Saturday, 11 May 2013
Tuesday, 7 May 2013
Sunday, 10 March 2013
Knowing a person for a year of their life would normally classify as a rather small amount of time considering the planet been here for millions of years and still going around in circles!. In more recent times,with true believe ,Now, utter disillusionment ,my true soul mate in life ,Bridget Jones sadly never made it to my world.. Breaking and Entering without caution nor guilt Nile did, age 19 , armed with attitude double his age . Deflating with time after the initial shock of such marquetry in my life "life" a word Nile would choose to differ on many times to come.Here our year begin. Began it did , Nile went to Uni to study films studies at Kingston,I i begin well got fired from my current job, decided to set a Media Company as you do with Nile's help of course -) As the year progressed,, so we did we, hence being a thrown stone away form us receiving exclusive contracts from "Take A Break Magazine" Much fun was had throughout , break ups ,celeb bashing , firing , singing , Nile's speed dating,,countless items Nile throw out of the window of our quiet little abode in London's Brick lane and of course setting the Manic Media Group up. Nile suffered from Schizophrenia and other issues for most of his life. During our time, Nile voluntarily admitted himself to a Mental Health Unit based in East London from May 2011 , then took his life on the 31st on the same month. A Year of Knowing Nile was sadly and unfairly not enough !! Knowing Nile's Page has become a huge hit and now has over 82,000 fans
Sunday, 11 March 2012
The Cumberland Hotel is in Marble Arch. I sold it to Nile that it lies in the heart of the glamorous Mayfair district of London, home to many superstars (couldn’t think of one) and it cost £250 per night (in reality it cost 35 quid). I used to work for the same chain some time ago, so we got a discount to 35 smackers per night on a staff rate. My mother and father have also graced this hotel. Well, actually my mother wanted to leave because there was only a bath at the time, but then she fell in love with the place. When they were returning home I whispered to my dad that a bath—more than one a day—might spice thing up little.
Returning to us in the cab—the cab driver dropped us off in front of the hotel, Nile paid. He liked the place immediately with its modernist, different look and massive reception area with low level lighting in pink and green. When I looked it did not appeal as much. The many places I have been and seen whizzed through my mind as I walked into the centre of the hotel lobby. Nile was mesmerised by an Arab guy, dressed in his national clothes, surrounded by about six women, all dressed the same, black. Nile looked at me. Fuck, I can’t even handle one, was my only thought. Nile then proceeded to walk to over to where they were now sitting, onto benches that lie throughout the very large minimalist reception of the hotel. He dragged me ungratefully over, down he sat and plonked me next door.
We sat there for a while, Nile had lost all interest in the Arabian and his many wives, noting that if he cut me up into pieces then he also would have just as many. I laughed so loud, leading to Nile doing the same. I remember so clearly Nile farting with as much volume as our laughter, and it stank to high heaven. Apologising to all and none concerned, that he had nothing to do with the distressful smell as we ran round in a circle, looking as mad David Hasslehoff in a pop video. Destination—reception, which was achieved and reached.
The receptionist was a pleasant, French man, mid 20s, nice appearance and he gave us his full attention almost immediately.
Without warning Nile and I burst into song;
There’s a fire burning, burning, burning
Feel the love that’s calling, calling
I can see it coming, coming
Can you feel it in the air tonight?
We added a big “yeaaaah!”
Axwell had just come on at the reception’s music player and with no though of where we were the words just shot out, a bit like a page 3 girl’s barrows. I then proceeded to do the dance routine that I had come up with nights ago, which Nile refused to be part of, wholeheartedly. Back in jump, the receptionist looked at us, whispering to Nile;
“Poor chap. I really now believe there is life on another planet.” And we were it. “Can I help you?” No, was my silent thought and Nile burst into laughter straight away due to his strong French accent. The poor man then repeated the question, again Nile was hysterical.
“Can I help you?” Thus leading the giggles back to me, taking charge of the satiation. For fuck’s sake, all we had to do was check in the bloody place. Come on, I’m capable of doing that.
As I was about to say something in help of speeding this process along:
“Can I help you Sir?" That was it. My mission was not going to be accomplished as Nile was crying with laughter on the floor. At this point the Arab and his many wives were watching. (I counted six I recall; Nile swears there were definitely seven) So we waited a bit before either of us could say another word. Nile’s Can I help you? was heard again, the laughter from him was so loud again, that a quick exit was needed. The bar of course was the nearest the place.
Now better composed and to ready act like the adults we were not, we stood at the bar and grabbed the attention of the bar man. Again, a very pleasant chap came straight over.
“What can I get you please?” Nile creased below the bar in laugher. The barman was also fucking French. This one however was having none of our happiness and did say, that if we continued he would get us thrown out.
“What for? Laughing?” Nile’s correct response. I made a truce with him, that we were not to laugh any further, while we were still laughing but trying so hard not to.
The laughter quickly stopped after receiving a call from Claire’s boyfriend, JC. Strange, he never calls me, Claire had had a miscarriage (I didn’t even know that she was pregnant) and she was over in the London Bridge private hospital. She would have loved to see us, as we were not far from there.
When situations like this are thrust upon us, I don’t think you’re ever ready to deal with it. Especially when it presents itself to one’s close friends or family, some you deeply care for. Again, the second time that day I had no words, (apart from the sudden thought that it could have been mine), so Nile took the phone and knew exactly what to say. He asked how JC was, nice to hear from him, our thoughts are with Claire and we would visit the following afternoon. He returned the mobile to me to conclude.
I was silent. This sounds shit I know, I was busy thinking—fuck, if she was pregnant I was hoping it was mine, and now any chance of that had gone. In the past I’ve have a big involvement in children’s upbringing, but out of all things in life, that was one thing high on my agenda. I have now gone down the long term fostering route, give the kids a chance to get to meet "US" and where the local shop is to buy my fags.
“Are you ok Zach?” JC asked, while I held the phone. “Are you okay?” He explained he was very upset as he too was looking forward to being a dad and worried about how deal with this.
“I’m so sorry,” and truly was, I said. Nile was signing with his lips ‘CLARE’. “How’s Clare doing?” was a later added response.
