The Opposite of Stealth

WE VIEW HORIZONS, KINDLY

'This is worse. Far worse than anything that's ever happened to me.'
Emily's tears are stained with glitter. She stabs her fairy stick at the wall; her stick-on wings are skew-whiff.
'I thought you were chilled out about it.' Morgan sucks furiously on a roll-up cigarette. 'You're supposed to be holding this band together.'
They stand nose-to-wall with the words on a side alley somewhere near the NCP somewhere near Brick Lane. The words are spraypainted in large white letters- the alleyway's so narrow it makes Morgan feel sick.

WE VIEW HORIZONS, KINDLY

'I can't believe I didn't notice the apostrophe.' groans Morgan, thwacking out a copy of the magazine he'd picked up last week of the same name. The same name as their band.
'It must be deliberate. Oh god, Morgan. The music. It's happening. I'm having a panic attack.'
'You're just... windy. Or hungry.'
'Panic. Attack. Someone's stolen our name. We have to call Tolstoy.' (her ex, the man whose arm is the namesake behind their band). 'POM! I need POM BEARS!'
Several walks round the block and a couple of bags of pom bears later, they're on the phone to Tolstoy. Who is dead.
'Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god.'

They sit on the pavement outside the Ten Bells pub in Spitalfields, drinking tins of cider.
'How long?'
'Three years ago. He was my childhood sweetheart. Well, I can't go back to work,' says Emily, her eyes red.
'Maybe....' Morgan scratches his beard, 'if we drink enough, everything will be OK.'
She looks at him and for once they both see each other clearly.
'Yeah. Maybe.'
The lunchtime crowds and hipster tribes stake out the lunchtime circuit, ticking round on clockwork routes. The cider begins to taste stale and syrupy.
'I can't believe someone as brilliant, as bright as Tolstoy... dead. Only 21. In a bus accident.'
'Here's to Tolstoy.' says Morgan, cheersing. A passing tramp gives him a 'here, here.'
'So it obviously wasn't him that stole our band name and plastered it across the east end, and started his own clubnight with it.'
'That's not neccessarily true... Are you sure none of us just saw it, you know, subconciously, or maybe the editor of the magazine met Tolstoy... something.'
'There's always a rational explanation for these things. Listen, can we hang out this evening? Like we used to?'
'Won't Dennis be jealous?'
'I think he's ghost-hunting this week.'
'Well,' says Morgan. 'I don't really wanna go home. Devlin's on Come Dine With Me and the camera crew's taken over our house- all week. Turns out they have to bloody film him at home too-'
'Your flatmate's on Channel 4?'
'Yeah, why...'
'Has anyone ever gatecrashed an episode of Come Dine With Me?'
'No... don't... you're getting an idea, aren't you...'
'You know that turning life's lemons into lemonades is my forte. How about we get the band a bit of free publicity?'
'It's not even his dinner party. We wouldn't even know where it is...'
'Morgan.' she grabs his hand- it's a bit glittery. 'Anyone can die at any moment. We have to take life by the horns and ride it. ADVENTURE. That's what I'm talking about. This band means more to me than anything else. And what with KRK festival coming up-'
'Isn't it pronounced BRAP?'
'Whatever, this could be the best self-promotional idea I've ever had.'
'I can see the cogs whirring in your head,' he observes.

'It looked like a dog poo. Like a big, coiled dog poo.' Devlin sips from a can of Tennant's while the camera crew aren't looking.
'What did you think of her home?'
'I think she's a bloody idiot. Her home smells like moth balls. She looked like a dessicated Su Pollard.'
'This is brilliant,' whispers the script editor. 'Brilliant.'
It's the second day of Devlin's Come Dine With Me experience and he's already emotionally and physically exhausted. Only some kind of confonrtation will bring him back from the brink. He reads over tonight's menu patiently.
'Chicken alla cratcha- cratcha- trattoria?'
'Brilliant.'
'And it's a Studio 54 theme? Oh no.' the little talking scone starts to panic, as he'd always threatened to go as Bianca Jagger on ahorse if there was ever a chance of him going to a Studio 54 party. 'I'd better dig out that wig.'


Devlin shows up in a miniature, self-made, backless white tuxedo.
Miranda hosts as Edie Sedgwick in a striped black and white dress. The hysterically camp caretaker, James, arrives in a leather jacket and curly hair, presumably as Lou Reed. Savannah, the 'self-confessed WAG', also shows up herself with pink weave.
As Donna Summer's I Feel Love blares in the background and a giant disco ball twirls atop the table, buff topless men with bow ties begin serving the contestants champagne.
'Cheers!' says Miranda, her very white teeth flashing. 'Here's to another successful night of food and frolics.' she smiles at Devlin, who feels himself go a bit fluttery.
The contestants sit down as the first course, an 'all-American' savoury pecan pie is served.
'It's just not something I'd choose myself.' Burgundy plays with her Andy Warhol wig. 'Is it alright if I don't finish this course, is that alright?'
'Oh god, love, that's absolutely fine,' says Miranda. Her eyes are raccoon-kohl, her Dior flat cap tilted askew and teeth flashing. She works as a visual merchandiser, she says, and just wants to 'decorate the world'.
'Burgundy I hope you're going to eat my food when you come to mine tomorrow night,' says Devlin, a fully-topped up glass of red wine by his side. 'Because I don't tolerate
'Did you make the pastry yourself Miranda or is it... shop bought?'
'It is Jus-Rol.'

'It really disappointed me when she said her pastry was Jus-Rol. I mean, isn't that just for catering students and people making cheese twists? It actually made me fancy her less.' reveals Devlin in an upstairs room, on his third glass of wine. 'I'm biased, because I am of course a piece of patisserie myself.'

