David Singleton's Diary

Thank you to Danl Dave

Thank you to Dan'l, Dave, Daniel, rwhitehur, Rex, Amy, Krel, The Great Roberto, Eric, Gull, and the Tall Pointy Singleton for your emails. And for the other 74 people who logged on to read my dribblings.

74 people! That's not even a double decker bus full. Hardly enough to buy me out of servitude to his Vicarious Highness. Time to beg all of you who are enjoying this – and even those who aren't – to email your friends and get them reading. "We can build a monster if we all pull together as a team"

I am nothing if not ambitious. Let's plan for 74 and a half people by

Now on with the tale :

" Is David here?" Breamore asked, with no pretence that I was anything other than a talking doormat.

I had never met him before in real life, but he was instantly recognisable from the photographs I had seen. It was interesting. Peter Gabriel, and the other musicians might have the glamour and charisma, but this man clearly had power. You could tell it from the way he walked in through the door and across the studio. Or perhaps I was imagining it. Who knows. You just had to envy him.

I looked over my shoulder to the space behind the effects racks, where the Vicar was stretched out. He rose from behind them almost like a magician appearing out of thin air.

" Richard the B. It has been a long while. A pity it could not have been a little bit longer."

And with that, he walked over and shook him by the hand. He would always shake people's hand with his left hand, while putting his right hand on his heart, and bowing slightly. It made the greeting look slightly Japanese. Idiosyncratic, to the last. He at least did not seem to be at all overawed by the occasion. If anything he was amused by it.

"I told Punk that you were coming for a nightcap. He would seem to have started without you. I think he had designs on both that expensive brandy bottle, and also the adorable, divine, sensual but even more expensive form of Siobhan. Between you and me, I think that he has only had a fifty percent success rate."

" I don't have time, David. Did you see the National lottery tonight?" Breamore was all business.

"No, I cannot say that I find the lottery very enthralling. Not much chance of winning, you see. Even with God on my side. Small problem of not buying a ticket. And I do not entirely approve of that presenter, Anthea Whoever. Call me old fashioned, but I do feel that celebrities should set a moral example".

"You were always high on morality. And low on wealth." He bragged. "And I am afraid you are out of date. Anthea Turner resigned long ago. But let's skip the discussion on the poor man's stock exchange. Billy G performed live on the show tonight".

Billy G, for those of you who have spent the last few years on Mars, used to be a PowerGirl, but had recently left to pursue a solo career.

" Billy G?" the Vicar raised his eyebrows. " It surprises me that she would appear on the lottery. Is she not the self same lady who has been filling the tabloids with campaigns to bring back live music and to ban lip syncing on television. A most worthy cause."

" Yes" Breamore nodded wearily.

"And is not the National Lottery mimed?" the Vicar made it sound like a mock swear word.

"Yes" Breamore continued patiently. "This slot became free at the last minute, and I persuaded her that it was critical to her solo career that she should appear on it. It's prime time TV, with millions of viewers,"

" So you gave her millions of reasons to swallow her scruples, and she did."

"Always the philosopher. I must get on. I need to get back to London shortly. I have a video here. Have you a player somewhere?" Breamore was not accustomed to being kept waiting.

Without more ado, the Vicar ushered him out of the studio and across the yard into his immaculately tidy guest room in the adjoining house. I noticed an ironing board propped in the corner, and thought how typical of the Vicar it would be to iron his clothes every morning. Like the rest of us, I'm lucky if I even remember to take mine off when I go to bed.

Breamore put the video into the player and grabbed the remote control. He whizzed forwards until we could see the cameras moving to Billy G who was obviously performing solo, without the pretence of a backing band. He put the video into play and turned up the volume. I wondered what could have troubled him so much as to bring him to Real World at two o'clock in the morning. The music was obviously perfect as it was simply the CD playing while Billy G mimed on top of it. Perhaps it was the camera work that had offended him. It seemed perfectly normal to me. There was a certain amount of dry ice around the place and the camera angles chopped and changed and swirled around in what seemed a standard BBC sort of way. In fact, Billy G was looking stunning. I wouldn't mind the chance to work on her, if you know what I mean. I was beginning to enjoy the performance, and liked the song.

And then it happened.

