AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ChapterTwo
Bad Memories, Good Stories
LATEST STORY:
In the ever-dramatic world of rock and roll, there are stories of meteoric rises and tragic falls. And then there’s Kaan, the once-beloved bass player of Seven of Crows, whose descent from grace can only be described as a spectacular train wreck.
As revealed by an anonymous source within Kaan’s circle, his behaviour has become a constant thorn in the label’s side. Recording sessions and meetings are mere suggestions to him, as he conveniently forgets to show up. The anonymous source doesn’t hold back, describing Kaan as a walking liability. With such antics, it’s no wonder the label wants to distance itself from his unpredictable behaviour.
As if Kaan’s behaviour wasn’t enough, his debut solo album has become the stuff of legends—and not in a good way. The release date has been a revolving door of disappointment for both fans and the label alike. The delays have fuelled speculation, with whispers of creative blockages, perfectionist tendences, and even diva tendencies. Whatever the case
As the situation worsens, industry insiders are suggesting that an intervention might be necessary to save Kaan’s career. But with his track record, I think an exorcism might be a more viable option.
I’m Pippa Ellis, and this is Fame and No-sense
2,296 likes 21 shares
With Jeffrey, there were no thunderclaps or lightning strikes. It wasn’t love at first sight. He was just there; the handsome, new lawyer who always had perfectly coiffed hair and wore sweater vests. All things considered my life did get much better after we broke up, because I started dating, then started blogging, met Brynn and went to work at Brazen.
If I am going to be brutally honest with myself, Jeffrey was hardly the first time my romantic life had gone tits up.
I fell in love for the first time when I was five. His name was Lachlan Brown. I sat next to him on my first day of school. He let me borrow his blue pencil. I was certain we were destined to be and that he was my one true love, but as it turned out, he was sharing his blue pencil (and all the other colours) with Alana Penrose as well. I cried, and the teacher made me switch seats and sit beside Dawar Bukhari. Dawar told me he liked my letters. Well, if that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was, and by recess I had told everyone in the playground that I was going to be Mrs. Meg Bukhari when I grew up. Sadly, our love soon fizzled out when he said I had “girl germs.” Even at five, I began to realise that finding love was going to be a little more difficult than the cartoon princesses had led me to believe.
So, on and on it went. All through primary school. And secondary school. And college. Love and heartbreak… and baggage. And then I went out into the real world and continued this pattern of falling in love and having my heart shattered. Every. Single. Time.
It was at college that I met Wilkie Kearney. And, oh. My. God! He had blonde dreadlocks, a shaggy beard and blue eyes, so deep blue that when he looked at me, I swore he could see into my soul. His wardrobe consisted of nothing more than hemp cargo pants, recycled t-shirts and, as repulsive as it might seem to me now, he hardly ever wore shoes. He was an environmentalist or a conservationist (I never did work out which one) and firmly believed that humans should take an active role in advocating for sustainable use of the environment. He really was the whole package. My mother hated him on sight, which only increased my love for him. If he wasn’t my destiny, then I didn’t know who was!
Within a month, I had given him my heartandmy virginity. I turned my back on what he called “the institution” (my parents called it being an adult), and we left Manchester behind to travel the world together. We ended up living with a Shilhah nomad tribe in Morocco and travelled with them for a few months. We made love under the stars in the Erg Chigaga desert. We explored majestic mountain scenery and shagged in a goat-skin tent in the Anti-Atlas Mountains. We got lost in old city souks in Marrakesh and bunked up on the rooftop of our mud-brick house. Basically, there was a lot of sex (when we weren’t learning about sustainability and hugging trees and shit). Sure, we were roughing it, and I would have the squirts for weeks on end #weightlossgoals, but Wilkie loved Morocco, and I loved Wilkie.
Until that one night when Wilkie unexpectedly left the tribe to go into Taroudant with Nour, the daughter of our tribal leader. I never saw him again.
