Here's a taste of *Pills and Presidents*:
I should have suspected something when I saw all the dents on the side of the maroon Renault 5. I should have paid attention as he fumbled with the key. It was only as we hurtled over the cobbles at bone-shaking speeds, veering very close to unyielding Roman walls that I realised: Manolo was drunk.
But the restaurant was beautiful—perhaps it was just the relief of arriving in one piece. Blue and yellow local ceramics caught the light on the white walls around the enclosed central patio, when Manolo finally found the light switches. There were flowers everywhere. The kitchen looked clean too—a bonus. We worked out a menu selection for a fixed-price meal and I began to relax—Christmas Eve would be fine and my group would be ecstatic. But then I made a stupid, fatal mistake. Wishing to make it "a night to remember", wishing to go the extra mile, I said, "We'd like a guitarist." Silly me...
★ ★ ★
The two nurses turned into my room on their morning rounds. Their faces dropped; they looked suddenly terrified, one grasped the door post. Did I look that bad, I wondered? Then I noticed the glass of water on my bedside table shaking. I almost breathed a sigh of relief—it was only another earthquake...
★ ★ ★
Outside, against the expanse of the crashing sea, buffeted by the wind, camera crews stalked or lay in wait as the Celebs made their way between houses or to lessons.
Monitors showed the frantic preparations of sets or activities in the restaurant before the live shows. Hidden in high windows, cameras scanned the forlorn courtyard and walkways, sometimes catching last year’s leaves hurtling past.
A technician would literally walk off a screen and blow straight in with a gust of wind through our front doorway.
I huddled behind production assistants and the goddess, Nia, the controller of destinies, in her lilac scarf, feeling like a young Marco Polo in a new, mysterious world.
I would squeeze my way out of the crowded room to find air—and bump into Bernie, transformed from a black and white Celeb on a monitor into a real figure, “Hi,” he would say, the smoke of his cigarette snatched away past the stones by the wind...
★ ★ ★
Cameras, mics, lights, motherboards, cables and books littered my spare room. I was going to create a media company with the help of this loan and some skills honed building computers for friends.
Before too long the phone was ringing. Today’s call was someone wanting a quote for webcasting. There were not many companies webcasting back in the early 2000s, which is how we must have got the business. The voice was extremely plummy.
“Where?” I asked. The contact couldn’t say. “When?” Likewise, this could not be divulged. “How can I quote if I don’t know where?” I told my wife, Marcia.
"Or when," she said.
The contact, let us call him "M", was keeping mum. It took weeks to find out.
"London", "M" eventually confided, then "Westminster", then, finally, "Downing Street".
By this stage I was pressing the panic buttons, but there was no backing out: the quote had been agreed. I was to interview the PM and members of the Cabinet in Number 10. It was time to re-read the camera instruction manual...