Got up, had a bath. Thought that the water looked a dark colour
- then realised I still had my aviator sunglasses on. Listened
to the radio and felt a bit alienated. Wrote another concept
album on video recorders as I realised I'd already done TV and
radio. Had lunch and the postman turned up. A letter from mum
reminding me that it's Uncle Bob's birthday next week. The
power she still wields...will I never be free?? Beat my fists
against the wall in anger and frustration for about 20 minutes.
Decided to have a cup of tea. Milk had gone off. I detect the
hand of David Gilmour in this.
Got up. Thought about the war and the market forces destroying
the world for an hour or so. Felt a bit depressed so I
decided to put on my black jeans, black T shirt, black casual
jacket and aviators. Felt much better and decided to go out for
some milk and card for Uncle Bob. Nearly got out the door before
I realised I hadn't rolled up the sleeves of my casual
jacket!! Narrow escape there.
Got up, suddenly realised that my father was dead and that
no-one understood my alienation as a musical genius. Burnt down
the new conservatory in an angst ridden rage. Man next door
tried to engage me in conversation about someone called
"Gazza" before I torched his too. He is a pleb and I am an
artist. He was leaning on the fence watching me. I feel there might
be a large scale concept piece in this about the gulf between
the artsists and the philistine masses. Couldn't think of a physical
symbol to hang the work around and snagged my casual jacket on a
nail sticking out of the fence. Asked the pleb if he had
seen a man answering David Gilmours description hammering the
nail in but he'd obviously paid the pleb off.
Got up, message from Dave on the ansaphone asking me to get back
together with the band again. Rang Eric Clapton and
asked him to send Dave's wife some flowers thanking her for the
wonderful nights they spent together. That should fuck him
up. Felt so good I came up with a great lateral thinking idea on
the new album - The Fence!! I could stage it at the
whitehouse, or even the moon!! Thought I should probably play
myself, but who for Mum and Uncle Bob?? Sinead? Van?
Madonna? Phoned Bob Geldof to see if he wanted to get involved.
He told me to "fook off". Felt bad, nearly wrote another
album but decided to forgive Bob and went round to join him and
we both beat our fists against the wall for a couple of hours.
Got up, then went back to bed as I couldn't face the day - can't
anyone else see our lives are revolving around TV?? For
god's sake, it should be my musical genius it revolves around!!
Mum rang at night tosee if I was OK. She came round with
some chicken soup - I didn't eat it as it might have those mind
controlling drugs in it but at least she got my other black casual
jackets back from the dry cleaners. When will this woman stop
controlling my life!!
Rang Sinead. Apparently she has to tidy her room for the
forseeable future. Van rang, but it was difficult to tell wether he was
interested or not as there was so much background noise - all
bottles clinking and horseracing. Madonna didn't ring back. I
detect the hand of David Gilmour in this.
Project in tatters. Postman came and the first letter was my
royalties from Pink Floyds latest tour. I'm sure it's 1 short. Letter
from mum - Uncle Bob was killed by a bus yesterday. I feel a
large scale concept album about the perils of public transport in
a monopolistic state coming on. Finished it in time to watch MTV
before bed. Saw David Gilmour dancing with Madonna!!! I
detect the hand of my mother in this!!
Got up. Had a bath. Doctor came round - said they would have to
operate to remove my sunglasses. Decided to give it a
miss - after all, I've never seen Dave Gilmour in shades.
Postman arrived with my 55 volume box video set of the first world
war. Couldn't see my dad in it, but there was a guy who looked
like him. The bleeding hearts came round in the afternoon -
apparently Snowy has started taking lessons from Dave himself.
We jammed for a bit until someone pointed out I couldn't
sing. Threw them all out in a huff.
Meeting with the guys at Sony. Apparently they are objecting to
my new 3 CD concept album roughly entitled "Record
companies screw the life out of creative geniuses worse than
Maggie Thatcher did to the miners". Philistines. They calmed
down a bit when they realised it wouldn't be out for another
three years by which time the concept would have changed
beyond all recognition anyway. Talked about poor album sales.
This one had better be good they said, get some good
guitarists. They suggested Dave Gilmour - I suggested they fuck
Journalist phoend to ask when I would tour next. Told him as
soon as Hades drops below 0 degrees and it's moisture
crystalises in to a solid - or if more than a few hundred people
buy tickets. He didn't understand the first part but I think he got
Phoned Eric Clapton - but his mum said he can't come out to play
with me anymore as I depress him. Talked to her about the
war for a bit till she hung up. Mothers - they're all the same.
