Wednesday, 2 February 2011

Guy Hands is a broken puppet or a scarecrow that has seen too much

Yes, Citigroup has got its greasy mitts on EMI at last. If a bank can have greasy mitts, that is. It's just an expression.

Well, I have been speaking to my dear friend Guy Hands. He phoned me late last night in tears. I tried my best to ease his pain. 'Mikey, this is the end. I can't go on! (Guy, wait until the morning. You'll see the sun in the sky, hopefully. And you'll hear the birds singing in the trees. Life does go on, even for your sort. You'll feel better tomorrow.) Oh, that this too too solid flesh, would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into a dew: or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter. (I've told you before that I don't want to hear this talk from you.) Talk of suicide? (Shakespeare. I'm trying to cut down on the literary quotes in my blog. I'm trying to cut down on the voices as well. I shouldn't really be talking to you at all.) But we're old friends. You wouldn't abandon an old friend, would you? (Of course I wouldn't.) Old friends, winter companions, the old men, lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sun ... rise. The sounds of the City sifting through - (What the fuck is that?!) Simon and Garfunkel. (Guy, mate, are you thick or something? I don't want references to popular culture either.) Jesus! Well, what do you want, Mike? (I want to hear - in your own fucking words, if that's not too much to ask - what you're going to do now.) I ... am ... lost ... for ... words. (Come on, Guy, be a man. Show the whole world you're more than just a puppet on a string, or -) Sandie Shaw! (Yeah, or a scarecrow in a field, like poor old Felix.) In a field, behaving as the wind behaves. (You're making me angry.) All right. All right. How about this? I intend to ... to ... to ... (You can do it.) I intend to become a man, alive in the world, fully functioning, walking and talking, with words of my own, and ... (Guy, this is so good. I never knew you had it in you. More!) I intend to ... (Yes?) I want to ... (What? What do you want to do, Guy?) I want to live! (Hallelujah!) You don't really care for music, do ya? (Don't ruin it.) I want to ... I want to ... this is ridiculous! (Guy!) These aren't my words. You're manipulating me yet again. (Nonsense!) Michael, why do you do this? What motivates you? It can't make you happy. I think -'

And he went on and on and on, blaming all his troubles on me. Blah, blah, blah. As if I was the one who paid £4 billion for a record company. In these times! Someone should have told him about the internet.