|
A thunderous metallic tour bus, with blacked out windows snaked through some backwater town on the journey from Atlanta to New York. The smell of five men in their thirties wafted through the air, giving off a distinictive smell, reminiscent of standing in line at the cheese counter at Sainsbury’s. CNN played on an overhead television set, a blonde women with big hair sat behind a giant desk, her lips move but no sound comes out, as the Aphex Twin, blared out, bigedly bigedly, bleep bleep bleep. Thom Yorke, singer of Radiohead lay in his bunk, looking at his computer. He poked his head out of the closed curtains looking like he's in a puppet show and squinted down the bus. ‘Oi, Jonny, come over and take a look at this,’ he said adjusting his G3 laptop rested on top of his lap. Jonny Greenwood, the bucky teethed guitar hero, stood up from the sofa at the back of the bus where he's been playing his guitar and bumped his head. ‘Fuck it, I wish I wasn’t so fucking tall. I’m always bumping my nut’, he said rubbing his head, as he negotiateds his way down the rocking and rolling bus, like he's trying to learn to surf.‘How many times have you bumped your head today Ed?’ said Jonny as passed the lanky guitarist, all eight feet of him squeezed into his coffin sized bunk. ’18 times and it’s only 11 o’clock,’ he replied. ‘It’s a curse mate’. Thom smiled, rubbed his hand over his non-lumpy head and thanked for the lord once again for making him so short. ‘Mummy, always said good things come in small packages,’ he thought to himself. ‘What do you want Thom? said Jonny, secretly pissed off that Thom would never dream of surfing down the bus when he wanted to speak to him and he never made the tea or swept out the tour bus. ‘I’ve just been having a look at atease, man, our fans are fucking sick’, he said pointing to the yellow screen. ‘What is it this time? said Jonny resignedly still rubbing his head.‘Obsecure Z sides, who’s the hottest, what does Rachel look like, who’s is the baldest, is Colin gay?’ ‘Not Colin. Us. They’ve only been writing fiction about me and you fucking,’ said Thom, laughing. ‘Look some of these blokes are obviously repressing something pretty heavy. Do you think we should put a helpline number on the back of the tickets for our gigs or do some kind of charity single?’. ‘What!’ said Jonnie. ‘Me and you? Fucking? You’re joking? I thought they were all getting off on you fucking Stipe? Now, they’re fantasizing about you and me’. ‘Sorry, I never fancied you mate?’ said Thom.‘You’re just too tall. We just couldn't manage a 69'. 'It's not just blokes, it's chicks too. Look they're all into it. I've never heard of girls being into gay men's porn'. 'Maybe it's something to do with Kid A' says Ed. 'I always said that album messes with your head'. 'Don't talk about heads, mine fucking killing me' said Johnny. 'Whose got heads?' piped up Colin, the buggle eyed bass player sticking his head out of his bunk. 'I'm busting for a decent smoke. This stuff in America is shit. Have you noticed they only a joint toke once before passing it on. Can't get stoned off one toke, can you? Do you think we'll get some heads in New York?' 'Are you taking the piss out of my head again' said Phil, the Samaritian drummer as he walked up from the front of the bus. 'I'm telling you more one bald joke and I'll fucking twat the lot of you cunts'. 'NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT HEAD,' screamed Thom trying to regain his composure like they taught him in therapy. Just count 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.10. The raindrops, The raindrops .... 'Apart from the fucking fans. Maybe we should change the band name to Gimme Head, that will keep them happy. We could do a bit gay orgy scene for the next video, we'll get Stipey over to give us all a few tips. Come lads, it's obviously what our fans want'. |