When Pat met Pete
Pat: I am the future of television. I am the future of… OK, OK, knock it off, people might talk if they see your lips moving like that with nothing coming out. Memo to self: remember to go shopping in …
Pat: I am the future of television. I am the future of… OK, OK, knock it off, people might talk if they see your lips moving like that with nothing coming out. Memo to self: remember to go shopping in Lidl tomorrow and let the plain people of Ireland see that I really have taken a pay-cut. Well, my company has taken a pay-cut. I hear they do great cured meats in Lidl. Anyway, here comes Pete. This could be my Frost/Nixon moment and would certainly be better than all those Alan Partridge moments I have accumulated to date. He’s quite skinny – wonder what gym he goes to?
Pete: Blimey, that was Enya back there. Enya! Man, it was almost worth spending six hours on a plane to meet Enya. Wow, this is like that time I went to Loftus Road in 1986 and had three pork pies at half-time for the price of one. OK, so there’s Pat. Kind of square, but I hear he was a mean singer-songwriter in the beat-club era so dude must know the score. Oh shit, there’s some fans in the audience. Hold on, just one fan. Wink at her. Fans, eh? Can’t live with them, can’t afford to live without them.
Pat: Lets look at the list of questions and see what my hot-shot bunch of researchers have come up this time. Drugs. Kate. Drugs with Kate. Kate with drugs. Kate. Drugs. Surely there must be more to the man than this? Not for the first time, I realise that my ambition to be the future of television could benefit from some researchers who do a bit more work than just type a name into Google. Look at floor manager and get the nod. Smile and manfully stroke my chin. Remind myself that I only have one chin unlike some of my peers (hi Gerry!)
Pete: He’s not just gonna ask me about fucking drugs, is he? He is, isn’t he? OK, here it comes. Steady now…. Oh, a question about Kate. Forfucksake. Bet he won’t ask Enya about Kate. Or drugs. Look lovingly at my guitar. Pull my hat down over my eyes and wait for next question. Think great, luxurious, existential thoughts about the fluffiness of clouds, the girth of elephants and the dimensions of rainbows. Wonder if I look like Sartre when I do this?
Pat: Eureka! He’s a Doherty so he must have some Irish in him. Decide to ditch the endless questions about drugs and Kate on my list and go for the jackpot. Hahahahaha, I really am the future of television. In your face Tubridy!
Pete: I don’t believe it, the Irish background question. What does he want me to be do now, sing “There’s No-One As Irish As Barack Obama”? Does he not realise that most of my songs are about the joys of perfidious Albion? Does this geezer even know the name of any of my songs? Decide to pull hat further over my eyes and hope it all goes away. Fan in audience starts screaming again. Maybe someone hit her. Or bit her. Think of my favourite Queens Park Rangers away-strips.
Pat: This is not going well.
Pete: This is not going well. I had better play a song
Pat: He’s going for the guitar. Golly, this is so, you know, cutting-edge. Memo to self: make sure guitar is out of sight by the time Waters, Dunphy and Harris are here. Don’t want Waters to get any ideas. And don’t want Dunphy to start singing.
Pete: How the hell do I end this song again? There must be some chord I don’t know about. Gah. Hold on, I think I’ve found it. There, job’s oxo.
Pat: I wonder will he now do something, you know, rock’n'roll and smash the guitar over his head or, heaven forbid, my head. Gosh, that would be something, wouldn’t it? Take that Tommy Tiernan! Rock’n'roll! C’mon Pete, smash the bloody guitar. Go on! Do something dangerous! Do something which makes everyone overlook the fact that I’ve just conducted another one of those interviews which highlights my cluelessness when it comes to popular culture, my inability to improvise a TV interview on the spot and the total stupidity of having Pete Doherty on this show in the first place. Please Pete, smash the guitar! Pretty-please?
Pete: I want to go to the pub now.