We left a humiliated and enraged Cilla slumped in a pool of her own piss and puke outside the Cavern in the worst recorded gig since Lauryn Hill at Brixton Academy. She’s now a cloakroom girl at the joint where she runs into Bob the Prod who is now shacked up with his brother after leaving home leaves home because of his Catholic burning father Scully.
He persuades her to give the singing thing another go even though she fucked him over like she would one day fuck over the English working class by sucking Tory cock for her entire adult life. Treachery runs so deeply through Cilla’s soul that it’s remarkable she hasn’t flayed him alive and used his hide a lampshade.
Her return to the stage goes well fuelled as it is by a violent hatred of her peers and the vulnerable. All of a sudden she’s gigging like the Grateful Dead and when taps her up again and offers her a recording contract it feels as inevitable as a punch in the face is to girlfriends of Floyd Mayweather. Brian visits her parents and name drops his other recent acquisition the Beatles. “Accrington Stanley? ‘Oo are dey?” says Mister White. “The Beatles you stupid Gentile. Cultural touchstone for the next thousand years”.
“Accrington Stanley? ‘Oo are dey?” says Mister White. “The Beatles you stupid Gentile. Cultural touchstone for the next thousand years”.
Cilla defecates all over Bob again by demoting him to road manager but like many victims of emotional abuse he accepts it. While recording down in London Brian takes the opportunity to put his cock in as many rent boys as possible. The odd slap in the chops from one of the feistier chaps is a small price to pay, as is the three shillings a fuck he actually pays. This is life as a rich influential sex offender. It really couldn’t get any better.
Cilla’s star is on the rise too. She ruins Dionne Warwick’s Anyone Who Had a Heart and in the perverse culture of 60s Britain this catapults her to stardom and a number one hit. Her destruction of a proud black woman strikes a chord in the home of the slave trade. Say what you like about Brian Epstein but he knows pop music as well as he knows his way round a 15-year-old’s perineum.
Cilla is ecstatic. Now her murderous campaign of revenge against the proles can begin in earnest. ‘Ave fun! Tara!
The verdict: My struggle.
Marks out of 10: 7