Blather Meets… Britney

Earlier this week, blather.net dispatched crack reporter Dan Brown to meet with the diminutive American pop-star, Britney Spears, for an exclusive interview. What followed was an intimate conversation over some fine wines, posh nosh and a wayward Bush.

Breakfast with Britney
I was sitting in ‘Silk,’ a restaurant in the Courtyard Keminski hotel, opposite Liberty’s on Carnaby street, waiting for my guest to arrive. It was unconscionably early, but she was hungry.
I was intrigued by her choice of restaurant, a converted courtroom that offered a choice of Thai and Indian food, served by authentic Asian people. Was the courtroom setting an omen, or was my guest a fan of red curry? By the time lunch was finished I hoped to find out.
Heads turned as Britney entered the room. Though now corpulent and spotty, with buttocks that caused tidal waves as they swayed inside her loose fitting pants, she had a slutty sensuality that reminded me of an enjoyable evening I once spent in the company of an open-minded babysitter. I had doubts this lunch would be as rewarding, but the vague promise gave me cheer as I rose to greet her.
“Hi. I’m Britney.” Holding out her hand, there was an awkward moment as I cupped her waist and kissed her on the lips. “While in Asia…” I said, casting a theatrical hand around the room. My remark confused us both and we sat down.
Dribble dribble
Britney straightened her tight t-shirt. I groaned involuntarily. The waiter wiped dribble from my mouth and winked as he placed a napkin on my knee. I liked him. We were going to get along.
Britney ordered in fluent Thai. I was impressed: she knew more than I expected. My knowledge of the Texan education system was sketchy, but I didn’t think Thai was on the curriculum. The waiter smiled sadly and explained he had no idea what she was talking about. Britney translated into English – a large vodka and vanilla coke, two bottles of red wine.
‘I’m curious as to why you think I’m here” she asked, getting straight to business.
A wave of pornographic dreams flooded my head. I tried to be professional. The waiter wiped my dribble. He was a pro.
“I’m curious as to why you think I’m here?” she repeated.

Muff and Bush
“You’re divorcing that little prick Kevin? You’ve recorded an album of jazz songs? Forgive me if I’m overstepping the mark, but I’m hoping you and Madonna have collaborated on a coffee table book. I’ve thought of the title and everything. What do you think of ‘Muff’?”
“Not bad, but not why I’m here. I’m here because I’ve been used. I feel like a cheap whore.”
“Don’t let that put you off the book. I think there’s a market for -“
“I’ve had it with Bush.”
“You just haven’t met the right girl. “
“George Bush.”
“George Bush?”
“George Bush. He invited me to the White House a while back. When we first met when I was, like, s-o-o-o young… right in the middle of my school uniform phase. I don’t know if you remember -?”
“Eh… yes. I do.” The waiter removed my napkin and replaced it with his cumberband. It was dirty but drool free.
“George asked if I’d be interested in educating America. I said I wasn’t qualified. He said I’d get a contract with Diet Coke. I agreed. Did you know I was the first pop star to sit at the War Council? Have any idea how cool that is? I had access to information that would make the hairs stand up on the back of your legs. Did you know over half a million negroes in Iraq have nuclear weapons? When I heard that I was like, well, ‘Someone has to tell America!’ This made George happy. I went on talk shows, spoke to the kids – I even went down on Michael Moore. And now I feel sick.”
Britney burst into tears as the waiter came over. She stretched her t-shirt over her face and dried her eyes. I think the waiter’s eyes were glued to her stomach. I can’t be sure – mine were, too. Admittedly there were a few stretch marks; her stomach had developed a layer of flab that would look unbecoming on most other 22 year olds.
But this was Britney.