She was just at the beginning of the third verse when she got the words wrong. It looked ridiculous. Her lips were obviously saying one thing, while the sound did something different. You could see that she was distressed. There was a short instrumental break in the music, during which she whirled and twirled, and then she sang again. It was unbelievable. She still hadn't remembered the words. In fact, her body movements were now completely out of time with track. It was like a comedy of errors. How to make a complete idiot of yourself live in front of 10 million viewers. Breamore paused the video.

The Vicar spoke first.

"A complete public relations success I should say. Congratulations. That will certainly bring the question of lip syncing to the public attention. I am not sure, however, that it will be exactly good publicity for her. A selfless act of professional suicide."

" You're not suggesting that she did it on purpose?" Breamore was appalled at the idea.

"No professional singer can get a song they have rehearsed that wrong. She must have done it on purpose".

"As usual you have not entirely grasped the point. She did not forget the song. It was the backing track that was wrong, not her. Someone altered the backing track."

"Are you suggesting that while la prima donna was singing, the track veered off into previously uncharted territories?"

The thought was appalling. Imagine singing live in front of 10 million people, when suddenly someone alters the music you are singing to. It would be enough to give you stage fright for the rest of your life.

"Was she singing to a CD or a DAT?" the Vicar questioned
A DAT for those unfamiliar with recording technology is a Digital Audio Tape, used by most studios for recording their music before putting it onto a CD. I assume you all know about CDs.

"A CD." Breamore replied.

"And do you have the offending item?" The Vicar asked.

Breamore reached into his suitcase, brought out a CD case and handed it to him.

"I am not quite sure that we should be handling this. If you are suggesting that there has been some sort of deliberate crime, then presumably this is a matter for the police. I am not sure what the crime would be. Something like making the National Lottery almost watchable," the Vicar chuckled.

"I am pleased that you find things amusing." Breamore puffed his nostrils, and snorted like a thoroughbred racehorse. "I regard it with the utmost seriousness. As Billy G's manager I have a duty to protect her from anything like this".

" Not to mention the fact that it was you that encouraged her to appear on the show in the first place, and that if her sales drop, you may not be able to afford that chauffeur." The more Breamore got annoyed, the more the Vicar enjoyed himself.

"I suppose there is no way you will believe that I am here on Billy G's behalf, as much as my own."

"Oh come on. There are thousands of others where she came from. So long as the company image is not tarnished."

Breamore stared at the Vicar. He was clearly not accustomed to being spoken to in this manner. I couldn't take my eyes from them. It was better than watching a boxing match. Some cable channel should have Breamore versus the Vicar on pay per view.

"I came here in the hope that you might be willing to help me."

The moment of surrender. This was probably as close to pleading as a man like Breamore ever gets. Hey, if this was WWF wrestling, by my reckoning, Breamore had now been choke slammed and was banging on the mat.

The Vicar decided to have mercy. He drew up a chair and offered one to Breamore.

"I am intrigued. Given our previous history, why on earth would you suppose that I would help you? And what exactly do you think that I can do for you? Always supposing that I am willing."

"You have something of a reputation" Breamore shuffled in his seat. " As I should know having been on the receiving end of your skills in the past."

He laughed nervously at his own joke.

"I hope, as two gentlemen, we can set that aside. I am sure you will agree that I have eaten my fair share of humble pie by being here at all."

This comment seemed to invite a friendly reply from the Vicar, but none was forthcoming, so Breamore continued. "I can recall reading in Music Week of several other cases where you have triumphed. There was one only recently about that Argentinian band, you were producing, whose record label were deliberately trying to bury their releases."

He looked up at the Vicar, who still sat there silently.

"Would it help if I told you that until his recent problems, Melville - Malvolio as you so cruelly call him - was convinced that you were the most brilliant man he had ever met?" Breamore tried as a last throw of the dice.

"Indeed it might." The Vicar said, breaking his silence. "Flattery will get you everywhere, as you well know. And you are generous to have taken an interest in my career, if not in the music that I produce."

He seemed extremely amused by the whole thing.

"So you have come here to hire James Bond. Licensed to kill with a DAT machine and a roll of AMPEX tape. All very wonderful. You seem to overlook the fact that the affairs referred to in those Music Week articles concerned poor downtrodden musicians who were being maltreated by large greedy record companies. I did not exactly cast myself as James Bond, or even Robin Hood. I found myself in a position in which I could use the rather pitiful authority that I have earned in this industry to improve the lot of some deserving souls. I rather fear that if there were to be a civil war in the record business, I would be fighting against you rather than with you."