Went in the studio and met some guy called Steve Vai -
apparently he plays guitar. Asked him to put some stuff over my
demos but he just warmed up for an hour, asked if it was
OK and left. Dave and the guys were in the studio next door and
sent through a demo they were working on to see if I would
put some lyrics on it. I did, it went like this -
Fuck off Dave Gilmour
And the rest of you too
Keep your sodding ferraris
Your mums smell like poo
You got the floyd name
but I know your game
It's all metaphysics
And I write better lyrics
Not my best work but I thougt it appropriate under the
circumstances. Phoned my lawyer and asked him to phone Dave's
lawyer and say that Dave was a wanker. And anyway, didn't I get
a restraining order??
New album going well - should be finished in about 40 odd
remixes and several title changes. Did some more work on the
opera. Finally found the kind of music for me - you don't need
to sing!! You get a big fat woman to do it for you. At least it
makes a change from Paul Carrack. Sinead came round for a while
and we both moaned about how hard it was to be
misunderstood artistic genuis's. She asked if she could do a bit
for the new album - said we'd already got someone to make
Dave phoned again. Apparently he wants to borow my casual
jacket. Couldn't find one without the sleeves rolled up so I
bought a brand new one. It was worth it after I'd sewn some
prawns into the lining and filled the collar with itching powder.
Saw Dave later wearing it on Top Of The Pops - he's not playing
as well as he used to!! Mum came tound and asked me if I
wanted to go to dinner with her and the wife. You mean I'm
Phoned the Ministry Of Defence again and asked them why my dad
had to die in the war. Got standard reply from snotty
receptionist - "because he was shot through the head by a
german, Mr Waters". Typical. Wrote a song about the snooty girl
called "I send people off to die and I don't care (Potzdamer
Had lunch with my manager. Apparently the Floyd are to be
honoured at some big awards and Dave and the boys are going.
Said I would go for a laugh. Phoned the wife to see if she
wanted to go but she said Dave had already invited her. Bugger.
Drove by Daves house at 3.00 in the morning playing the Final
Cut really loud - Dave came out and threw a guitar at me. Said
it was the best thing he'd done with a guitar since The Wall.
Drove off really quick after he threatened not to sing any more
songs I had the rights to.
Decided not to go to the awards - sent a Gerald Scarfe cartoon
of myself instead. MTV vj said that they nearly didn't
recognise me without the casual jacket & shades but I certainly
has more charisma than usual. Got really depressed and
decided to sell the pics of Dave shagging Kate Bush to the News
Of The World. Now that's what I call a discovery!!
Got up, had a bath. Decided to have a cup of tea. Milk had gone
off again. Made a mental note to shoot Dave Gilmour. Went
for a walk in the park. It was a nice day, lot's of mothers with
their children on the swings etc. No fathers around - maybe
they all died in the war. Couldn't stay long - the police turned
up and took me to the station. Got questioned for two hours on
why a middle aged man dressed all in black with sunglasses on
should hang around the playground. Talked to the officers
about the war and how my father was killed. Got let off with a
caution and a promise to see a shrink. On way home had a
brilliant idea - a ouija board!! Went straight to the shop and
bought one. On the way back I bought another thousand copies
of ATD with my Floyd royalties - got to keep the boys at Sony
happy and Snowy in guitar lessons.
Felt really bad this morning so stayed in bed making anonymous
and abusive phone calls to Maggie Thatcher and Ronald
Reagan. That will teach them to ruin peoples lives, start wars
and promote a soap opera state. But how do they always know
it's me?? Called Dave for a laugh - shame he wasn't in, put on
my Kate Bush voice and left message saying I was pregnant
and was sure the baby was his.
Contact!!! After 3 hours I think I am in touch with my father!!
Asked loads of questions with yes or no answers which he got
right!! Eventually asked the BIG ONE, what should I do with my
life... message came back:
to bed early with a cup of cocoa after beating my fists bloody
against the wall.
BBC phoned up to ask if I would take part in a documentary -
Daves doing it they said. Decided to do it after BBC man
assured me we would be recorded on seperate days. Next door came
round to ask me to stop beating on the wall - gave
them a copy of the album so they could understand. They came
back two hours later and asked me to sign it - I did and they
left looking puzzled. Heard the man muttering "Shit...I thought
he was Dave Gilmour...who IS Roger Waters anyway?" under
his breath. Had a cup of black coffee and went to bed. Decided
to give the beating my fists against the wall a miss tonight.
Couldn't sleep, decided to make a list of things that keep me
awake at night -
1.Thinking about the war.
2.Thinking about my father/mother/the war.
3.Going round Daves house at 3:00AM and singing "and when the
band you're in starts playing different tunes" at the top
of my voice.
