I Really, Really Want It

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Celebrities have secrets. Meet the man who knows them alland will do anything to keep them quiet. Even murder.

AUTHORS NOTE: The events described in this book are true. Ihave changed only names and locations to protect the innocent – and the guilty.

AUTHOR’S WARNING. This book features real characters andreal events. It reflects bad people (and good people) doing bad things and, assuch, it contains strong language and some scenes that are violent or sexual innature. I make no apologies for that; ‘the truth is rarely plain and neversimple’ – and usually ugly.

“Excellent writing. Fresh, engaging and pushing theboundaries. It’s written by someone who has obviously worked in the celebrityindustry…a fascinating insight into a glamorous but tawdry world.” U.S.REVIEWS

Andrew Manning has spent 20 years masterfully revivingcelebrity careers that have been rocked by scandal, but now some particularlydifficult and demanding characters are about strain even his abilities to thelimit:

Shelley. Model and fashion icon, she’s determined toblackmail her closeted, gay footballer husband into a lucrative divorcesettlement…but Shelley has her own dark and destructive secret.

Joey. Handsome, young reality TV star and sex symbol. Hiscareer is in tatters after launching an expletive-laden attack against theQueen of England, but he’s determined to hang on to his celebrity even if itmeans slowly poisoning himself to death.

The Producer, a king in the world of entertainment – rich,powerful, sexually deviant and a serial abuser of hopeful young wannabes.

Charlie. Morbidly obese, murderous Mafiosi adviser (andcreature) to…

Janey. Musical superstar, mad, bad and dangerous to know.Janey consumes liquidized human fetuses in the belief this will preserve heryouthful (or should that be vampiric?) good looks.

Johnny. Andrew’s partner, a psychopath with a heart of goldand voices in his head. He’s on a mission to murder as many celebrities aspossible.

And when an ambitious young photographer snaps Janey in themiddle of one of her disgusting meals, things begin to spin rapidly out ofcontrol for Andrew.

How will Andrew reconcile the demands of such disparate anddesperate characters? And who’s going to end up dead?

I Really, Really Want It also features shocking cameoperformances from a glittering list of famous, household names. Is yourfavorite celebrity in the book?

JANEY. MAKING AN ENTRANCE.

As the limo speeds away from Heathrow, Janey is delightedwith the way things went. What a fucking entrance! The moment she stepped intothe arrivals lounge it had been total chaos: screaming fans, paparazzi,cameramen, microphones, journalists, police, security. All there for her, JaneyJax. She’s a fucking star. No one comes close to her. Rivals come, rivals goand still she stays at the top. Numero. Fucking. Uno. No-one comes evenslightly close. Look at that Missy Go Go. Where is she now? Nowhere. Skank.

Of course, she could have flown over in the private jet, butwith a world tour about to kick off and a new album coming up she needed anentrance with maximum impact – at least that’s what Charlie had advised  and, as always, Charlie had been right.

The day’s events have left her tired, though. So tired.People forget that she’s not a young girl anymore. She may still look likeshe’s in her twenties but, in reality, she’s far removed from that happydecade. Nowadays, it takes hard work to keep looking as good as she does. Hardwork and fresh, young flesh. Very young flesh. She hopes Charlie won’t have anyproblems sourcing what she needs here in England. But, no, she shouldn’t worry.Charlie is very capable. He knows what she wants, and he is bound to her. Byblood. He is her creature.

ANDREW. BLACKMAIL AND HANDBAGS.

What a complete and utter monster. That’s my exact line ofthought as I sit here in what is arguably one of the best restaurants in thecountry. It’s certainly one of the most expensive. Across the table from me isShelley Bright. I should be at least vaguely pleased with myself, after allShelley is one of the most beautiful and admired women in the country,christened “England’s Sweetheart” by my mates in the gutter press. To the restof the world Shelley is a chart-topping singer, television star, famous beauty,fashion icon. To me the woman is a total…well, I won’t repeat myself – pleasesee above.

