of course this isn't real
interview conducted in the flemish weaver, lr. broughton, salford, march 10th 2003
we pick the long table in the left hand corner as you go in. the locals are staring. as i begin to preen myself, bathing in all the attention, i realise there focus is not on me. they're staring at j lo because she looks like a crack whore. we got a round in. 2 pints of orange juice, though i do notice lopez sneak in a sly vodka from her obvious hip flask when i'm not looking. hmm. lopez is over here to promote her new filmshite 'maid in manhattan'.
let the interview commence....
Graham Hall: you alright j lo, may i call you (unintellageable faux rasta accent) 'bob marley'?
Jenny From The Block: what?
GH: how you doing?
JFTB: i'm fine. thanks for asking.
GH: well, erm (coughs), what brings you over to this side of the atlantic? (grebs on the floor)
JFTB: what's the atlantic?
GH: (disgruntled noise)
here follows 15 minutes explaination of, what water is, christopher columbus, america (esp. where it is in relation to britain), el nino (well not really) and why birds suddenly appear ever time you are near. after this time i get another round in. considering it's still early morning i go for the orange cordial option, jenny however goes for a pint of snakebite and a whiskey chaser....
GH: (prompts lopez to continue)
JFTB: what was the question, huh huh huh (NOTE - laughs like an 6 toed hick)
GH: what bring you over to this side of (adopts patronizing accent) 'the big sea and waves'
JFTB: oh. (unbelievably stilted talking. ahhh! jen is reading from cue cards!) i have a new film out. it is a rom...roman....(confused)....
GH: romantic?
JFTB: yeah sorry. i aint not that clever somedays. (back to the stilted mototone drawl) a romantic comedy about....
GH: oh fuck this for fucks sake. are you gonna be reading of those things all interview?
JFTB: (shrugs shoulders like abused child)
GH: (annoyed) pass them here
i urge lopez to hand over crayola scrawled drivel. she appears to have wrote this tripe on the back of a cut up packet of golden grahams. interesting.
JFTB: (clearly upset)right well what am i gonna say now? i aint got no cards, i aint got no notes....i aint got no notes....
GH: do you always use notes in interviews?
at this point lopez grabs the notes back off me and desperatly serches for an answer. one of the cards flys off and hits one of the locals near the bellend. he (paul - local pimp) pulls a gun on lopez but is swiftly shot by another local (baz - stiffy merchant, whatever that means) 'just looking for an excuse'. unperterbed by this daily dose of salford tittle tattle we carry on regardless. problem is lopez is obviously losing it. when i had finally picked up all the cards from around the pub and apologized to ken the landlord, i turn to find lopez chomping down on a screwed down statue of l.s. lowery. before she started to sanffle the poor dead painter, i grab on to mad jens legs and begin to pull with all my might, thus dislodging aformentioned pop star from the statue of the painter famous for painting the first pictures of anorexia sufferers. i think. i also ladder her tights. lopez for some reason take this as a come on. mad wench. my balls and arse are BOTH fondled however not at the same time. sickened at this heterosexual display of blatent cockrubbing, gay trev (who only survived in salford because his head is the shape of a gun. apparently. i couldn't see this as lopez had now straddled my face) pulled a gun on us both, aimed shot by bill who 'never really liked the bender anyway'. lopez calmed down and began to apologize explaining that Affleck (Ben - actor and other half) had ensared her into that famous pissed up romp, which started their relationship, by laddering her tights with a sharpend filofax. finally i can ask a question. a proper question.....
GH: (still out of breath. lights up a fag.) how has ben affleck changed your life?
JTFMSP: oh (glazes over, sits back and smiles). he's brought out so many different emotions in me. new things have happened, different realisations. different things occur to me now.
GH: great answer....hang on (looks up)
as i look up, i realise lopezs' glazed look wasn't because she was daydreaming of her other half, oh no. one of her note cards had stuck to some drying blood on the celing. instead of getting all soft and squelchy about her loved one, she was straining to see another pre-empted answer stuck on the life spadge of paul and/or gay trev. it's a fucked up world and i've had enough. in a rage i twat lopez with a prosthetic arm (it was just lying there. don't ask questions.). unimpressed she jumps on the table turns and lets out the most repellent fart you've ever heard in MY general direction. apart from it wasn't direct enough. baz, mentioned before, pulls a knife from his deep pocket and whangs it at lopez after getting a whiff of her guff. the knife deflects off the metal plate in lopezs' head and stabs ken the landlord deep, just to the right of the liver. ken screams in agony and as the other locals realise if ken dies there will be no more beer, utter and violent madness ensues. because of this riot behind us i fear there's not much time left till the world falls down around us, i grab lopez down from the table and, desperate to get some kind of interview for the site, i stoop to having a quick game of would you (random list of celebrities names and you give your view on whether you 'would' or not) with her.....
GH: (straining over the unbeareble noise from the riot) MATT DAMON
JTMFB: (calm as you like) already had him
JFTFB: (doesn't even seem to be thinking. slutbar.) yeah
JIAAFB: (starts to laugh, though not at the mention of the famous tv repairman, just because she's fucking mad as mad kenny the hammer) fuck yeah!
GH: (in total fear) he's dead you daft bitch!
JYSFOW: (insain cackleing)
this is it. i have to leave. after just 37 minutes with the overpaid trollop i have to run out fearing my life. i leave lopez sat spread on the floor covered in filth, blood, quam and beer, just laughing to herself. as i back off, ruffled, scared but still interested, the pub known as the flemish weaver collapses around all those still left inside. i mop my bloody and sweaty brow, turn away leaving canage behind me and just think, THE SLUT WAS RIGHT.