No clairvoyant in world could have been acute and as accurate as Nile was about to be.
"You were hoping the little fella was yours weren’t you Zach?” Nile delivered the sentence like a sentence, and added humour to my pain, much to his amusing and morbid curiosity.
“Why would someone as nice as Claire want to mate with me in first place?”
“Desperate women in desperate times,” Nile giggled, and so the laughter returned.
We went outside to have a fag and BBC’s Matt Lucas, from ‘Little Britain’ and ‘Come Fly With Me’, walked by alone.
“Hey Zach. How are you?”
“Fine Matt,” Nile looked shocked.
“I’m fine,” as he walked by and into the shadows of many people crowding along London’s, Oxford Street. I was feeling chuffed with myself in front of Nile. What’s Mouthwood got to say about that? Getting ready to do the victory figure.
“You haven't, have you? Tell me you haven't,” Nile pleaded.
“Haven't what?” I shouted. Then it hit me, a bit like a Chinese girl offering a blowjob, totally unexpected. “Shagged him? No I have not.”
"Fhew. Even he can’t be that desperate. Can he Zach?”
“Why do I bother getting out of bed Nile?”
“I don’t know,” and Nile return back to the subject at hand. “How do you know him then Zach?”
“Nile, you now how it works. Tit for tat—you tell me something and then I tell you.” Our hands came out. Our hands shook. I gave Nile a kiss as an added bonus, only for Nile to look at me smile widely.
“Come on Nile. Lets see if we can manage to check in like the adults we really are.” Nile mood was nothing but laughter. With this is mind—fuck it, of course we can check in. Back to the reception we went.
No one was at the reception apart from a long stream of many well-groomed staff, male and female. I asked Nile to pick one. The cutest was picked and over we went to check in.
“Good evening. Sir may I help you?”
Nile cracked up trying badly to hide behind me as the giggles had over taken for good.
After the 4th attempt they had now confirmed that, no, we were not scammers on dodgy credit cards. Mr and Mr Smith was not our name and our address was not the moon. Finally to the room we went. They’re quite cute in this hotel, ultra modern, good size, good sound, soon to discover along with the rest of 14 floor. Nile's first words as he worked into the room and threw himself on the bed;
“Zach, the one in Chelsea was better than this.”
“Fuck off to Chelsea then.” Nile looked at me. I looked at Nile, he smiled and so did I. Into bed we sunk. Really have no reason or conclusion on why, but all people behave badly in hotels. No DSO in our room, so Nile ordered room services to the extreme, more so while I gave the mini bar a good seeing too. Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door. Nile was nearest, thinking it was food he answered only to be presented with a rather pretty, but hard looking Eastern European girl.
“You’re young. Have you done this before? Have you money first?” The first words from this woman. Nile, without thought let the woman into our room. Aviation security would be proud. On noticing me:
“Arrr, I didn't know there was two of you.” She announced. “The price doubles, you know that? Did they tell you that?” Nile Looked at me, I looked at Nile.
“Nile, you’re the one who ordered room service.” Then it clicked with Nile.
“What room are you looking for?” Nile inquired. She duly showed Nile the info in her phone. Nile cleaned the corner of her mobile. She laughed;
“I see. I’m completely fucked, wrong room. Shame. Bye.”
Out she went. She soon will be, was our silent closing thought, laughing as she departed.
We had now decided that we’d make use of the hotel room and stay in. In other words, Nile was disgustingly stuffed. Loads of films needed to be watched.
“X-Box … truth Mr," I demanded.
“The deal was, you tell me something first Zach.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was Sunday and it was my shift to work at Home House members club in London. I arrived at work expecting a normal day, instead Matt Lucas was getting married to his partner, TV producer Keven McGee. Fuck, I thought. I had a late night the night before with Steven Gately from Boyzone and his motley crew. Ill prepared was an understatement. To make matters worse, I was the only manager on duty. Fuck’s sake, this is all I needed. I have luck on my side—one of them would not turn up... Men aren’t worth it, I know. Please go and then I’ll go to sleep in one of the wonderful guest rooms Home House has to offer. One could dream.
On Seeing Matt, ‘lets make these thoughts real’ as I followed him into his guest room.
“Matt, I'm really, really fucked. Any chance you getting cold feet? On second thoughts, no. Don't want to go through with it? By any chance have the wedding next week? No? I'm having an affair with your husband.” No avail. Matt burst out laughing;
“NO. No,” not excepting what I had just said. He kept me talking for good while. I remember his shoes being dirty.
“Fuck, there’s loads of press outside.” I began cleaning his shoes and taking complete crap about the wedding. “I’d love to have one day with Victoria and David Beckham as mermaids,” which lead to “42% of marriages don’t last, and partners cheating is on the increase. Domestic violence. Look at way Richard talks to Judy on TV,” was my firm example.
No, the wedding went ahead. Hundreds of journalists and news crews had descended outside the front door. I was busy – being busy. Barbara Windsor, Dale Winton, David Walliams, Paul O’Grady, Elton John and Charlotte Church (who was updating me hourly on gossip) and then Steven Gately, the walking bottle of vodka arrived from the night.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Nile squeezed me.
“Okay, Okay. Shut the fuck up. It’s boring. I’ll tell you my story then. I had a party at my flat back in July. My mum was away and I invited you. Anyway, you didn't want to come. Lots of people came, but some knob drew a massive knob on my wall and I had an accident [our code for something sexual] as well. I had to sell my X-Box to pay for it all, Okay? I did not want to ask you for the money and I had to pay for other things too.” The story Nile had just told me mirrored a party exactingly the same as my party back in March.
Matt Lucas’s boyfriend committed suicide three years later. At the time I sent Matt an email. I was shocked when the news was breaking, thinking how awful it was. What must it be like to be left behind? To try and answer the questions that in fact you cannot answer. I thought that thankfully it was one thing I would never have to deal with.
Playing with Nile at the time I told him this;
“I’ll kill you if you ever did this to me.”
“I’d be dead already you knob,” was his quick-witted reply. Never once was I thinking that Nile would ever do such a thing. “Steven Gately also died,” Nile added, and we went to discuss his death instead. Nile and I spent the whole night/morning in bed. We mirrored each other in many ways.