As I chew on my ridiculously expensive Kobe steak I try tolook interested and engaged as Shelley drawls on, in her grating accent, whichis half Essex and half south London council estate, about her handbagcollection. Apparently she’s got nearly a hundred of the bloody things, worthfar north of three hundred thousand quid. She sees no contradiction in suchgrotesquely conspicuous consumption of over-priced bags with her role as aUnited Nations Goodwill Ambassador. But that’s a very celeb thing. These peopleare not like ordinary folk. Their toweringly titanic egos dictate to them thatthey are simply not bound by the same rules of decent, normal behaviour asother people. I think Shelley, like many other celebrities (and lots ofbankers, financiers and industrialists – but that’s another story for anotherday), is actually a borderline psychopath. Not a goggle-eyed, axe-wieldingpsychopath but someone who displays psychopathic traits such as an  inability to feel empathy, compassion, orguilt.

Shelley is talking. Still talking. About sodding handbags.Gucci, Prada, Chanel, Versace. She has the lot. God bless her. I am so pleasedfor her. I look closely at Shelley as she witters on. Now I am gay as gay canbe, I wasn’t so much hit with the lavender stick as I was bludgeoned by it, buteven I can see that Shelley is an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Tall, slim,great tits, long and glossy blonde hair cascading over elegant shoulders,framing a face with luminous, blue eyes, high cheekbones, luscious cupid’s bowlips and that famous, finely structured nose that is neither too big nor toosmall. And yet despite all this beauty there is a problem. Look closely, that’sit, get right in there. Look into her eyes. Sure they are the brightest bluebut they are peculiarly empty, devoid of life or even emotion. There is nothinggoing on. The wheel is turning but the hamster is well and truly dead. In fact,Shelley reminds me of one those velveteen covered, plastic nodding dog toysthat people used to stick on the dashboards of Ford Escorts. Poor Shelley, shehas everything needed to be a celebrity: good looks, ruthless ambition, thereadiness to betray anyone or anything in a single heartbeat and a vast, everhungry ego. Apart from that, though, she’s shallow, empty and as thick as aprison wall. Shelley is about money and fame. And that’s it. If you scratch herouter veneer of celebrity glamour, if you peel it back and look beneath, you’llfind nothing but a gaping, black space with the wind whistling through it.

But who am I, anyway, to so bitchily take the piss out of“England’s Sweetheart?” Well, I can safely say we’ve not met (don’t take thisthe wrong way, but I do move in somewhat more elevated circles than you), andyou won’t hear my name mentioned on the tele or see it in those crappy celebgossip magazines that you buy almost religiously from Tesco every week. Despitemy deliberately low profile, I’m intimately involved in the celebrity world.I’m one of celebrity’s backroom boys. In fact I’m the backroom boy. I am AndrewManning, celebrity agent extraordinaire. I’ve spent twenty years working withthe rich and famous. I specialise in stars in trouble, I’m the guy celebs cometo when they’ve fucked up, when they’ve been caught taking drugs, sleeping withthe wrong girl (or boy), when they’ve been discovered cheating, lying orstealing, when they have a messy divorce to deal with or when they needsomething doing that’s a little bit (or quite a lot) outside the bounds of thelaw.

I am average looking (though with the glossy sheen that onlymoney and very expensive dentistry can achieve), I am short, I have a recedinghairline, I am a happy, proud and (given the chance) proselytising homosexual,I am in my forties, I am incredibly wealthy, I am a fixer, I am a press agent,I am a re-packager and reviver of damaged celebrity. I know where all thebodies are buried. I know who did what to whom. I am a powerful and feared man.Don’t fuck with me.

That’s about as much as I’m going to tell you about me – fornow. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope you stick around, I’msure we can have fun together.

