Blow by Blow


Pete Doherty vs. the Mirror

Why, they look as healthy as crack-addicted horses!

[As you may well be aware, Mssr. Doherty has financed various drug purchases via the sale of compromising photos. Of course, said photos are usually sold by a “manager” or “engineer,” rather than by Doherty himself. This is due to the fact that Doherty is rarely in any condition to negotiate prices or purchase drugs without losing half the stash on the stumble home. 
The following incident bears all the hallmarks of a Pete Doherty “Hail Mary” pass, but with the tragic twist of “Pistol” Pete himself trying to operate as his own middleman.
All names other than Pete Doherty’s and Kate Moss’ have been changed to protect our inside source.]

Mort: Mirror Tipline, this is Mort.

Pete: Morty! Petey here. I just emailed some photos to you. Think you might find them interesting.

Mort: I might at that. Let me pull them up.

[Some appropriately clicky and keyboardy noises.]

Mort: Hmmm. [Pause.] What am I looking at?

Petey: [Tries, but fails pathetically to suppress a giggle.] It’s Kate! She’s getting all schnookered on nose candy and all and sundry.

Mort: [Another pause.] Well. Hmmm. [Clicking.] Let me tell you what I see: looks like a thumb… part of someone’s thigh… maybe an upper arm… no track marks, though… I’m going with thigh… some bedding catching on fire… Whoa! Looks like a shot of “Little Petey” here! That might be worth something… a monogrammed mirror with a powdery, white “substance” on it… that might have some value as well…

Petey: Wot? Are you having me on?

Mort: That’s what I’ve got. I’d say we’re looking at about 200 pounds for the whole lot.

Petey: Shite. I was hoping to do a bit better—

[Puts hand over earpiece in a completely-off attempt at privacy; speaks to someone off-camera.*]

*So to speak.

Petey: Oy, Kate. I’ll fix another for ye. Let me just get the lights up again.

[Sound of something falling and shattering.]

Petey: Bollocks. [Pause.] Back in ‘ere, Katey. I’ve think I’ve got a handle on the pictomajig now.

Mort: Petey? She knows you’re taking pictures?

Petey: Yeh, Mort. She’d like to be described as “willowy.”

Mort: The fuck does that mean?

Petey: Oy, Kate! What the fuck does “willowy” mean?

[Inaudible from off-camera.]

Petey: “Healthy enough.”

Mort: Ha! Any preference for you?

Petey: I’m no good at parsing. What do you suggest?

Mort: “Loutish.” “Deplorable.” “Gangrenous.”

Petey: Oooh! Let’s go with the last one. Sounds pirate-y!

Mort: Fine, fine. I’ll send a man over to drop of the check in about an hour.

Petey: Could you have him swing by Jimmy the Sleeve? He’s got a bag of… um… er… well… [longish pause] … drugs for me.

Mort: Absolutely not.

Petey: Oh, c’mon Morty! I don’t want to have to make two trips.

Mort: You’re not even making one now.

Petey: Fine. I’ll be here.

Mort: That’s a lad. Cheers! 

-CLT

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Keith Partridge vs. Dave Madden
January 10, 2010, 12:09 am
Filed under: Legacy Acts, Phone Calls | Tags: , ,
[This edition of Blow by Blow comes to you courtesy of the active mind and imprisoned body of Ram Venkataswaran. (I hope I’m spelling that correctly as the permanent hiatus has deleted it from our collective internet memory. Where’s your Google Cache now?
In any case, today’s clash features a washed-up former child star in a men’s washroom, a handful of exotic and illegal substances and a combative phone call to a manager who wishes he had majored in something other than Business Statistics and Bus Maintenance. Enjoy.]

A classic shot from Rolling Stone's early days as America's leading source of child pornography.

(After concluding his 15 minute “gig” as opening act for the “Feathered Friends of Florida” exotic bird show at Chagoonga National Park, Keith Partridge returns to the men’s washroom that has been temporarily converted into a dressing room, huffs heavily from a small baggie and calls Dave Madden.)

Dave: Dave Madden.

Keith: Reuben, thank God I’ve reached you. It’s Keith.

Dave: Keith?

Keith: Yes, Keith.

Dave: Richards?

Keith: What?

Dave: Who the Hell is this?

Keith: Keith, Keith Partridge.

Dave: (Under his breath) Fuck.

Keith: You need to get me out of this Florida gig, Reuben. You really messed up this time.

Dave: Keith, stop calling me Reuben. My name is Dave. And for the last time, I’m not your manager. I never was.

Keith: (growing incensed) You’re damned right you’re no manager. No manager worth a shit would book me in as an opening act to a damned peregrine falcon and a handful of cockatoos, parakeets and fucking macaws. Mom is not going to be happy about this. Reuben.

Dave: (exasperated) Keith. I didn’t book you into anything. If I was going to it would be the ‘Tigerbeat” home for fucked up former teen idols. You and Leif Garret could share a room. And for the record, your mother was never happy. She was the most difficult woman I ever met – and I worked with Charo. Now stop calling me.

Keith: The owls are the worst, Rueben. They’re like fucking paintings. No matter where I go there eyes seem to follow me everywhere. I think they’re out for me. And the shit. They shit on everything. I’ve gone through three jumpers this week alone.

