THE SALSA DIARIES #6

I Perfumed Over His Curry

The gentle art of persuasion starring David Beckham

“She whispered seductively, “Have you ever loved so hard you split your soul in two?” Somewhere in the distance, a dam burst with beaver carnage. It resembled a whack-a-mole game with scrambling beavers everywhere.

A couple kissed in slow motion in the rain. An enraptured snog that lasted forever. A monochrome pastiche of a love affair where Ingrid was whipped into a frenzied lust.

A clock spins in reverse. The chime bellowing across a desolate landscape. Small children look up searching for the source of the sound. The rag-tag army of urchins look perplexed. They sense danger.

A pig explodes in a barn. Meat is torn asunder from its loins. There’s shredded pork everywhere. Slowly, pig fat drips down the screen.

The final scene is David Beckham. He’s topless. He’s in a court surrounded by model women. Not actual women, but miniature scale model women. There are billions of them. The women are all in action poses and lingerie. Some are holding big guns. Like, really big guns. Massive bazookas. They could go off at any minute.

Beckham leans into a microphone. He’s the judge. His eyes are smoldering. We have an extreme close-up of his mouth. The seductive smile. The white teeth. The erotic bite on his lips.

“Guilty” he whispers.

Cut to a black screen.

The final shot is a Tandoori Butter Chicken with visible wafts of steam. The tagline: “Perfume Over His Curry”. And that’s when Beckham begins to rub the steaming pile of curry all over his topless torso. Succulent chunks of butter chicken lodge on his left nipple.”

Honestly, sometimes I wished I wasn’t head honcho of an advertising agency and instead, ran a bakery somewhere on the wrong side of Paris. I could be, right now, stroking baguettes and fiddling with creamy holes. Instead, I have to churn through perfume scripts like this from my top executive team who believe they’re making art and not selling fucking over-priced toilet fragrances.

This isn’t art. It’s bollocks. And this cretinous lot don’t deserve another holiday if this is the result of their time away.

“Who wrote this?” I ask, quite calmly.

They sense a blood-letting. A sacrificial lamb will be offered to placate me. I wonder who they’ll choose. Already my long-serving squeamish Art Director is plucking through his clipboard notes. You don’t reach your fifth anniversary at the Chateaux without learning a few basic survival instincts.

He nods towards Gary. It’s the slightest of eye-movements. He doesn’t want to be seen as the finger-pointer.

“Take Gary outside and shoot him” I order.

By shoot, we mean debase the fuck out of him and get it on camera for future proof of how much arse he sucked.

It’s survival of the fittest at the Chateaux de la Swine.

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