Enough introductions, let’s get back to the restaurant,where Shelley has (finally and mercifully) moved on from talking a load ofcuntola about fucking handbags. At last I’m going to find out what this ghastlywoman wants from me.

“So, Andrew, I got, like, a little problem you could help mewith, innit. It’s Jack, like, it’s all that gay stuff, I just can’t take it nomore. I is a woman, I need to be loved, innit. I can’t stay in no pretendmarriage with a queer one moment longer…oh, sorry, I forgot you is one too, like,uhm, gay, that is.”

Jack is Jack Brierley, her very wealthy and extremely famous(and secretly gay) Premier League footballer husband. Jack and Shelley live inan outrageously opulent mansion in Cheshire. Their marriage four years ago (allput together by yours truly, thanks very much) was the celeb event of the year.Jack needed a wife to smother (the all too true) rumours about his sexualityand Shelley wanted a high profile and (very) rich husband. Ah, a celebritymatch made in heaven!

I look at Shelley more closely. I ponder exactly what she isgoing to ask me, and reply, “Shelley, love, you can label me anyway you like,queer, turd burglar, arse bandit, whatever, your view of my bedroom habits isirrelevant to me. What I do want to know is why so squeamish all of a sudden?You knew Jack was gay when you married him and you know he’s been fiddlingaround with other football luvies and God knows who else since day one, sowhy’s all this become a problem now?”

Shelley seems momentarily nonplussed by my remarks, thengathers herself and comes back with,
“Andrew, I is really not sure that you should speak to me like that, Ithinks it’s a bit rude, innit.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, spare me… rude is what I do! It’sone of the reasons I’m good at my job, it’s a sign of my willingness to getdown in there in the shit and sort out the kind of problems people like you getyourselves into. If my business had a motto, it’d be “I get my hands dirty andyours stay clean,” so you’ll have to grant me the odd act of rudeness, I’mafraid. Now, cut the wailing and gnashing of teeth about the horror of having agay husband and tell me exactly what’s going on and what you want me to do foryou.”

Shelley’s quite right, I am rude. And, by the way, my use ofbad language is appalling. I’m not sure why I swear so much, but I do –sometimes I think I’ve got a strange type of undiagnosed, low spectrumTourette’s syndrome? Consider yourself warned and I hope you’re not going toprove to be uptight and easily shocked.

Truth be told, I’m already pretty sure that I know whatShelley wants. I’m almost certain it’ll have something to do with her on-going,and so far unsuccessful, attempt to break the American market.

And waddaya know…here we go…“Well, like, it’s not that Idon’t love Jack, even if he is a quee…sorry, gay, innit. It’s cos me and mymanagement, well, we reckon I can be, like, dead big in America, innit, but,like, no-one knows Jack in the States and, like I really, really want to makeit out there…”

Now I know exactly where this conversation is going and Istart singing Tammy Wynette’s D.I.V.O.R.C.E. in my head.

“….and you see, my management have got me all fixed up overthere with DJ Extasy and he is, like, just sooo famous in America, innit, andhe says he’ll be my boyfriend so we can get some really good press and, like,those Swedish guys have written me some great songs, innit, and, like, Jackwon’t be no help breaking me in the American market and I mean, like, I don’tsee why he should stand in my way, it’s cos I got the right to fully expressmyself as, like, a woman and a star, innit?…”

“Okay, okay…slow down. Let’s just be honest here, Shelley,you have a marriage of convenience with Jack and now you’re looking for adivorce of convenience so you can enter into a new relationship of convenienceto further your career and earn even more money than you already do. Oh, andI’m guessing you’re also looking for Jack to take the blame for the divorce andto pay you off with a nice, juicy settlement. Would that be about right by anychance?”

Shelley looks a trifle petulant, but nods in silentagreement.

“And how, exactly, might we go about achieving your wishes?Any ideas?”