4.Being repeatedly beaten over the head with a rubber
5.Thinking about market forces and the soap opera state.
6.Going round Daves at 4:00AM, running thru his garden and
singing "the lunatic is on the grass" at the top of my voice.
7.Thinking some more about the war.
8.Wondering just what I'm going to do to Dave if he comes
round and starts any of that rubber chicken shit tonight.
9.Lying awake writing lists.
Fell asleep before I could do number 10.
Got up late, must get more sleep in future. Decided to work on a
new album but couldn't think of a good concept. Listened to
all my albums (INCLUDING The Final Cut) in a row and decided to
kill myself due to the sheer futility of it all. Couldn't go
through with it without writing a new album about what it feels
like to want to commit suicide. Finished it and felt a lot better.
Sent it to Sony by local courier company - which is trangely
called Fat Daves. I always get a kick out of calling and saying
"Hello, Fat Daves?? Yeh Roger here, I need you to run an errand
for me you fat talentless bastard". Went to BBC
documentary and it turned out to be a tribute to Dave!! And he
was there!! According to them one of his new business
ventures is a courier company!! Said lots of uncomplimentary
things about him on camera but he just ran around laughing
behind me making finger gestures behind my head. Eventually he
collapsed in a fat heap on the floor covered in sweat. Made
a mental note to send him another 400 cream cakes and some of my
Grecian 2000. Looks like he didn't like the wig I sent
Got up late again, head still sore from the rubber chicken.
Message from Sony on the ansaphone - apparently all the account
execs killed themselves this morning. I detect the hand of...
er... best not think about that one, Phoned and asked if they had a
chance to listen to the album - receptionist hung up on me.
Stormed round the garden for a couple of hours in an angst ridden
torment. Pleb next door kept staring at me, told him I'd put my
Paul Carrack CD on full blast if he didn't fuck off. He did.
Continued storming for a bit till it got dark and I banged my
shins on the bar-B-Q. Next time I do it in the dark I'll take the
Message on ansaphone from some anonymous woman telling me to
stop being such a miserable nutcase and to pull myself
together. Sounded like my mother. Recorded new ansaphone
"Hi, this is Roger 'I'm outta my mind, me' Waters, I can't
take your call as I am far too busy writing large scale
concept albums with outrageous stage shows that will never
be performed due to poor ticket sales. ALRIGHT,
LOOK... MY FATHER DIED IN THE WAR YOU KNOW!! AND I WAS
PERSECUTED BY MY
MOTHER FROM AN EARLY AGE!! I THINK THAT GIVES ME THE RIGHT
TO BE A
MISUNDERSTOOD CREATIVE GENIUS!! Right, OK, and I'm a
miserable bugger. Leave your message
after the tone. Oh yeh, I said I would tour if ATD sold 2
million copies and to date it's only sold 1.3 million, so
get off my back about that one as well. Thanks."
Got up early- it's my birthday!! Mum came round with presents -
a pint of milk and a fridge. Uncle Bob didn't even send a
card!! Dave sent some singing lesson vouchers - bastard!! Made
mental note to send him my new book "Writing successful
concept albums based around music and good lyrics rather than
some crap with a couple of guitar solos in it" if I ever get the
bugger published. For some reason all the publishers think it's
a bit hypocritical. Had a tantrum as mum forgot the jelly and ice
cream. Sat in my room in the dark for a bit and then called
Snowy. Told me he couldn't come round to play as he's joined
David as rythm guitarist on his solo album!! Phoned Jehovas
Witnesses pretending to be in deep spiritual crisis and gave them
Daves adress. Went to bed but had to get up 2 hours later as
Dave had sent the Moonies round. Got rid of them by talking
about the early years with Syd Barret and playing them
Decided to make it up with Dave - dropped by his house and
offered to do some lyrics for his solo project, with no mention
of the war/soap opera states/alienation etc. Wrote a great song
called "The Bravery of being Ronald Reagan behind a big
large thing almost like a Wall that shields your feelings at The
Anzio Bridgehead whilst on TV". Dave didn't like it so promised
to go home and write another one,
Got home and decided I din't feel like being nice to him
anymore. Sent him these lyrics instead:
My dad went off to a great big battle
The TV satellites watched from Seattle
He fought the buggers left and right
Then the cameras panned to a dreadful sight
As some German Kraut
Snuffed his life right out
And a monkey sat on Daves old bones
Buggered his ferraris and wrecked his homes
And Billy chipped in with Radio Waves
Shot right up the arse of fat old Dave
For good lyrics he'll forever hunt
'Cause that Dave Gilmour, well
He's just a cunt
|| \~~/ /\_
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