3

  It was going to mean yet another call to the glazier.

  Crikey, no wonder Humphrey always told him to only ever

  contemplate taking baths.

  And his mum was going to kill him too.

  He’d only sung one note in the shower as well, although

  obviously it had been an absolute belter.

  Maybe he had perfect pitch?

  That was quite rare that was, perfect pitch. He might

  mention that to Humphrey later on.

  Then again, perhaps he might not.

  It would all depend on his mentor’s mood. After Barney had

  told him about last night.

  30Over breakfast, he had finally felt able to confront head-on

  the memory of the previous evening’s performance.

  He had managed to arrive at the venue in good time, that

  would have to impress Humphrey at least.

  ‘The Red Lion’.

  Yes.

  The place had only just opened and it had been Barney’s

  first ever engagement down there: although, judging by precedents

  set elsewhere, that invariably meant that it would, almost certainly,

  also prove to be his last ever engagement down there.

  He never seemed to be invited back anywhere.

  Barney was far from being, what might be described as, a

  ‘superstitious’ fellow, but the omens hadn’t been particularly

  encouraging, right from the off. There’d been, for instance, a

  thunderstorm of simply epic proportions which had, apparently,

  sprung up from nowhere just as Barney was sorting out his bus fare.

  Brave to the last, he’d found a coat with a hood on it and

  had casually disregarded the event as simply God moving one or

  31two items of his furniture around.

  Little did Barney know it, but Humphrey had also formed an

  opinion on the weather, at the exact same moment he had, although

  from the relative safety of his own office. His own theological

  interpretation of the meteorology had been identical, up to the point

  where the Lord had begun to rearrange his knick knacks. However,

  Humphrey had been convinced that a being of such undisputed

  wisdom would have gone a stage further than that by bunging a few

  things in to a few boxes and then skipping town in the back of a

  Pickford’s van before things really did turn ugly.

  In short, before Barney could try to sing.

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  The bad omens hadn’t stopped there either.

  When a black cat tries to throw itself beneath the wheels of

  a delivery truck in its rush to position itself right in your path, that

  could – just about – be interpreted as being something vaguely

  promising in the good luck department.

  Ah, but when the avoiding action necessitated by the driver

  of that truck then causes the entire thing to overturn, resulting in the

  32complete destruction of its cargo – fifty eight mirrors – well, it’s

  enough to give even the most grounded of people the willies.

  His breakfast over, Barney checked his watch: half past one.

  Oh well, time to confront his critics head on.

  As he took his seat on the bus to Brentwood, Barney gazed

  around him, despondently.

  Why was nobody looking at him?

  Did nobody realise he was famous?!

  OK, perhaps not famous, not yet. That was Humphrey’s

  fault though. After all, Barney was out there, engaging with the

  public.

  Actually he’d even engaged in a spot of hand-to-hand

  combat with one or two of them the previous evening but, then

  again, they had been extraordinarily rude about his singing.

  At least they were likely to remember him.

  Surely Humphrey ought to be building on a foundation like

  that?

  33

  Barney wanted to be famous.

  That was, in fact, pretty much the sum total of all his

  ambitions. Well, there were others, but there was no point in

  pursuing any of those until he was famous.

  Why wasn’t he famous?

  Everybody else was!

  Hey, that was a thought; perhaps he could become famous

  for not actually being famous?

  Yes, that really was a thought!

  Ah, no though: what would be the point of that?

  To be instantly recognised and worshipped in the street, that

  was what he really wanted. And that was, pretty much, all he

  wanted. Not much really, in the grand scheme of things.

  Surely that must be achievable?

  34Especially since he wasn’t remotely interested in the

  majority of the associated trappings. The flash car for instance, that

  wouldn’t be necessary. He couldn’t drive anyway and, even if he

  could, there would be very little point in him having a flash car if

  nobody even knew it was him in it.

  No, he would be going everywhere by public transport, just

  like now. Except that, in the future, he would have to travel

  everywhere with a big box of glossy head shots and a marker pen.

  Just in case.

  Oh, and in the future he wouldn’t have to borrow the bus

  fare from his mum.

  They’d be taken care of though, his parents, when he was

  famous. He’d buy them a small palace somewhere perhaps,

  something modest.

  They could run his UK fan club from there.

  He doodled his name in the condensation on the window,

  35just for practice.

  That really was a rubbish autograph. Every single letter was

  legible, that would never do. It looked as though it’d been written

  by a six-year old.

  He’d have to work on a decent signature. Oh yeh, and what

  about a heartfelt message to his millions of fans?

  Personally speaking, he’d always liked the warm sentiments

  associated with a ‘Best Wishes from...’. In fact, he’d treasured – for

  years – an autograph from George, the ‘Blue Peter’ tortoise, which

  had earnestly conveyed that very sentiment.

  Now then, how would that look...?

  He carefully added the words to his name.

  Dear God.

  Right, enough was enough.

  There was no alternative, he was going to have to shelve the

  singing lessons for the time being and devote his every waking

  moment to getting himself a classier form of signature. His singing

  teacher would understand: if he could reach her. She’d become

  36somewhat incommunicado since permanently moving to Australia

  and leaving no forwarding address. No doubt she’d realised that

  there wasn’t a great deal that could be done with a voice like his.

  Yes, that’d be it.

  It was a shame though, because he wouldn’t be able to send

  her an autograph. When he was famous. It was the very least she

  deserved, because that name was going to be worth a lot of money.

  Not that cash was any sort of motivation to him.

  No, it would be worth money to his fans, that’s what he

  meant.

  Barney didn’t want anything in the way of tangible rewards.

  World Peace or something instead, that would do; he’d be

  happy with that.

  Along with, maybe, just enough money to give him a

  comfortable lifestyle.

  Perhaps just enough to buy himself a nice little yacht or

  something. Something smart, where he would be able to entertain

  37as many big-boobed gold-diggers as could safely negotiate

  themselves up his gangplank.

  Yes, OK – he wanted fame with all the trimmings.

  So what?

  So what if they’d only be after him for his money? There

  was nobody even remotely interested in him at the moment and he

  was as far removed from being rich as it was possible to be without

  having to resort to eating things out of bins.

  Other people’s bins too, real poverty.

  They wouldn’t just be after his money though, these

  big-boobed gold-diggers. Because he’d be a celebrity. And that

  would mean he would automatically take delivery of bucketfuls of

  power and charisma.

  Why?

  Well he just would, that’s all.

  He might have to put up with a paparazzo living in the shed

  38of course, and that might – very quickly – prove intensely

  irritating… but none of that would really matter in the end.

  Because he would be famous.