We arrived at the reception of the London Hospital in London Bridge. Beautiful, we were escorted to a lounge by a graceful, middle age women who offered tea, coffee, spirits, anything we wanted. Nile in jest did ask for a bacon sandwich only to be asked;
“On which bread.” So I had the same. We could only be visiting Claire. I remember looking around the reception with nothing to mark indicate that this place was in fact a hospital. Spinning back, Nile was now snacking away on his sandwich, with his little feet on the chairs. He had the ability, on the condition he was happy or comfortable, to make himself at home anywhere or with any people, always belonging.
“Miss M is ready for you both now.” Nile pinched my side. That was his way of saying, you OK? I would always respond by kissing him on the top of his forehead no matter where we were.
Looking tired and cried out, Claire greeted us both and we both sat on the bed. She spoke for a long while about everything. Nile gave her a day-to-day account of life in student town, the film students that surrounded him, and the basic lack of talent on his horse documentary, which entertained us very much. I explained what was going on with my life (lack of it, tragic aspects being alive) and Claire and Nile completely agreed. After all the insults Nile would always end with ‘l love him really,’ with the biggest grin known to man, knowing Nile maybe the devil too. I asked if he could give Claire and me ten minutes together. He looked at us both, nodded and went outside.
Claire and I remained silent. She was looking at me as I was looking out the window. Time moved slowly, Claire burst into tears.
“Please, Zach. Don’t ask.” I didn’t. Nothing needed to be said. I went over to the bed and held her. The answer had already been delivered.
“JC?” I whispered.
“Yep, he knew. He was happy Zach,” it had some how filled a void for solving their problems.
“Now I’ve lost it.”
Like a bath overflowing and without looking for the plug, we both cried. Saying my goodbyes to Claire, I went to find Nile only to be sat in reception eating another bacon sarnie.
I never spoke a word until we walked over London Bridge. I gazed at the Thames thinking how fucking dirty the water was.
“The baby was yours, wasn't it Zach?” Nile said. I looked at Nile and smiled. He held me. No further words were needed.
NEXT WEEK: Spitalfields Life
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The Manic Media Group (UK) Ltd
Sunday, 4 March 2012
https://s3.amazonaws.com/sites.iwipa.com/233921496629196/media/images/023-40littlebritpart1.jpg “Secrets and lies! It’s all secrets and lies Mouthwood”, dramatically shouting across to Nile as I’m trying to discover the truth or glint of such, from the secret. I now wanted to know the circumstances which led to the disappearance of his X-Box, some time before. “Zach, get it right. Trust lies, lies, lies, lies. All from your black, gay gob. I’m far more creative with me answers Mizzy.” Mizzy is a word that people use to address me as when they get close to me. They start using without hearing it from any other person. I have no idea why, Steven is the biggest culprit to date. The elder generations have decided to nick-name me Cunt Face (no names mentioned here, David and Andrew). “How dare you tell the truth in front of me,” my mustard reply to this, between frequent eruptions from Volcano Mouthwood, while largin’ it up on the sofa in Subway as he dictates to the world of me. “You’re like my t-jones (slang for parents) but you’re a tar baby.” (Another slang word; someone you can love forever and ever, exactly like ones self, a kindred spirit). “Shut up, you taffer (final word; common thief) and go down to Furrock and do it the there (added bonus; Lakeside shopping centre in Essex) Mizzy.” “Hey, get your lazy Essex arse ready, before I take you ta tan” (Essex slag for London). Thank God I had been taking note of ITV2, The Only Way Is Essex. Even if only the only other word I picked up after two years was ‘Shut Up.’ Ameer had descended early to our abode in Brick Lane (mice hotels) and was not in the greatest of moods. We turned a workday into a chat day (looking back I blame myself more than him). Ameer and I had no work pattern to what a working day should be, like at Manic. So we did none, or very little. In comes Ameer with the energy of a 90 year old who had been in the centre of a nuclear blast and lost both their legs. He had two moods only, good or bad. The world was wrong, he was right. “People don’t understand me.” This was HIS sizzling dish of this day. I was stuck, realising he wanted me to tell him how amazing he was. I spoke while looking at Ameer, he looked at me and as I looked back at him—he looked sad. There’s something wrong, or in northern terms ‘some’in up?’ Ameer has the shield of a gladiator when it came to real emotions like most men do. Someone without a life, like myself, would then start deducing the problem for him, quietly, in my mad mind. 1. Not with his work for Manic—he, and we, never really did any. 2. Where he’s living. No, he seemed quite happy enough. He tells me happenings in his flat (some of the visions are sill with me to this day). 3. University. He was finding it tough, but so was Ameer and that didn't seem too problematic at that very moment. 4) Money. No, he had some. I paid him for once. What was left? Ameer is a straight male, aged 21, in London Town. What could it possibly be? The political situation is Bosnia? No. Students right to be allowed have sex before marriage campaign in Uganda? No. Women. Of course it was. Many mates of mine say being bi is being greedy, confusion, or you cannot admit you’re gay and so on. For the record that’s all a big pile crap. So then, Mr straights, my question to you is, why do you all act like women around women? Yes, we can throw it back as well as dudes. (Dudes? Cool, where did that come from?) MALES. Every straight male I know always has one major problem in life (unless they’re a serial killer) and this matter can pop up at any given time. (Pop up; correct terminologically here) - WOMEN Women —They have one major problem in life. You guessed it, MEN. Advice to all Men and Women Men Women are made to be a pain in the arse. They’re built that that way due to one simple fact—they want the best man they can find to breed with and support the family they want to nurture. Unfortunately, they find you first. Many are happy to steal you from others. They then try to change you, dress you, change your mates, talk about their day their friends, shout ‘you’re not listening’ and finally, when things seem good, they go for their big kill. Replacing your dear loving Mum, making you fully depended upon themselves. The web is now complete, and what do you get in return? Sex. And only if she thinks you deserved it and the mood is right. Pussy whipped or what? Women Men need to come nearly every day. It’s male nature, deal with it. If for nothing else, then just to avoid the inevitable ‘he’s cheating on me’ saga. Ego, think of it as an ego, build it up, don't smash it down. Men leave their