He didn’t die or anything, but he was absolutely dead to me. It seemed that he and Nour had fallen madly in love and had run away to Agadir together. The tribal leader wasn’t particularly thrilled with Wilkie vamoosing with his daughter and decided that I had to remain with the tribe until her return. It became a bit of an international crisis between Morocco and the UK. Home Office had to help negotiate my release. Seriously! I was on the news and everything. My mother merely smiled. “I told you so.”
Carry-on baggage!
The day after I arrived home from Morocco I was interviewed on Good Morning Britain about my incident (Home Office had officially warned me not to call it a kidnapping, it was merely an “incident”). This is where I met Max Bailey. Max was one of the show’s producers. We were destined to meet, of course; I’d tell anyone who’d listen to me.
Max was six-foot-plus of hot nerd, and I was totally attracted to his big… brain. Come on, guys, everyone knows that the brain is the most important sexual organ. Plus, he fixed my laptop. And my mobile. And even my hair straightener once. Boy was he was good with his hands. Max was able to push all the buttons (yes, yes, read between the lines, now Iamtalking about sex.) Max really was fantastic in the sack.
But for all of Max’s good nerdy traits, he had one very distinct bad one. He was obsessed with all things Game of Thrones. He had read all the books, knew all the episodes by heart, and would spend hours in online chat rooms prattling on about his personal theories and debating what would have happened if the Targaryen line was returned to the throne and blah, blah, blah. But the deal-breaker for me was that he used to talk Dothraki in his sleep. It was a little disconcerting when he started yelling “Anha zhilak yera norethaan.” Was he telling me he loved me? Did he just declare war? It was all rather disturbing. And in case you’re wondering whether my cat just walked over my keyboard, the answer is no (plus I don’t own a cat). This is actual Dothraki. How do I know Dothraki? Ugh! Max went through a phase of only speaking Dothraki at home. He immersed himself in the language so he could become fluent, which meant that if we needed more toilet paper, I had to immerse myself in the language to ask him to go to the shop. If Max had looked like Khal Drago, then maybe I could have lived with all his nonsense, but sadly he began looking more and more like Samwell Tarley with every day that passed.
Now can you see why he had to go?
Excess baggage.
Then there was the magnificent Smith Hutton. He was hung like a horse. I wasn’t designed for what he had (which was a lot), and I had to break things off with him for the sake of my anxious vagina. I heard he moved to Germany and is making a butt-load (no pun intended) of money in porn. That washistrue love.
Over-sized baggage!
For the record, not all of my decisions are based on love, or the size of their appendages for that matter. It just so happens that the healthiest relationship I’ve had was with Marcello Venetti, but it was probably because he actually lived in Venice.
And I didn’t.
Marcello and I spoke every single day. He had met my family, and I had met his. He stayed at my home when he was in Manchester and I was prepared to sit through a three-hour budget flight (which, let’s be honest, is pure hell under any circumstance), followed by another thirty minutes on the Alilaguna ferry to Guglie before a trudge through the pungent back streets, just to spend time with him and his family. Until it ended. One day we were on the phone planning to meet for a long weekend in Paris and the next, nothing. I texted. No response. I texted again. Zip. I telephoned. No answer. And again. His number had been disconnected. I got the hint. I had been ghosted. Boy had my mother been ecstatic to say, “I told you so” that time.
It seems I now have a full collection of designer baggage!
After Marcello, I decided that I needed to make some big changes in my life. I loved Manchester, but I wanted something more than Coronation Street, Rag Pudding and a string of failed relationships. I set my sights on the Big Smoke, packed up my life and moved to London, where I took a more modern approach to looking for love. I started online dating. I went to singles evenings. I even signed up for Tinder, because nothing says true love like a shag in a bathroom stall with Will from Brixton that you’d met an hour earlier. But even after all my romantic failures it all still brought me to this moment, ruminating about my love life with my friends.
