Weird Contact Lenses

Peering down the corridors of power, our intrepid correspondent is the one with his ear pressed up against that door at the end. On the other side, someone is shouting about The Prodigy…

Illustration: STEVE APPLETON

A record company mogul sits on a gold sofa, liquid cash spewing out of her ears. “Get me Brian Starter,” she shouts amid an inexplicable mouth-vomit of diamonds and yachts.

Brian Starter is a feeble man, all dandruff and bowlegs. He is the hapless representative of the popular dance outfit The Prodigy. He leaves a brown slug trail everywhere he goes because The Prodigy literally scare the crap out of him.

“How can I be of service, O Holy Ruler of All Music?” he says, because that’s how everyone addresses label bosses these days.

The mogul says she wants The Prodigy back. They haven’t brought in any income for five years. If Brian doesn’t persuade them to do a new album, she’ll grind his intestines to mush. She pops a Xanax. She probably has a fascinating backstory, but we don’t have time for that right now.

Brian Starter thinks of the Prodigy videos he’s made. He is full of nice ideas: the girl tinkling a glockenspiel in ‘Omen’; the cow milking in ‘Baby’s Got A Temper’; the lovely countryside in ‘Out Of Space’.

“We could have them eating candy floss at a fairground,” he says. “Or at a teddy bear’s picnic. How about them riding unicorns down a rainbow?”

The mogul is furious. She crushes the head of a nearby kitten and its brain explodes into a shower of hundred pound notes. “No, you idiot, we don’t want cute. We want them nasty. Dangerous. With weird contact lenses.”

Brian Starter blanches with terror. He doesn’t like it when The Prodigy are nasty. He’d rather be working with nice musicians like Ed Sheeran or Sade. He ducks as the mogul throws a magnum of champagne at his head.

“Anything you say, O Great Bringer of Musical Light,” he says. As he retreats out of the record company offices, Brian bows and scrapes and drops a snowdrift of dandruff onto the floor.

But Brian knows something. As he walks away, his fearful slump turns into a confident stride. In August 2004, he’d secretly replaced Keith Flint with Charlie from Busted. No-one noticed the swap. Charlie from Busted does a pretty good Keith Flint. He spikes his hair. Wears the contacts. Gurns at the right moments. But deep down inside, the Charlie Busted Keith Flint is full of fairy dust and candy floss and unicorns and rainbows. Just how Brian likes it.

He’s clever, Brian Starter. Twisted Brian Starter.

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