Tavener’s Tales Great balls not on fire

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Drink and sex are poor bedfellows as ROGER TAVENER found to his cost in New Orleans


New Orleans, early 90s.  Saturday.  7.43am

Girl: You were fucking amazing.

Thank you.

Girl: The way you did that was incredible.

Er, thank you.

I’ve woken up somewhere in New Orleans with an extremely nubile blonde. I don’t know how, where or when that happened.

 But she's wearing my T-shirt and nothing else.

Seems like I did the bizzo though. Flying the flag. God knows how after an all-day and nighter of epic proportions.

Luckily, there’s an unfinished very large vodka and coke to hand and some Marlboro red.

I don’t know her name. She takes a drag and gulps most of the vodka. Bollocks.

I’m too embarrassed to walk naked to the mini- bar.

The way you did that in front of the audience was incredible.

What...?

Duetting with Jerry Lee. Brought the house down.

Oh fuck. Little bits are coming back to me.  Despite my serious overnight loss of brain cells.

Fuck  me.

So you mean we didn’t do it?

Nah. You were out of it. 

From the fragments of what's left of my mind I recall being in the world-famous çclub in N'Orlins.

My colleague, freelance showbiz snapper Joe Bangay, has been assigned for this jaunt and  has struck-up an unlikely friendship with Oprah Winfrey. She’s showing her eccentric English pal to her entourage in town for NATPE, the North Atlantic Television Producers Association.

It’s a gem. Full of major TV stars and NO hacks. It’s daylight robbery for a week in the world's best party town.

Fortunately Bangay isn’t there to take photos of me making a complete fool of myself.

Apparently, Jerry Lee invited me from the audience to join him on stage. 

Bizarrely, as I run a mile from a Karaoke mic, I was only too keen to perform with the legend.

Dancing on his piano in an alcohol coma, my one-night girlfriend said he asked me to step on the keys to the Great Balls of Fire chorus.

Goodness gracious ...

Instead I got down on my hands and knees doggie-style and punched the notes out. It’s like something out of The Office with Ricky Gervais...so humiliating.

Obviously I thought I’d fall off the piano if I didn’t crawl to the keyboard.

Fuck me.

And then danced again on the piano.

Fucking  hell.

Luckily, the other 2000 people in the club were drugged or drunk. Or both. So nobody cared.

Do you remember getting arrested ? She asks.

Fucking hell no.

Well, we were making out in the club's stockroom but got spotted on the CCTV and the cops arrested us.

But you were nice (very unusual) and they gave us a lift back here.

Bangay  had banged off some great exclusive pics with Oprah, then the biggest star on the planet.

A terrific Sunday for Monday  “World exclusive” offer to the grateful Express news desk.

Bless their hearts. They let me misbehave ... but I had to deliver. 

Oprah’s Weight Woes.

The girl came from Mobile


© 2005-2018 Alastair McIntyre