"Why do you insist on seeing the record business as a conflict. Is it not a partnership between management and the musicians?"

I think the question was meant to be rhetori-thingy, you know, one that doesn't need an answer. But the Vicar would never let something like that go.

"A partnership in which the management gets rich, and ends up owning everything, including the music written by the musicians, while the musicians do all the work."

"Can we not save this argument for another day?" Breamore held up his hands as if surrendering. "We shall agree to differ. Billy G is a musician, who can benefit from your help."

"I am sure that the police would serve you better. Although this is close to the most exciting offer I have ever had. I have never been hired as a trouble shooter before."

I could see that the Vicar was tempted by the idea.

"Nor would you be now." Breamore replied. "You would come on board as part of her crew. Only, hopefully, while you are there, you can apply that bright little mind of yours to the problem of preventing anything like this happening again."

"Does Billy G need a record producer. Best beware. We might make strange music together."

"No. She does not need a record producer, and I would not let you within a mile of her recordings. She makes simple, popular, commercial recordings. She does, however, need a sound engineer to go with her on tour."

"Sound engineer?! Do you not know the difference between a producer and a sound engineer?" The Vicar did a good impersonation of someone who has just trodden on a dog turd. "Simple souls like Punk here do the engineering and knob twiddling. We producers concern ourselves with loftier matters."

He paused.

"That is not, however, to say that I might be above demeaning myself for a week or two. Punk can always show me what to do if I don't know how some of the toys work. Will this tour take me to exotic places? A week in Bognor Regis, followed by a fortnight in Skegness, might not be sufficient to tempt me."

"It begins at the Sun Plaza in Japan in three weeks time. Although we would of course need you to start tomorrow."

"Good God, Richard, you are just as absurd as ever. You come here in the middle of the night, bringing me all your problems, expecting me to drop everything and come at the snap of your fingers. You forget that I have an album to finish. That is expected to take another week. When it is finished, and assuming that my wife is willing to humour me, I will come and see what we can do for Miss G. And now", motioning Breamore towards the door, "Goodnight. You have a chauffeur to catch, and I have a duty to ruffle my sheets before getting up again, as otherwise the chambermaid will be out of a job. My office will be in touch with you to discuss a suitably ruinous fee for my services. I am sure I can endeavour to be the most expensive sound engineer you have ever hired."

And with that, Breamore and I left the room, as he closed the door behind us.

And that is how it all began.

The Vicar was as good as his word. For the next week he seemed to put the excitement about Billy G out of his mind, and was his normal irritable self as we put the finishing touches to the album by Diva. Even at meal times, he never discussed anything other than the current album. Which was some feat, as supper at Real World is a complete gossipfest. In fact the communal supper - or should it be "dinner" - is one of the main reasons for using the studio. The Vicar may be obsessed with acoustics and nourishment of the soul, but the rest of us couldn't give a damn about acoustics and like our nourishment in the form of large steaks and sticky puddings, "little beasts of delight", as the Vicar would call them. And where else would I get to sit down and gossip with the likes of Peter Gabriel, Sting, or the gorgeous Diva (the first victim for my newly planned, less than a few seconds old, "indiscretions" video - dodgy footage of big time stars, available from my website. www.bigfuckingpipedreams.com. I had this great picture of a blob of mayonnaise escaping from her sandwich and landing unceremoniously on the side of her face. If you like that sort of thing.)?

And everyone at the table had only one subject of conversation – Billy G's performance, or lack of it. When asked, the Vicar would simply say "Tabloid tittle tattle". And Tabloid tittle tattle it certainly was, as they all carried the story. They were universal in their condemnation of her. Many carried a picture of her taken from the broadcast looking bemused and lost. You can imagine the sort of thing: "Billy gets Lippy and don't she look Silly" – front page of the Daily Whatever.

From the amount of brandy I drank, I might have thought that the whole meeting with Breamore was a dream, if it were not for some notes that I found on the back of a studio track list. They were written by the Vicar, and showed that he had given the matter more thought than he was letting on. It read

Who gains ?

- other acts?

Revenge?

- ex record company

- ex publisher

- other members of PowerGirl

- loony fans

And then written in large underlined writing across the bottom, he had added

"Why not the police?"