Dave: Jesus, Keith….

Keith: (More huffing) And the humidity is playing Hell with my shag. I’m not happy, Reuben. You need to come down here and get me out of my contract. Send the bus Rueben, send the bus. What was that? (Screams)…Oh, never mind, it’s just my hand.

Dave: (Takes a deep breath) Keith, listen to me. I have never been your manager, your agent, your friend or particularly given a shit about you or your career. Now leave me alone, I’m expecting a call from Celebrity Apprentice.

Keith: (pause) For me? Am I being considered?

Dave: I’m hanging up Keith.

Keith: Thanks Reuben. I knew you’d come through. Send the bus, and I’ll start packing.

Dave: Whatever.

Keith: (Singing) I was sleeping and right in the middle of a good dream/ Like all at once I wake up from something that keeps knocking at my brain/Before I go insane I hold my pillow to my head/And spring up in my bed screaming out the words I dread…

I think I love you!!!!!

Dave: Good Christ…(hangs up)

Stage Manager Enters: Two minutes Keith. And try not to swear this time, there are kids out there for fucks sake.

-submitted by Ram V.



Jack White vs. Jason “Von Bondie”
December 1, 2009, 11:00 pm
Filed under: Jack White, Phone Calls | Tags: , , , ,

Late evening in Detroit. Jack White is seated in front of a roaring fire with two mastiffs at his. He fires up his favorite hand-carved pipe and dials up a familiar number. On a rotary phone.

Jason Stollsteimer: Hello?

Jack White: Hello. Is this Mr. Von Bondie?

Jason: (Pause.) This is Jason Stollsteimer.

Jack: Of the Detroit Von Bondies?

Jason: Of course, Jack. The “Detroit Von Bondies.”

Jack: Mr. Jason Von Bondie: I, Jack White of the Detroit White Stripes would like to formally challenge you to a duel.

Jason: Uh huh. A duel.

(Jason begins flipping through an old issue of Alternative Press.) 

Jack: I did, indeed, Mr. Von Bondie, sir. I expect you will meet my challenge?

Jason: By “meet your challenge,” do you mean “receive a sucker punch in a darkened club?”

Jack: Let me assure you of my complete sincerity. I am a gentleman. But a gentleman of action! I would expect that you will accept this honorably challenge and meet me at The Magic Stick in a fortnight. Will 9 PM do?

Jason: Let me pretend to check my calendar…

Jack: Excellent! Acceptable weapons are muzzle-loading pistols or Civil War-era sabers. Will this be a problem?

Jason: No. I’m sure I can pick something up at the nearest pawn shop.

Jack: I wouldn’t worry too much. You have several days to prepare. I shall meet you outside the Magic Stick at 9PM promptly. I shall be wearing my finest red-and-white jumpsuit and my most ridiculous moustache. I may also accessorize with a dandy cane.

(Jason tosses his magazine on table and begins checking what he has TiVo’d.)

Jack: My sister and wife, Meg White, will be present to document your tragic comeuppance. Since the unpleasantness, this is the only way to arouse her. In the unlikely event that you should defeat me in this duel, she will become your property. But methinks you shan’t.

Jason: Jack, can I talk you out of this?

Jack: Too late, sirrah! We have an appointment with destiny! Meg will accompany our epic battle with extraneous fills and off-tempo kickdrum. It shall truly be a night for the ages!

Jason: Right on. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll plan on being elsewhere that night…

Jack: I think you will find it near-impossible to deny your primal urges! My blood is surging through my loins even as we speak! I must take my leave now and speak tenderly to my sister and wife, Meg White. To revenge!

Jason: What the fucking fuck…

(Jack hangs up the phone with an unneeded flourish while Meg accompanies his affected pipe-smoking with some extraneous drum fills.)

-CLT



Pete Doherty vs. 999
December 1, 2009, 3:31 am
Filed under: Pete Doherty, Phone Calls | Tags: , , ,
[Below lies the inspiration for this site. Coming from the unlikeliest of places: an emailed response. The light bulbs went on and here we are…]

Evening. 999 call centre.

Dispatcher looks at call ID display, sees name “Pete Doherty” and sighs heavily.

999: Well… It is a quiet night. Oh man, I know I’m gonna hate myself for this… (picks up) Yes, Pete?

Pete Doherty: What? Fuck. Kate? Uh. Wait. Who is this?

999: What is it now, Pete?

Pete: There’s a fucking giant octopus in me bloody loo. And me fucking bloody loo is covered in blood.

999: Okay, Pete. Sounds like you’re mixing your barbs with your amps again. Go to the fridge and get a beer. Maybe two. Knock them back, try and relax. Close your eyes. Remember that giant octopus tend to avoid bathrooms. They prefer the ocean. That should help you come down. It’s all cool, Pete.

Pete: What? Who the fuck is this??? How did you get my fucking number? (Slams down phone.)

Dispatcher sighs.

999: Wait for it…

Phone rings. Pete’s name comes up on call displayDispatcher picks up.

Pete: Where am I? I need help. 

999: Sorry, Pete. I’m on my break.

Dispatcher hangs up. Lights cigarette.

submitted by Alan Truitt