mothers straight up, most of the time for you. Understand that process and understand most men will never in their lifetime grow up. Why do you always want to change men when you land them? Surly it’s why you went for them in the first place. To steal a man from another woman (23% of relationships now start this way) implies he was never really yours in the first place and if we’re weak enough to be stolen… (yep, nuff said). We know you have a tough time ahead, kids and so on. In your world Men were made for Women, and Women for Men, Cheryl and Joe Cole do not apply to this equation. Both find a bridge and walk over it, learn to get on with each other. Not known to Ameer, Nile and I had some money, and I cannot remember for the life of me where it came from. So Nile and I, as you do, decided that we’d book ourselves into a hotel for a night somewhere in the UK. We settled for the 4 star Cumberland Hotel at Marble Arch in London, a 10 min cab journey. “Far too cold to travel any further.” Nile stipulated. Nile said there was a star missing from this hotel. “There’s only four showing.” I thought ‘you’ll be seeing many more stars soon if you don’t button it and quickly.’ “That’s a printing mistake. It happens all the time,” I lied. Nile didn't believe a word of it but he did however save me the embarrassment. Nile and Ameer returned to discussing their knowledge of music and talked to each other without passion. This went on for a while. I dialled a call to the high rate German Pop manager called Wolfgang. I beckoned the spliff out of Ameers hand, and it was duly passed over. I put the phone down, killed the spiff completely and then returned to start the call from scratch with this German delight. “Holen Sie sich Ihren verdammten Arsch in Gang Kerl du faul Stück des englischen. Mist, andere weise ich drop Sie in und deine dummen Unternehmen,” thundered Wolfgang, forgetting English was my mother tongue, on this proud island we call Pakistan. By the end of the call he had entrusted me with one his acts and to be fair we had done fuck all at the time. ‘Germans are Germans’ I thought, ‘and you can no longer dictate to us you Nazi.’ I kindly advise him that World War II had come to end, but then became engrossed with Ameer as he sang a song he had composed to Nile. Being boiled alive would have been a comparative experience, but that was only a mood reflection. While dealing with Frankfurter on the other end I returned to answer beloved Wolfgang’s statement of nothing. “Germans no longer rule Europe, maybe to the Netherlands, Belgium and the Czech Republic you’re still a bully, but England you never conquered in the first place and I am proud to be English, Irish, Welsh, Scottish and so on.” I wanted to end this—he was right, I was wrong, get over it. So I did, with the addition of explaining that Ameer’s singing was in fact my dear pregnant wife, Yammerer, who had been in labour for the last 2 weeks. My full attention had not been on this account and I apologised and said, I would willingly crack on with it soon. Hearing the commotion in the background Wolf was apologetic too. He allowed more time for Manic to get their arse into gear. Ameer did have talent after all and without knowing he had now saved this account from being lost to Manic. Nile decided to take a shower and happily lied to Ameer that we were meeting relatives later that night (the state we were in the only relatives we would have been capable of seeing were dead ones). So off he went leaving Ameer and I alone in the front room. Vulnerably is a trait many men never want you to see and many never do, and this was the first time ever I’d seen it in Ameer. He was upset, as his girlfriend of 3 months, Simone, had decided to call it a day, and I think he had too. She was a pretty girl with lots of ambition. While they were together they looked content. We never really spoke about it—too busy being selfish, thinking of my night away. On refection I should have given him the time to talk it through, the silence was enough to summarise what he was thinking, I thought. Break ups are a hard thing to deal with. I remember my first one, I was sixteen and in my school’s sixth form recreation room crying, while she was busy writing graffiti on the walls of the boys’ and girls’ bogs. It stated that I was crappiest shag she’d ever had. Men, hard men, creatures of habit—you can’t be seen crying your eyes out like a baby to your mates. That’s where we serve our purpose in full. Only last week William, a school friend of mine, was left by the girl he was going to marry later that week. It took Karl and me two whole days to get him back to some kind of human state. I found the answer, the ‘why’ for William, which was a start. On the other hand gay guys relish such high dramas. In my experience for instance, the majority break up every tens days or so. You also have to remember that when two gay blokes fight they have the mind of a woman and the body of man. Damn dangerous I know. Gay relationships, some lack the harmony that’s required to keep them together—kids. Which makes them incredibly selfish people... That’s changing now. I looked at Ameer and smiled, as this was all I could offer at the time. He then puzzled me by asking how I was getting on with Nile. Again, there were things I wanted to say, due to the fact he was comfortable enough to ask. I wanted to tell but the silence suppressed. Ameer aided my lack of words. “Nile’s cool you know. I’m starting to like him. He seems happy at film school.” Nile had updated him during the last hour or so I discovered. “What do they do at film school?” was Ameers only inquiry to me. “I have no idea,” was my honest answer. I did point out that Nile had taken an interest in editing, and that it was a sharp thing to do. “Nile’s got terrible eyesight,” Ameer said. He then further pointed out that I had terrible English and had made it into the UK’s national newspapers. My English is beyond appalling. Very vividly I remember Ameer hovering on the word ‘enough’, at the time it passed over my head. Anyway relationship advice from Ameer at this time would be like selling pork sausages to the Muslim community while making them all pray to the west to save heating. I thought nothing more of the matter. All you want in life is to the see people happy (well I do). Grant arrived, (wanker banker) investor into Manic (loosely placed). At this point could demand my attention if and when he required, and 24/7 he thought, whilst instructing me that every email, personal and work, should be copied to him. Sadly he had no life of his own and being a control freak was his only art. People who have no real destination or happiness within their own life then become control freaks on others to gain order. On top of that he was trying to buy into my lifetime and take a part of it at any cost. Good quote came from xxxxxx. ‘He’s trying to be cool and fit in. He’s not cool and he doesn't fit in.’ At that moment in time his chequebook sadly did. In his sad little mind, the game of Zach, Nile and Manic would play out nicely in his favour as people with huge amounts of money always get what they want and will be ruthless to do so. First time for everything Mr. Ameer departed, Grant arrived and so did Nile into the front room. Nile had earlier explained to me that if Grant kept coming when he around, he would no longer be prepared to go out with me as his thoughts on ‘That Bad Smell’ (his name for Grant) was that he was trouble which would bring no good. In recent days Karl has also said exactly the same thing in public emails. I explained to Nile that he was investing. Nile knew this and sweetly said that we can get by without him. Further, a very sharp reply from Nile was received. “Tell him to fucking ring next time before he comes.” Grant heard it anyway. Grant, laughing at this then produced 400 cigs for Nile and 200 for me. Selfish to a t; "Why’s he got more than me?" I asked. Nile tried to stifle a giggle, taking the cigs without any word of thanks. “Grant, you have one hour with Zach and that’s it. You’re gone. Okay?” Grant agreed. ‘Well done Nile’ I thought. ‘I’ve been trying this for years. How do you do it?’ So Grant’s hour was none specific to say the least. There was never anything of business value at all. All he was trying to do was unseat the faith I had in my surrounding staff (and still is). Saying that they’re crap, not to be trusted. People he had never even met he would always ask so many questions about Nile and me that, with him there, I simply refused to answer any. The hour was up. Chinese torture would have been a better option, and I was still no further with this rather thin and sickly man. Nile returned on the hour to be my saviour. “What are you plans for Manic, Grant?” Nile asked. He was rather shocked by this solid statement, and for the life of it, could offer no answer. He had none. "Time for you leave now. I spit up with Zach once cause of you, once. Ain’t doing it again. Make sure you’re clear on that Grant. Okay?” Grant nodded, smiled and left. In his mind the game was far from over, it was just about to start. To him, human life is nothing more than a game you can pay for and shame on. Agenda falls last. The game is still continuing to this day. “I hate this guy Zach,” Nile rightly winged again. “He makes me uncomfortable. Just tell him to fuck off!” Grant had offered to put money into manic without asking, as I am crap at asking people for things. You can imagine; “Hello, do you have 1/3 of a mill you can lend me? I have no security, and I have no idea weather Manic will work or not. Please?” Thankfully, today it’s a different story. Trusted and loyal friends are coming to the take the post. Banks are taking Manic seriously and my confidence has soared. I excel in asking (oddly enough boss or no boss, I’m always scared when I ask anyone to make a cup of tea, unless people are already making one for themselves). Nile understood this, and at times when a dark cloud was ready to deliverer its rain nothing further was said. It was so cold in the night. Fuck, it was the coldest winter on record. I did make a quip to ‘Mr M’ saying it was nice he was around as he could keep me warm, thinking ‘Nile’s mood would be as warm as a loving comment’. A first responder to fire would have a better reception to the start our romantic 24 hours. “I’d prefer to wrap myself around a two ton seal, it’d look better than you. Nicer hair in the morning, would smell much better and conversation would be far, far more rewarding.” My thoughts led on from this with ‘if only Nile was a seal and I was polar bear’. I had, for good reason, added a few little pounds. “That pack of cheese you guzzle daily, along with ten pints of larger don’t help much,” was Nile’s input to this sensitive matter. He then paused, and more came. "A few pound’s? You robbed a fucking bank along the way?" To this comment we got into the taxi, and off to our four star, not five star, hotel we went. NEXT WEEK: Little Britain Part II ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The Manic Media Group (UK) Ltd
Sunday, 19 February 2012
Every time you see George and Gilbert, you’re rude to the them. Why Mr Nile?” I asked. “They’re old,” was Nile’s cold reply. “And what have you ever done for the world, Mr Zach ‘knows it all, who's done nothing’ Whittingham?” He continued. I looked at Nile just as cold as he was being. ‘There was one only winner here,’ I thought. ‘And anyway what would I have won?’ So I agreed, and the telling off continued. “Any loser can agree,” Nile snapped. I really couldn't be dealing with crap today of all days as it was the 4th anniversary for my lover, Jonah. He had been wounded in a shooting in South Africa. "Fuck right off Nile," I shouted. “Fuck off too,” as he stormed down Princess Street, Shoreditch, East London on a Sunday night. "Well ya bullshitting twat. What the fuck have you ever done you tosser?” ‘Murder very soon,’ sprang to mind. I walked on, Nile pulled me. “What?” He looked at me, while I looked on to a pile of dog crap directly in front of me. Stop and stare, no maybe this was not the right time, but if looked up in any direction it would be hell. Nile had been on one the night before. One final “Fuck you,” from Nile as he descended into the dark. While I on the other hand was bright as fuck in front of the street lamp looking completely stupid and lost, waving like some loony at George and Gilbert. Nile and I were previously in the heat of an argument and now I was alone, in the cold of the night at a loss. All they had asked was ‘how are you?’ Needless to say, it made the pain fill up my stomach, the memory of doing it all over again the very next day. 24 Hours Earlier Snow had descended heavily to the whole of the UK, in fact the worst in 18 years to hit the country and it was cold, very cold. I’m cold just thinking about cold. Cold as can be, London looked amazing covered in the blanket of snow that kept flowing down like a glazier from the southern peninsular. But unlike the penguins on ‘Frozen Planet’ Brits are not well adjusted to this sort of climate. Nile had called me earlier, well I had just got a new contract from Vodafone and Nile liked this. From then on it was always, “Ring me back,” no matter what I was doing. Some poor old dear had fallen on the snow in the middle of the not so busy road. Me being the hero in disguise went over to help, only to join to him flat on the floor. I smiled while holding my cap, as my hair was a flocking mess. Fashion comes first. Nile decided to call, I answered and explained the situation. “You’re full of shit. Call me back now,” was Niles demand. I looked at the old dear who I hadn't helped at all. Now, time to be a hero. ‘3, 2, 1, Action’. I tried so hard to pull the poor sod up, but to be honest he was a bit fat bugger and very drunk. I could now smell it as his breath was melting the snow. At least no traffic had come anywhere near us, thank God. ‘Now, what would Princess Dina do in this situation?’ I pondered. “Right you fat toss pot. Get you lazy, drunk arsed up of the floor now. I can only assist you from a distance, as I do not want to break my back in doing so.” The phone rang, it was Nile again. “Why haven't you rang me back yet Zach?” I tried again to explain. Silence. “Are you in the middle having an accident?” (Our code for sex mis-adventures for the first few months of meeting) Without thinking I replied. "Yes I am and he’s so fat and drunk I can’t really do much more. I’m exhausted now and he’s soaking wet.” Nile was silent, and then I realised and tried to revive myself from the previous statement, only for Nile to hang up. ‘Fucking great’ I thought. The man had got up now and thanked me for being no help at all. Off I went to wherever I was supposed to be going. I heard Nile talking as I turned the corner and there he was supposed to be. Sat on the stairs of a town house door next to the Ten Bells. The cold had finally taken its toll on me. God, I forgot. I must have been late as I was due to meet him at Liverpool Street. Like a Texan governor signing a death warrant, over I walked. Both Nile and his partner simply looked at me. I tried to find this tramp (homeless person) since Nile died, but to no avail. Allow me to tell you a little about her. I’d seen her a couple of times previously, before I met Nile and just like any walk of life you either take to a person or you don’t, no matter what their social standing or situation is. There are some homeless who are complete fuckers if you say the word ‘NO’. I once witnessed Will being chased down the street by one. Like them, and many others, we owe nothing to. All public services are openly available to them and at any time they can find the best help (excluding Sweden) in Europe to get them back on their feet. Back to any one rightful destination, a home but that’s not what they want. Drug abuse and drink aside they want help, but no one can help them, as they think begging then abusing is a better way to go. This woman was different. A large, portly, Scottish lass, I’d say late 50’s but could be younger. Ginger short hair, ample breasts, going south and always in jeans far to big for her. But sadly always supporting a black eye, left and right in no methodical order that always added sympathy to her story. She had a boyfriend who was in the same situation as her. On a dark night, he was her only light and talk she could, and pleasantly too. She only ever asked for cigs, but human nature took over any decent human being especially Nile and you’d offer anyway. Nile and I had met her many times before too. “Hello,” I beamed. She got up and glared. ‘Oh no. I cant be dealing with this,’ I thought and, bang. She slapped me across the face really hard. “What?” Looking at them both. They ignored me. “What the fuck have I done now?" Again I was ignored, so I sat with them in stony silence. I got my cig out and offered them. Nile took the packet without a word and gave it to the women. She offered Nile one with a look at me. They lit up and she retained the packet. They started chatted about Niles studies at Uni, what he had been up to and what he was planning to when he finished. Then she spoke of the boyfriend who’s constantly giving her that black eye, how she lost her flat and two kids to the care system. But he was her rock (Cock, I thought) but Nile was concerned for the this old girl and chatted away as they watched the locals pass by looking at this slightly disabled line, sat on the steps in the freezing cold. The neighbour from hell plodded down the road, Clive. 60 year old, weights around 2 tons and as friendly as hell. “Hello Zach. How are you, my dearest? He enquired. “Zach’s a wanker,” Nile replied on my behalf. Further dialogue was not remembered I just wanted to hit the little fucker, but no, I’m an adult, I can deal with this as adults would. Clive moved on and so did my anger. I looked at them both and then they started taking the piss out me. “Look at him, with his hair and sad clothes.” How dare they. I dressed many of posh boys in the past for a free item of clothing and I prided myself on my fashion sense.But no, there’s more, little Miss Muppet decided now that I was truly evil and she wanted a piece of me. Nile might as well have been Jesus in her eyes. (If only, then I could ask him to walk on water and have the pleasure of drowning him at this point.) “Homophobe, evil shit. Get a life,” she screamed at me. ‘Errr… hello’ I thought. Firstly, I sat next store to her and secondly the Jack the Ripper tour of 30 people across the road had now focused their attention on us and not the tour guild. He was becoming rather annoyed at this amateur performance unfolding before him and came over. “Keep it down please,” He stated, looking at me. That was it for me. I saw beyond red and stormed over to his group. “This man is talking complete shit. Firstly for the fucking record, Jack the Ripper never came to this area. His hunting ground was Whitechapel, they don’t tell you that on the glossy brochures. And the reason they don’t take you to Whitechapel any longer, cause it’s no longer white and you’ll all get mugged on the spot. In fact you’re being robbed at this very moment. Enjoy.” Very distressed, the tour guild told the group to ignore anything that I was saying, as I obviously have no education, that I’m poor and live on the street.The group were amused only for Nile to shout out to the street and add the final words; “And he’s a fucking wanker too.” You have the visual picture. One’s first port of call is to defend one’s self. So I stood in the middle of the road half way between Nile and the Ripper tour, bashed between the two. ‘To hell with it’ thinking, ‘what do I do next? What would Cherly Cole do? Apart from getting herself on the front of the Sun newspaper?’ Then a car full of Asian teenagers zoomed down the road, which is no longer than Gary Gillters friend list, and nearly hit me, only for Nile and the tramp to start clapping, telling them to run me over and the thugs in the car started mugging me too. There was only one way to go, home. Suddenly, something changed within. I set aside my pride and went back to Nile. “Me or the tramp.” Nile got up and smacked me in mouth as hard as he could. I had insulted his friend the tramp and she looked on as if she seen nothing. I was hurt at this point. I looked at Nile and then I realised, the night before was still with him. I pulled him by the hair, so I had his ear by my mouth. “If you ever hit me again, that’s the end to you and I. No one ever hit me.” Pulling away. “Fucking full of shit Zach. What about the footballer? You lying c**t all you do is lie, lie, lie.” Looking at him without vision. “I deserved that. I was wrong with xxxxx. What have I ever done to you apart from love you?” Nile just looked at me. He’d cut under my eye and I could feel it bleed. "Wanker," was Niles only response. “And I choose my friend, her. So fuck off loser.” Fuck off I did. They say you get what you give in this life, nothing more nothing less and yes recalling my life, I had done some pretty bad stuff. Not through intention but just through life alone. So maybe this was my fault. I could hear them laughing as I walked away, any soul I had this