I Really, Really Want It

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

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

AUTHOR’S WARNING. This book features real characters and
real events. It reflects bad people (and good people) doing bad things and, as
such, it contains strong language and some scenes that are violent or sexual in
nature. I make no apologies for that; ‘the truth is rarely plain and never
simple’ – and usually ugly.

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

Andrew Manning has spent 20 years masterfully reviving
celebrity careers that have been rocked by scandal, but now some particularly
difficult and demanding characters are about strain even his abilities to the

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

Joey. Handsome, young reality TV star and sex symbol. His
career is in tatters after launching an expletive-laden attack against the
Queen of England, but he’s determined to hang on to his celebrity even if it
means 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 (and
creature) to…

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

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

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

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

I Really, Really Want It also features shocking cameo
performances from a glittering list of famous, household names. Is your
favorite celebrity in the book?


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

Of course, she could have flown over in the private jet, but
with a world tour about to kick off and a new album coming up she needed an
entrance 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 like
she’s in her twenties but, in reality, she’s far removed from that happy
decade. Nowadays, it takes hard work to keep looking as good as she does. Hard
work and fresh, young flesh. Very young flesh. She hopes Charlie won’t have any
problems 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. By
blood. He is her creature.


What a complete and utter monster. That’s my exact line of
thought as I sit here in what is arguably one of the best restaurants in the
country. It’s certainly one of the most expensive. Across the table from me is
Shelley Bright. I should be at least vaguely pleased with myself, after all
Shelley 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 rest
of 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 – please
see above.

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

Shelley is talking. Still talking. About sodding handbags.
Gucci, Prada, Chanel, Versace. She has the lot. God bless her. I am so pleased
for her. I look closely at Shelley as she witters on. Now I am gay as gay can
be, I wasn’t so much hit with the lavender stick as I was bludgeoned by it, but
even 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 bow
lips and that famous, finely structured nose that is neither too big nor too
small. And yet despite all this beauty there is a problem. Look closely, that’s
it, get right in there. Look into her eyes. Sure they are the brightest blue
but they are peculiarly empty, devoid of life or even emotion. There is nothing
going 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 toys
that people used to stick on the dashboards of Ford Escorts. Poor Shelley, she
has everything needed to be a celebrity: good looks, ruthless ambition, the
readiness to betray anyone or anything in a single heartbeat and a vast, ever
hungry ego. Apart from that, though, she’s shallow, empty and as thick as a
prison wall. Shelley is about money and fame. And that’s it. If you scratch her
outer veneer of celebrity glamour, if you peel it back and look beneath, you’ll
find 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 this
the wrong way, but I do move in somewhat more elevated circles than you), and
you won’t hear my name mentioned on the tele or see it in those crappy celeb
gossip magazines that you buy almost religiously from Tesco every week. Despite
my 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 Andrew
Manning, celebrity agent extraordinaire. I’ve spent twenty years working with
the rich and famous. I specialise in stars in trouble, I’m the guy celebs come
to when they’ve fucked up, when they’ve been caught taking drugs, sleeping with
the wrong girl (or boy), when they’ve been discovered cheating, lying or
stealing, when they have a messy divorce to deal with or when they need
something doing that’s a little bit (or quite a lot) outside the bounds of the

I am average looking (though with the glossy sheen that only
money and very expensive dentistry can achieve), I am short, I have a receding
hairline, 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 the
bodies 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 – for
now. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope you stick around, I’m
sure 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 of
cuntola about fucking handbags. At last I’m going to find out what this ghastly
woman wants from me.

“So, Andrew, I got, like, a little problem you could help me
with, innit. It’s Jack, like, it’s all that gay stuff, I just can’t take it no
more. I is a woman, I need to be loved, innit. I can’t stay in no pretend
marriage 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 in
an outrageously opulent mansion in Cheshire. Their marriage four years ago (all
put 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 sexuality
and Shelley wanted a high profile and (very) rich husband. Ah, a celebrity
match made in heaven!

I look at Shelley more closely. I ponder exactly what she is
going 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 is
irrelevant 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 fiddling
around with other football luvies and God knows who else since day one, so
why’s all this become a problem now?”

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

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

Shelley’s quite right, I am rude. And, by the way, my use of
bad 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 spectrum
Tourette’s syndrome? Consider yourself warned and I hope you’re not going to
prove to be uptight and easily shocked.

Truth be told, I’m already pretty sure that I know what
Shelley 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 I
don’t love Jack, even if he is a quee…sorry, gay, innit. It’s cos me and my
management, 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 make
it out there…”

Now I know exactly where this conversation is going and I
start 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 over
there with DJ Extasy and he is, like, just sooo famous in America, innit, and
he 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, Jack
won’t be no help breaking me in the American market and I mean, like, I don’t
see why he should stand in my way, it’s cos I got the right to fully express
myself 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 a
divorce of convenience so you can enter into a new relationship of convenience
to further your career and earn even more money than you already do. Oh, and
I’m guessing you’re also looking for Jack to take the blame for the divorce and
to pay you off with a nice, juicy settlement. Would that be about right by any

Shelley looks a trifle petulant, but nods in silent

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

“Well, I thought we could…” Shelley mumbles, averting her
glance away from me, the end of her sentence so quiet as to be inaudible. Not
that I need to hear what she’s saying to know what’s on her mind, I just want
to make her squirm a bit, so I reply, “I’m sorry, I missed that, what did you

“I thought we could….” Shelley’s lips move but still no

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

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

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

I lean back in my seat, look at Shelley, again I see a dead
hamster in my mind, tumbling around lifelessly inside a spinning wheel, and I
think 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, his
sexuality. We’ll put together a little scenario in which he’ll come into a
contact with an attractive guy in a controlled environment, that being one in
which we can covertly film. Based on Jack’s taste we’ll select our guy
carefully to ensure that he’ll give into temptation, we’ll get a nice movie
made of the action, and, bish bosh, you get your divorce. And when it comes to
your juicy settlement…no problem. Just show Jack the mini cinematic classic we
have of him going at it hammer and tongs with another bloke. You’ll get
whatever 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 knows
I’ve rescued enough of them from the shit over the years! I mean, let’s be
honest, what kind of a man likes running around in tight shorts with fit young
men for ninety minutes, and then get naked and jump in a bath with them
afterwards? 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,

“What’s that, Shelley?”

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

“Already factored that in, piece of piss, we just find some
long-legged blonde with big tits and bung her some cash to be the third party.
cruelly wronged “England’s Sweetheart” and Jack’s a red blooded heterosexual
male…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, twisted
way, and I still think you is rude, but, yeh, like, you is genius. Will it cost
a lot?”

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

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

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

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

Right. At this point I think I should level with you. You’ve
been 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 who
fund 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 of
its offer) is as relevant to me as Shelley’s comments on gays. That’s to say, I
don’t care what you think. I’m not like you.

I’ve never wanted two kids and a mortgage and a nine to five
job, not even if I had been unlucky enough to have been born straight. I’ve
always wanted more: more money, more power, more independence. I may well
despise most celebrities and lots of them are truly disgusting people, but
given the lifestyle working with them gives me, I’ll put up with the rough that
comes with the smooth. Sorry, I’m unapologetic about what I am and what I do so
if 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. I
really don’t give a fuck.

 Meanwhile, back in
the restaurant, the delightful and scintillating Shelley, who’s confident that
she’s now got what she wanted, has moved the conversation back to the pressing
subject of handbags. And then make up. And from there she segues almost
seamlessly 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


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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Richard Hennerley


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