THE SALSA DIARIES #16

Shit Singer Makes Splash in Pool of Poo

Davos was a fucking clown. Adobe Stock.

No milk I said. I wanted it to be filthy. I wanted the performance to be an endurance in squalor. I wanted to see the dirt. Feel the grime. Experience the pain and hardship up close and personal. This was going to be the most depraved and epic launch the agency had ever undertaken.

No milk.

We couldn’t have a pure white substance seen by the masses. And fuck me, if there was any substance of white to be had, it better be Charlie’s high-processed amphetamine. My number two, Cyril, agreed. Together we had already biffed four dozen lines off the balding scalp of Monty.

“What’cha doing?”
“Don’t worry luv, part of the performance innit. This ain’t real drugs. It’s sherbert. Makes your eyes water and nose tingle, see? Move along.”

We got a right mixed crowd. The artist had brought his groupies alongside the hoi-polloi of high society. Now there’s a fucking oxymoron. Bunch of free-loading shysters gorging themselves on our cheese-encrusted gourmet pizzas. I could smell their flatulent state all the way up in the bird’s nest where the Creative Director and I perched.

“Salsa, look…it’s only that geezer from One Direction. ‘Arry. He loves art.”