point had been temporally taken away. I sat down in a doorstep and played with a lit cigarette and watched it as it burned, turned it around and the smoke hit the cold. With no real thought running through my head what so ever something strange happened. By nature I am fiercely loyal, and I’m know for this. I will tolerate most things. When I worked with David and Andy I did think my name was ‘c**t’. That’s all they ever called me, during their bridges and lack of work and sex while wasting 100k down the swanny that I bought in to develop TV. All they cared about was sex and food and drink. So c**t, wanker, shit, shit-face all became my names when the word ‘work’ was mentioned in Prague. Nile was a third of their age, and so back I went. I can deal with Nile, fucking to right. Marching down the street as if I’d done a tour of duty. I spotted them sat where I arrived previously. They had already departed so I sat. It was still warm. My only concern now was Nile. ‘No good can come of this’ I thought but what could I do. I put my hands over my face and after a while removed them. I had lost the vision in my right eye. I had problems with my eye before and I knew I had to go to A/E straight away. I went to the Royal London hospital, which is about 10 minutes from where I was. On arrival I was seen virtually straight away by a very kind male nurse who could see I was in distress. “Would you like to call someone?” He asked. I asked him to call Nile and he went away to do so, I though nothing of it. No way Nile was not going to come. Too busy with his new friend doing things he should not be doing, but I really did not want to brother anyone on a Sunday evening. I did not want to look friendless in my time of need and sat there, at a loss. Picking up a magazine up, then laughing. No, there’s no way I could read it so my thoughts took over and and acute hearing replaced my vision. The nurse’s station was based next door to the left of me. Gossip, where would I be without it? About 20 minutes later the nurse showed the tramp to the bay that I was in. She came in quiet, and sat down. I looked like Captain Birdseye with a patch on my eye and waited with baited breath to what she was about she about to say. "Are you ok?” I looked for Nile. “I didn't ‘get’ for him and anyway he changed his mind and wanted to come back to you instead, I promise you Zach.” (She new my name I was impressed. I had no idea what her name was and I still don’t) "Cause I’m homeless you think the worst of me, and yes you’re right. I would do things or get things for money. Nile’s different. He always says hi, takes me to places I’m never allowed in and treats me like a human being.” "Were is Nile?” I demanded. She went outside and came back five minutes later with Nile who had been crying. I smiled at Nile, the smile was returned. “Zach have you got any money?” Were his first words. I gave him my Tube wallet and he drew 20 quid and gave it to the tramp. This was her moment to leave and she did so on cue. Nile drew the curtain around the bay and sat. I was on a trolley, fuck knows why looking back. Maybe because I was of it most of the time, and was a wonderful change to be on it. A YEAR OF KNOWING NILE AND THE MANIC MEDIA GROUP (UK) Ltd WILL ENDEOVOUR TO FIND THIS LADY AND ASSIST HER IN FINDING A FLAT, FINANCE HER STUDIO FOR THE FIRST 3 MONTHS AND ASSIST HER IN EVERY WAY WITH BENEFITS SHE IS ENTITLED TO HELP HER GET BACK ON HER FEET. WE LET YOU KNOW HOW WE GET ON. NEXT WEEK: Little Britain ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The Manic Media Group (UK) Ltd
Saturday, 4 February 2012
Awkwardness can be classed into two categories; humour, and the down right serious. Previously in my working life, when I had to write things, comedy always came first. I always like to look on the lighter side of life, which they say is the hardest thing to write, and that’s why Eastenders is Eastenders, and Coronation Street is Coronation Street.
I have to admit that writing this part of the story about Nile is going to be hard. However, I can safely say the humour and light I share within the next six months is true and genuine. As my Mother rightly said, whatever life has thrown at me, I deal with it in humour—maybe that is my defense mechanism within. Like I said in previous stories; with Nile the positives of the relationship always outweighed the negatives without the need for me to ever make a list.
The day after tomorrow.
After Nile’s performance two days ago I could not sleep. In any other sense of the word that would sound cool and wonderful. Not this time. Nile stayed with me up until now. I had had been awake for hours this time and I was reading a book, True Murders. Maybe subconsciously I was trying to get ideas on how to murder him, but then I realized that it could get a bit messy. I started (not). Yet I pushed Nile a few times, I would cough very loudly and infant sing, which in normal circumstances Nile would respond and slap me. But no, nothing happened. I made imaginary phone calls, very, very loudly. Nothing happened. Then my phone really did ring, a school friend, this went on for while. She was a female in distress. Yep, you get it—Nile moved once throughout. The phone was placed away and then an idea hit me, Desperate Housewives theme tune. Nile hated it, 5 minute of it at least and still to no avail. Was he dead? No, Nile was breathing and then, like dusk turning to dark I said the following two words.
“You smell.” Nile responded like a light.
“You smell.” In fact, Nile had been listening to every sad movement and action that I had done within the last hour.
“Fuck off Zach, sad tosser,” was Niles charming but honest response.
Nile work and sat up in bed and demanded a can of coke. His demand was ignored, refused and never met. Nile knew that I wanted to talk. I can imagine him thinking let’s just get this out the fucking way.
“Go on then. Just say it.” Nile, waited edgily. I said nothing. He tried going back to sleep, but I removed his pillow.
“Wanker,” quipped Nile.
“Do you want to talk about last night Nile?” I stated. “Nile!”
“It was not last night. Get your facts right. Lol, it rhythms.”
“Well do you?” I continued.
“No.” Silence, more silence. Nile let rip. Oh God, I really need to grow up. I laughed and so did he.
Nile: NO. No. No. No.
Zach: Nile = Yes
Nile: Yes x No = Mind your own fucking business.
Zach: Divide into 2 equals, is my fucking business.
Nile: Yeah right. 2 - 1 equals me, you, single. Now fuck off and leave me alone.
I did so, and went up stairs and I remember it being very cold and miserable. I sat. The clouds were very low. As I could not see any aircraft in the sky to distract me I just sat. Me, Myself and I… and then Charles, full of neighbourliness appeared. Charles is and awesome guy. Successful, owns a record label, loves planes and a nice chappy all round. He sensed that something was wrong, sat next to me and never said a word. His silence alone made me feel much better and stronger for some strange reason. I got up, looked and smiled. He gave me a hug and back to Nile I went, happy.
