Spotting the stricken toaster for the first time, Lionel Richie combed the muffin crumbs from his moustache and applied seventeen layers of industrial-strength lip balm to his eyelids. He didn’t feel like dancing on the ceiling this afternoon – perhaps later. He shed a lonely tear, flavoured with cinnamon, in utter embarrassment for singing, “Hello, is it me you’re looking for?” to a visually impaired girl in one of the most cringe worthy videos of the 1980’s. What was he thinking? It sounded like a good idea after half a bottle of sherry and a paracetamol, but it hadn’t dated well. And Lionel hadn’t dated anyone since, which was unusual for someone with a few quid knocking about.
Still, “Hello” had paid for his loft insulation, so it couldn’t have been too bad and, let’s face it, it was much better than his love song to a schizophrenic, “You’re once, twice, three times a lady”. He was just grateful the music press hadn’t guessed what that one was about otherwise he’d have been finished. He had saved nearly 4% on his heating bills since they had lined his loft with dead ferrets – the smell was like being buried elbow deep in a sumo wrestler’s arse crack, but people could always wear nose plugs when visiting his 2-bedroomed semi in Luton, so it wasn’t unbearable. Lionel sighed and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Before negative equity set in, his last abode had been a 4-bedroomed end-of-terrace with a conservatory in Exeter, near his favourite railway station, St. Davids. The Bradford & Bingley made him find something smaller after he was forced to pay all of his royalties earned to Shane Richie, who turned out to be the real songwriter and talent behind Motown’s famous Commodores.
“Count your blessings, Lionel”, he thought – so he did. There turned out to be seventeen of them, one of which had gone off. Lionel put his parka coat on and left his house. His house cried and demanded custody of the children. “Off to Aldi I go”, thought Lionel, “I fancy some liver & onions tonight”. Unfortunately, Lionel had forgotten to put any trousers on and was arrested for having funky hair by the local constabulary. “Sod it”, thought Mr. Richie, so he flew away on his in-built, customised penis rocket to Lowestoft and lived the rest of his natural life pretending to be an Eccles cake in a pensioner’s cake tin. The pensioner didn’t mind – she had purchased ‘Hello’ and had extremely poor taste in music. She was just pleased with the endless sex the ex-Motown star so readily provided.
Everyone’s a winner! Especially Michael. But he’s a spunkbucket.