Dead famous by Ben Elton Page B

shout. She had not raised her voice in years. Hers was a calm, reflective spirit, that was her thing, and yet here she was shouting.
    ‘Yes, it has, 0 Celtic lady, for your priorities are weirding me out, man, messing with my head zone. Cars are evil dragons that are eating our world! Whereas my hair is entirely benign, nonvolatile dead-cell matter.’
    ‘It is benign non-volatile dead-cell matter that grew out of your scrotum’ Dervla shouted.
    ‘And it makes me want to puke! Sweet Virgin Mary Mother of Jesus Christ, where does it all come from! We could have stuffed a mattress by now! Are you using some kind of snake oil ointment down there?’ Unbeknown to Dervla, Woggle was actually a little hurt by her attack. Nobody ever credited Woggle with having feelings because he seemed so entirely oblivious to everybody else’s. But Woggle actually liked Dervla, and he fancied her, too. He had even been to the confession box to confess his admiration.
    ‘There is definitely a connection between us,’ he said.
    ‘I’m fairly certain that at some point in another life she was a great Princess of the Sacred Runes and that I was her Wizard.’ Confronted now by this attack from one he clearly rated so highly, Woggle attempted to assume an air of dignified distance.
    ‘I remain unrepentant of my bollock hair,’he muttered.
    ‘It has as much right to a place in this house as does every other item of human effluvia, such as, for instance, the pus from Moon’s septic nipple ring, which I respect.’ It was a clever ploy. Moon had insisted that the whole group look at her septic nipple the night before and had won herself no friends in the process.
    ‘Hey! Leave my fookin’ nipple out of it, Woggle!’ Moon shouted now from where she sprawled on the purple couch.
    ‘I’ve told you. How was I to know that dirty bastard in Brighton was using shite metal ‘stead of gold, which he said it was. He said it were fookin’ gold, didn’t he? The bastard. Besides, I’m using Savlon on my nipple and I don’t leave what comes out of it all over the fookin’ soap.’
    ‘Yes, don’t try and change the subject,’ Dervla insisted.
    ‘Moon’s doing what she can about her nipple infection and you should clean the soap after you use it. And not just the soap: clean out the plughole too. It looks like a St Bernard dog died there and rotted.’
    ‘I shall clean up my hair,’ Woggle said with what he assumed was an air of ancient and mighty dignity.
    ‘Good,’ said Dervla.
    ‘Z/,’ Woggle continued, ‘you promise to renounce your car.’

DAY THIRTY-THREE. 2.30 p.m.
    E very time the ‘not yet watched’ pile of tapes began to look a little smaller and less intimidating, somebody brought up more from the cells. They seemed to go on for ever.
    ‘It’s day eight, and Jazz and Kelly are chatting in the garden.’

DAY EIGHT. 3.00 p.m.
    W hat’s the worst job you’ve ever had?’ Said Jazz. He and Kelly were sitting by the pool revelling in the sunshine and the fact that they must look absolutely terrific on camera in their tiny swimming costumes.
    ‘No doubt about that,’ Kelly replied.
    ‘Being a film extra. I hated it.’
    ‘Why’s that, then?’ Asked Jazz.
    ‘It don’t sound too bad to me.’
    ‘Well, I think it’s all right if you’re not interested in being an actor. Then you just take the money and eat the lunch and try and spot a star, but it’s really rough if you actually want to get into the profession properly like I do. Then being an extra makes you feel like you’re just never going to get anywhere.’
    ‘So you want to be an actress, then?’
    ‘Oh God, I’d love it. That would be sooooo cool! Except you don’t say actress any more, you know. They’re all just actors nowadays, even the women, because of feminism. Like Emma Thompson or Judi Dench or Pamela Anderson or whatever. They’re not actresses, they’re actors.’
    ‘Is that right? Sounds a bit weird to me.’
    ‘Well, I think so too,