“Well, I thought we could…” Shelley mumbles, averting herglance away from me, the end of her sentence so quiet as to be inaudible. Notthat I need to hear what she’s saying to know what’s on her mind, I just wantto make her squirm a bit, so I reply, “I’m sorry, I missed that, what did yousay?”

“I thought we could….” Shelley’s lips move but still nosound.

 “And again…” I press,leaning forward and cupping my right hand behind my ear.

“Oh, shit, fuck… blackmail, blackmail. I thought we couldblackmail him! There, is you happy now that I is saying the word?”

“It’s not a question of being happy, I just want to makesure we’re both singing from the same script.”

I lean back in my seat, look at Shelley, again I see a deadhamster in my mind, tumbling around lifelessly inside a spinning wheel, and Ithink about how I might deal with her request. Quickly I come to a decision.“Alright, this is what we’ll do. Jack’s weak point is, obviously, hissexuality. We’ll put together a little scenario in which he’ll come into acontact with an attractive guy in a controlled environment, that being one inwhich we can covertly film. Based on Jack’s taste we’ll select our guycarefully to ensure that he’ll give into temptation, we’ll get a nice moviemade of the action, and, bish bosh, you get your divorce. And when it comes toyour juicy settlement…no problem. Just show Jack the mini cinematic classic wehave of him going at it hammer and tongs with another bloke. You’ll getwhatever you ask. Jack knows what happens to fags in football.” This is ironic,to my mind. Trust me, there are lots and lots of gay footballers. God knowsI’ve rescued enough of them from the shit over the years! I mean, let’s behonest, what kind of a man likes running around in tight shorts with fit youngmen for ninety minutes, and then get naked and jump in a bath with themafterwards? A gay man, that’s who – it’s bloody obvious!

Across the table, I can see Shelley is listening intently.She looks very excited by the idea of a divorce and a big pay out: good grief,could that be a spark of life in her eyes? Surely not!

“That all sounds great, like, but you forgot one thing,innit.”

“What’s that, Shelley?”

“I got my public profile to think of ain’t I?  It’s like what you said, innit, you gottamake sure he’s the one what takes the blame for the divorce.”

“Already factored that in, piece of piss, we just find somelong-legged blonde with big tits and bung her some cash to be the third party.That way you can be SHATTERED SHELLEY WEEPS IN PUBLIC AS AFFAIR WITH BLONDEBIMBO REVEALED  and Jack will be BONKINGBRIERLEY BANGS BUSTY BLONDE.  You’re acruelly wronged “England’s Sweetheart” and Jack’s a red blooded heterosexualmale…you’re happy and Jack builds on his macho, shagging, lads together,hetero reputation – though at the cost of a huge divorce settlement to you.”

“Oh, Andrew, you is a genius, innit, in a, like, twistedway, and I still think you is rude, but, yeh, like, you is genius. Will it costa lot?”

“Well, obviously. You know I don’t come cheap, but you alsoknow I always deliver.”

“Okay, so will you set it all up like?”

“Yep, don’t worry, I need to think about exactly where we dothe job, and I’ll need some stuff from you – Jack’s movements, the kind of guyshe likes – but let me think things through and we’ll meet again to finaliseeverything.”

Shelley looks very happy. Like the cat that got the cream.She’s delighted, and genuinely happy  atthe prospect of completely fucking over her husband. Bless her.

Right. At this point I think I should level with you. You’vebeen listening in on me  for a while now.I’m guessing you think I’m a bit of a shitbag, ready to slag off the people whofund my lifestyle, prepared to blackmail one of my own kind to line my pockets.So, here’s the deal. Your opinion (even though I appreciate the sincerity ofits offer) is as relevant to me as Shelley’s comments on gays. That’s to say, Idon’t care what you think. I’m not like you.