17%
Now it was my turn to burst into tears. I wept for everything I’d never experience in life. Who had been lucky enough to spend time with her? Was she even 17% as good as I hoped? Did the school uniform still hang in her wardrobe? I looked down and noticed the cumberband was missing from my knee – the waiter held it to his face as he sprinted towards the kitchen.
“You haven’t taken the order…!” But he was gone.
Britney and I were emotional but she was determined to get her message across. I had to admire her professionalism.
“I’m starting to think George doesn’t tell the truth. He hasn’t come good on the Diet coke thing… He told me the CIA would re-release the ‘Just Say No!’ single. He said Puff had signed up for the chorus but I’d get the first verse. GEORGE BUSH IS A LIAR! NONE OF IT WAS TRUE! Frankly, I’m beginning to think he’s nothing but a dumb, uneducated pig, and I want people to know the truth before we go to war’.
‘Eh… actually, I think we’ve already gone to-‘
‘You know he told me the Iraqis had weapons – guns, bricks, knifes…”
“Well, actually… I think they do. It was really more about the, eh, nuclear and chemical situation…”
“Whatever. We have to warn people before its too late.”
“Eh… I think it may already be too… We went to war, but it’s finished… sort of. The bombing part went okay. We’ve had to rethink the reconstruction. Cut backs…”
Britney weighed up my words as she threw back her vodka. “That means I’ll never get the ‘Just Say No’ single.”
“There’s always my idea with Madonna…”
Amusing platter
A chef, carrying a sliver platter, arrived with a tray of food – “Your waiter had to lie down. It really isn‘t my job to bring out the food – they don’t pay me any extra…”
The platter held amusing small dishes – scallops in a lime and ginger sauce, tiger prawns in filo pastry, breads and rices, yellow and red curries… on the side was a Big Mac and fries.
Britney looked at the burger with youthful horror – “You see!” – and threw it across the room. “This is what George has done to me. Why do people automatically assume I’m a greedy, burger chomping US whore? I DON’T DESERVE THIS!”
I looked round the room and smiled sheepishly at the other diners. Britney was getting irate and they didn’t like it – this wasn’t the sunny, fresh faced girl they knew from the videos. Thank God there were no children present.
I had to get things back on track, though I couldn’t remember what I was hoping for. Should I finish the interview or try to get her drunk and take her back to my place.
I finished the bottle of red and ordered another. I took her by the hand. “Britney, I’m intrigued by this chance to get some insight into your life. You’ve had bad advice. I can help you…”
“Okay.” Britney dipped a handful of fries into the yellow curry sauce. “So ask me why I brought you here”
I tried to gulp but my throat was dry. “… … Why?”
Britney pointed to the judge’s bench. It was empty – the coach parties were saving themselves for lunchtime. “I want to put Bush on trial. I want to put that lying cocksucker, his family – and every single one of the treacherous hyenas who surround him – in the dock. They can’t lie to me and expect to get away with it. Will you help me? You’re a journalist. You can tell people what he’s like.”
Affable breasts
Was I imagining it or had she leaned forward a little? Her nipples were almost exposed. “It’s impossible – I write about food,” I told her. “But also, he’s cheated, deceived, lied, swindled and betrayed the American people more than any other president in history – well, Nixon runs him close, but I’m on a role here – and there are still people out there who like the guy. They think he’s affable.”
“Affable? Are you looking at my breasts?”
She was right. I was looking at her breasts. Britney wasn’t leaning forward. I was. Britney was talking politics and I was more interested in looking at her breasts. I couldn’t go on like this. I was going to have to change. I sat back in my seat and stroked my chin – my best look when I’m out of my depth.
‘In fact,’ I continued, ‘It looks like we’re all doomed. Iraq’s getting worse – it most likely won’t exist in three or four years time… Iran’s undoubtedly next. In this country, they moved Jack Straw from the foreign office because he said – ‘I don’t see any circumstances in which military action would be justified against Iran, full stop’. Britney? Are you listening?’
‘What’s does this have to do with Coca Cola? You’re getting off the issue. There must be something we can do? Could that other party help us… the Young Republicans?”
“I think they’re the same party as Bush.”
“But younger – everyone prefers young people, right?”
“I don’t think it would work. You might have more luck with the Democrats.”
“The Democrats? Is that Bill’s party?”
“You know Clinton?”
“Of course. George always used to joke about how he’d like to Kill Bill. Bill’s sweet – how many men of his age do you know who’d keep a scrap book with my pictures?’
“That is nice. But Bill can’t help you either. You see, the Democrats were scared of Bush. They thought that if they stood up to him, they’d be called un-American. As a result they have even less credibility than the Republicans. We’re all doomed.”
But Britney was young. She had youthful enthusiasm. “I’ll start my own party. Help me?” She ran her tongue over her cracked red lips.
The offer was tempting. ‘I can’t. I have a restaurant column to write – the public rely on me. Next week I’m meeting Jude Law – he’s going to tell me about how great it feels to fuck your nanny. Also… I don’t know how to tell you this… You’re not as young as you used to be. You’ve gained a few pounds. This gig just isn’t for me.”
We didn’t talk much during the rest of our lunch. She wolfed down the burger in the end, shrugging as the minced beef congealed on her yellowing teeth. As I paid, I realised how much Britney had moved on – she was no longer a young but nasty, idiot-savant fascist, being manipulated by forces hurrying the world to an end. Now, she was no longer young.
As we kissed goodbye, Britney smiled sadly. She knew her days, like Bush’s, were numbered.
More:
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