Back downstairs...
'So we were taking a look around your boudoir Miranda and we found these-' Burgundy gestures to a pair of sequinned nipple pasties. She sticks them on her top and spins around.
'Oh, I like, totally left them there to make myself look more interesting for the camera.' she flashes a smile.
'Isn't that a bit false?' says Devlin.
The rollerskating, semi-nude waiters bring out a main of disco burgers.
'Do you not think that all this pomp and circumstance is just to hide the poor quality of your food?' says James.
'I don't think that's a fair analysis.'
'Isn't it?'
'I have to agree, Miranda. I've had better from MacDonalds.' Devlin's on his fourth glass of wine, not counting the mid-course aperitif.
The editor looks at the producer and smiles.
'Sorry,' she intervenes, 'But can we re-take that scene?'

'Are you sure about this?' Morgan crouches in a bush in, well, Shepherd's Bush, outside Miranda's house. A quick text to Devlin and they had the address fairly easily.
'I've never been more certain about anything in my life. I feel like Medea about to get revenge on Jason. The Trojan-'
'-I feel like... a 1950's TV pervert.'
'Shut up! There's cameras everywhere.'
'We can't just break into a random person's house.' even just saying this sounds wrong, so wrong, that Morgan has to take another glug of vodka.
'Think like Derren Brown. We have to persuade the host that we're the entertainment. Once Channel 4's seen us, they'll want us in.'
'So we're taking the house by the opposite of stealth then.'
'Vibe,' says Emily. 'VIBE.'
Morgan shakes his head and swallows the pill in his back pocket. 'Do you need one of these?'
'Only one. It is national TV.'
They wash it down with vodka. Morgan stubs out his cigarette.
'Right. I'm going in for the kill. And I'm most certainly not doing it for a thrill.'
They're both wearing silver boiler suits. Morgan makes a run for Miranda's front door screaming. Two cameramen smoking outside a van suddenly notice him.
'Morgan!'
Emily finishes her drink and runs after him. Luckily, the front door is wide open.
Morgan barrels past one of the hunky waiters and into the living room where he instantly sees Devlin, who visibly groans and is shocked to see Andy
'Are we at the right dinner party?'
'Morgan!?' cries Devlin.
'We're the surprise entertainment,' cries Emily. 'You know. WE VIEW HORIZONS KINDLY.'
'Google WE VIEW HORIZONS KINDLY,' adds Morgan.
'Get out of my house,' says Miranda.
'Oh, come on,' says Burgundy. 'They're only having a laugh.'
'Are you going to perform?' asks Savannah. 'I'd love a bit of music.'
'What's exactly going on here?' cries Miranda. 'Can we stop filming?'
'Wait-' says the director. 'Who are you?'
'We're the first-ever Come Dine With Me gatecrashers.' Emily folds her arms and looks the director up and down then clicks her fingers in his face.
'I like her attitude,' says the producer.
'You're actually not the first,' says the director. 'But whatever. Queue filming.'
'It's my flatmate,' explains Devlin. 'He's an idiot.'
Miranda looks, well, just bemused.
'We've got instruments,' threatens Emily, taking a vocoder out of her back pocket. Morgan whips out a Melodica from the utility belt on his jumpsuit.
'Start filming on 3...'
Emily turns the light off and takes a deep breath.
'Come here...' she begins to sing in a low, wistful voice. 'Come here... '
'Where's this going?' whispers Devlin, angrily. Someone flicks the light back on.
'RUDE BOY, BOY, CAN YOU GET IT UP? COME HERE RUDE BOY BOY IS YOU BIG ENOUGH?' By this point, Emily's screaming through the vocoder. The camera crew are looking tense.
'I need air,' thinks Devlin.

Outside he smokes with yet another full glass. It's absolutely freezing.
'Hello, Celine,' whispers Burgundy, troddling round the corner.
'Oh hello.' smiles Devlin. 'Andy.' he feels like he's going to fall over, though it's generally accepted this is a difficult thing for talking scones lying on a flat surface to do.
'This is funny, isn't it?' breathes Burgundy, lighting up and looking to the night sky. 'You and me, Studio 54... here.'
'I can't believe my flatmate's yet again trying to steal the limelight from me.'
'Stealing... limelight... can't we steal some moments under the moonlight?'
They lean in to kiss each other.
'RUN!' cries a voice in the background. Emily blusters past them, arms wide out and screaming.
'Devlin?' Morgan follows, spinning round to see his miniature pastry companion face-deep in blonde wig. They stop for a moment.
'WE HAVEN'T GOT MUCH TIME!' he cries, grabbing Devlin and scooping him into his pocket.
'Foiled again,' says Burgundy.

'JUMP IN THIS MOVING TAXI!' Screams Morgan, as they reach Shepherds Bush green. Morgan, Emily and Devlin launch themselves into the passing minicab as it screeches to a halt.
'Peckham, please,' asks Devlin. 'What happened?'
'They didn't understand our performance,' says Emily, shaking her lace-covered head.
'They didn't like our performance. The camera crew chased us out and threatened us with a legal writ.'
'STEP ON IT!' cries Emily.

Later...
'You snogged a pensioner dressed as Andy Warhol,' says Morgan, sipping from a bottle of Glen's Vodka.
'You're the only person to have performed Rude Boy on ecstasy, on daytime Channel 4. Congratulations.'
'Ugh,' says Emily, half-asleep on the sofa. 'The sun's almost up.'
'Cheers to that.' Devlin and Morgan clink bottles.
Morgan's phone begins to ring. He checks it- it's three thirty, unknown number.
'Hello?'
'We've seen the way you're behaving and it's not... what we'd like, Morgan.' The line goes dead.