Nile was sat in the front room and I have never been as shocked in my life—this was too much! I do need to prepare you for this; Nile was cooking dinner. I looked three or four times, but he was in fact cooking, and ready with a slaughter hammer if I said a word about the scene unfolding before me. Where did the food come from? Did Nile manage to go to Tesco and not get lost at Subway? I sat down, well, fell down to be to honest, and turned the TV on (only so I could see his shadow though). Nile was humming away and dinner was coming along. I had no idea what it was, but I was still in shock. Nile was still humming and I could not help myself. I got up and held him. He grabbed both my arms and we both stood silent for a few minutes.
“I’ve been waiting for you to do that all day,” and he squeezed me so hard again. He then proceeded, “I am so sorry Zach.” I just said;
“And I’m stupid. I will try not to do it again. I don’t need to when you’re around. I know that now. I am really sorry.” Shame Cheryl did not say the same when Ashley wanted to divorce her, I thought.
We’ve all been in situation like this. I think, maybe this one’s extreme, but when we release Nile’s podcast and pictures at the end you will understand, since even the hardest of people melt with Nile. I always did. I looked at Nile and wondered what was missing many times and if he would ever find it. I hoped so. He told me to leave the front room as dinner would be served in bed, (God knows why.) I did not argue. Nile stated that he downloaded ‘Airplane’ the film, which we could watch while we dinned in ‘the bedroom.’ To the bedroom I went, waiting for the forthcoming delight to be put before me. I cannot remember for the life of it what I was doing but there was a loud scream. Then Nile shouted:
“Zach, Zach,” I rushed to the front room, to be confronted with a large fire over the stove and just in time to see Nile about to pour water on the fat. He did, and I dragged him with one hand away and into safety as we waited for the small fire to put itself out, which it did not. So I put it out, much to Nile’s horror. The homemade chips were not to be. Nile kept saying sorry.
“Don't be. It’s an accident.” However, Tracey Emin would now have called our kitchen art.
Nile was still very distressed by this and I told him that things like this happen when you make homemade chips in pans and throw cold water on it. (Something I had done in the past, but I burnt down half of a flat in Chelsea.)
We sorted the kitchen out the best we could and I sat Nile down to relax. He looked at me. I looked at him and I laughed.
“It’s a fucking kitchen Nile. We can get a new one. You’re not hurt and that’s all that counts to me.”
“Bullshit.” was Niles only reply.
We both laughed. I had some spare dosh and invited Nile to dinner. It was his turn to collapse, but luckily for Nile he was sat down. I’m no foody, but off we went into the mist of East London.
We passed every Indian restaurant in Brick Lane, much to Niles annoyance, and “I want, I want…”, only for me to reply,
“I want a kitchen that works. Arsonist.” We proceeded out of Brick Lane and along to Bisthuque (I knew they did pints there) and in we went. It was very busy.
“Yes I’ll have a table for two booked under the name of Whittingham,” I lied to the waiter.
“No we don't,” Nile was kicked very hard and swift and little yelp was heard.
The waiter stated that he could not see a booking, looked at Nile and myself, thought it was cute and found us a table. (Always works with gay or female waiting staff.)
The table; we were seated and give bread to choose from Nile could not choose and requested that the basket should be left out on the table. The waiter willingly obliged, all the time smiling at Nile and glaring at me. We sat, looked around at the section of people eating, or being seen more like. I recall the waiter came back two minutes later, smiled at Nile and inquired what one would like to consume only for Nile to respond.
“We don't have a menu yet.” God, I laughed and so did Nile. The waiter did not and looked at me as if I should be lashed but he laughed along with Nile. The menu arrived. I remember this clearly as Nile and I only ever ‘Dined Out’ twice. Subway and Indian was Nile’s menu, a shame they never thought of merging. Nile, like the king of his mansion and with a sudden Chelsea accent began asking, in detail, what he specials were, the main dishes and what the waiter could recommend. Then it was my turn. I wanted the same, only to hear the response,
“You should have listened while I told your friend.” He thrust a menu in front of me and added the kind words “Learn to read.” Nile just burst out laughing so loud, I sat there unresponsive.
Our order was taken and everything Nile wanted was available. Everything I wanted was not. So I settled with what Nile was having, lamb, and suddenly that became unavailable. Nile was suddenly having the last lamb in the whole of London (gay people hate me). Imagine being a bloke, and girls hated you or visa versa; a bit of a shallow pond, with not many fish. At this stage Nile got the giggles, and they stayed through the whole night. Every time I laughed the waiter would glare at me.
Dinner arrived. Nile’s was perfect. Guess what? Mine was completely wrong. The waiter waited, knowing this and maybe he was looking forward to the act where he gets to degrade me in public or more so, in front on Nile. To his shock I thanked him very much for the fish and told him it looked lovely. He just looked at me while Nile was stuffing his face. I gave my best flight attendant smile to the waiter that I was ready to kill, if it was legal to do. Nile and I had a great time, we spoke to each other, and we spoke to other diners, informing them of the world of ‘Manic’, the waiter and so on. A couple joined us for drinks after desert, which they kindly bought us. My desert and all my drinks, guess? Yep, they were all fucking wrong, which only added to the enjoyment of the night.
The bill arrived and proudly I presented my Barclay card (cash points were giving me money again, such a nice feeling) to the waiter, who came back with the PDQ machine and for the life it, I couldn’t remember my pin. With all three attempts used, only for Nile to at the end of this wonderfully embarrassing performance that he had changed my pin earlier that day, at my request. I tried to explain this to the waiter who was having none of it and I thought he was going to place me on Interpol. Nile explained the situation. Well, that was fine. Of course he could just swipe the card with additional I.D. (Oh God). Nile looked at me and whispered in the waiter’s ear. All was good, the card was swiped, Nile left a tip and the waiter gave Nile his number in front of me. We said goodbye to our new friends at the table and off we went via Liverpool Street to place the waiters number in its rightful place in the men’s toilet. He was called Jack and I’m sure many calls were received that night.
Nile held my hand all the way home until I mentioned the word “kitchen.” His hand was removed.
“Well,” I said.
“If you can’t stand the heat, keep out of the kitchen,” was Nile’s sharp reply and his hand returned back to mine.
NEXT WEEK: Nile and the Tramp
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The Manic Media Group (UK) Ltd