphone to your dry lips, and begin to sing the song that made your career: ''I am a git, for doing this game, waste time a bit, plug in your name!''
The audience, emotionally moved, joins in, and ''I am a git, for doing this game, waste time a bit, plug in your name!'' echoes louder and louder around the auditorium.
After your set is over, and after a record four encores, Barnsey is finally allowed to take the stage. He looks at his watch, scowls at you, and empties a bottle of vodka over your head.

Write your own story

Posted at 6:08 AM #

Comments:

View Comments »

''Barnsey and Me'' a short story by Lord Byron and Schrodinger

Barnsey stumbles into your dressing room screaming: ''Cheap wine and a three day growth! Cheap wine and a three day growth! Who-oh, Who-oh, OH YEAH! So how the **** are you Angela?''
You settle uneasily in your red velour chair and adjust the sparkling gold outfit that truly defines your onstage rock presence. For a moment you recall that amusing day when your mum Dianne and Schrodinger fell into the concrete mixer as the pool was being fixed and provided the inspiration for your rock career.
''Oh Smange you are always so bloody QUIET!'' Barnsey screamed. ''You should yell more like me! Just do this: Hello I'm Jimmy Barnes and I'm a rock star YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!''
You try to remember how you got into touring with Barnsey. A vague memory stirs of a drunken night down at the local when Alasdair caught you successfully chatting up Kiera Knightley. You were escorting Kiera Knightley to the taxi when Alasdair descended like a ton of bricks. Barnsey appeared as if by magic (he was performing at the nearby RSL) and said ''Oh come on Alasdair, Angela here was just hailing a cab for me and Kiera Knightley. What a greeeeeeaaaaaaatttttt mate!'' And Barnsey drove off for a fabulous night with Kiera Knightley. Well the postcard he sent you indicated it anyway.
The flouro light flickers on the dressing room ceiling and brings you back to the present. With a loud sigh you drain the last of your Martini, polish off the last of the Thai Red Curry, then angrily throw the Lasagne against the wall.
''That's it! Barnsey roared in approval. Now you're becoming a rock star!''
''Showtime kid!'' Dianne said, poking her head around the door. ''Go give 'em a GREEEEEEEAAAAAAATTTTTTT show!''
''Don't I just love your mum?'' Barnsey said. ''She's the best manager I've ever had! Now get onstage and have a ball!''
You stumble on stage and the curtains roll up. A sea of Barnsey fans aged 45 plus look at you expectantly, then return to their beers in utter disappointment.
Such is life as a support act.
Alasdair looks up adoringly at you from the front row. With a brave smile you sit on the stool in the spotlight, pull the microphone to your dry lips, and begin to sing the song that made your career: ''I am a git, for doing this game, waste time a bit, plug in your name!''
The audience, emotionally moved, joins in, and ''I am a git, for doing this game, waste time a bit, plug in your name!'' echoes louder and louder around the auditorium.
After your set is over, and after a record four encores, Barnsey is finally allowed to take the stage. He looks at his watch, scowls at you, and empties a bottle of vodka over your head.

Write your own story