I’ve never wanted two kids and a mortgage and a nine to fivejob, not even if I had been unlucky enough to have been born straight. I’vealways wanted more: more money, more power, more independence. I may welldespise most celebrities and lots of them are truly disgusting people, butgiven the lifestyle working with them gives me, I’ll put up with the rough thatcomes with the smooth. Sorry, I’m unapologetic about what I am and what I do soif you and me are going to get along, you’re just going to have to accept that.As the divine Gloria once said, “I am what I am.” Like me. Don’t like me. Ireally don’t give a fuck.

 Meanwhile, back inthe restaurant, the delightful and scintillating Shelley, who’s confident thatshe’s now got what she wanted, has moved the conversation back to the pressingsubject of handbags. And then make up. And from there she segues almostseamlessly to the subjects of  fashion,
expensive fragrances, Vertu phones and other bling. You know, all the important
and meaningful things in life.

And still Shelley talks. On and on. Spouting a load of
non-stop, total cuntola. I distract myself by looking at a cute young waiter
over the other side of the restaurant. Briefly, I toy with the idea of slipping
him my number. Then I remember that, though very rich, I’m probably old enough
to be his dad and not exactly sex on legs. Anyway, my gorgeous Johnny is
waiting for me back home in Primrose Hill.

When I’ve had absolutely as much as I can bear of Shelley,
and feel myself sinking beneath a sea of utterly pointless pointlessness I,
politely, call a halt to proceedings by citing a heavy workload. We stand, say
our goodbyes and air kiss. I tell Shelley we’ll meet again to put the finishing
touches to our plan for Jack’s demise as her husband. Outside the restaurant
she has a car waiting for her. She asks if I would like a lift, but the idea of
spending any more time with this hideous woman makes me feel queasy so I
decline.

SHELLEY. SHE HAS HER NEEDS.

Shelley’s chauffer opens the door to her car, allowing her
to step in and relax into the comfortable leather back seat. She is extremely
pleased that Andrew has declined the offer of a lift. She snaps out an address
in Holland Park to her now seated driver, imperiously waving a “forward” motion
with one immaculately manicured hand.

As the car cruises comfortably and quietly through the West
End traffic she peers out of the tinted windows, looking at the ordinary,
little people, scuttling around the streets, living their hum-drum, dull lives,
just finished work, going back to the wives and snotty no-hoper kids, dashing
for a bit of late shopping in some cheap clothing chain store. Horrible,
horrible! Thinking of such miserable, drab ordinariness, she shivers inwardly
and clutches her Prada handbag tightly to herself, as though it were some sort
of talisman to protect her from ever going back to the life she used to lead.
The life being lived by those sad, pathetic people out there.

That fucking gay wanker, Andrew. She fucking hates him.
Smart-arse, shit stabbing, faggot bastard with his clever words and his
turd-burgling ways. Fucking queers, she’s fucking sick of them. For God’s sake,
it’s bad enough being married to one, let alone having to pay shed loads of
money to one to get rid of the other!

Nope, there’ll be no more bloody poofs for Shelley. She
can’t remember the last time she had a proper shag. Doesn’t Andrew realise how
hard it’s been for her, married to bloody Jack? Okay, the marriage did wonders
for her career, but at the cost of having to live with some bloody shirt
lifter. She has needs, she’s a special person who should be treated right, and
that bloody Jack got a good deal out of the marriage too. Nobody whispers about
him being a fag anymore. She saved his career, and now it’s only right that she
should be allowed to move on and that she should get a huge divorce settlement
for pretend wife fucking services rendered. Who the fuck is Andrew to look down
his nose at her?

After a short while, Shelley’s attention span begins to lag
and she grows tired of staring out of the car window at the ordinary people and
imagining their dull and cheap lives. Her thoughts shift instead to a tightly
wrapped cellophane package in her handbag. She opens the bag, for the seventh
or eighth time today, just to check that the package is still there. She feels
a stab of relief and excitement when she sees that indeed it is: when she gets
to Anthea’s place they’re going to have such fun together!

Oh yes, Shelley has her needs…

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Author

Richard Hennerley

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