Brian woke, bright and early, at 11am, when his self-made alarm clock (constructed from an old food mixer and a small piece of weapons grade plutonium) woke him up with a tinny version of “Everything I Do Is Driven By You” and a shower of gamma rays. “Bloody thing”, Brian said grumpily, “I set it for half past seven!”. The first thing Brian did, like every technophile, was to check his Twitter account whilst still in his Flash Gordon pyjamas, after asking his personal assistant, Henry, to bring him coffee, orange juice, an array of vitamins and, as it was Wednesday, some mackerel on toast, topped with some scrambled eggs. He then spent around two hours answering every Tweet directed at him which was about forty-nine percent Queen-related, forty-nine percent badger-related, one percent calling him a twat and the other one percent asking him his secret for such lustrous hair. He then moved on to his hundreds of e-mails. One was from John Deacon which simply contained the words, “For the last time, no. Now fuck off, Brian”, to which Brian shed the smallest of tears. The rest was simply fan mail (mostly from people who could barely write in English) telling him how much they loved Freddie. The rest were badger-related. Oh, apart from the ones calling him a twat.
As it was already 4pm, Brian decided that he should skip lunch and wash his hair before dinner and so, after two hours applying lots of home-made concoctions to his masterpiece of a barnet, Brian finally came downstairs. “Good afternoon, sir”, smiled Henry. “Good afternoon, Henry”, said Brian, cheerfully, “Any post?” Henry shook his head, sadly. “Not much, just a couple of begging letters, your favourite periodical and half a dozen dead badgers in a box from your friends at the Countryside Alliance, your Brianship”. Brian’s eyes flashed with anger and a feisty guitar riff shot through his mind. “Those bastards, Henry!” exclaimed the ageing Queen maestro. “When are they going to learn that I’m really intelligent, have a degree in Astro-Physics, am the tallest man in Britain, thanks to my hair, am a rock and roll superstar and am, you know, right about everything?!” Brian ranted, sticking his bum right out in petulant rage. “I know, sir, they’re completely ignorant and you’re right.” Brian sat down in his favourite self-made chair (fashioned from railway sleepers and dead sheep) and smiled. “Yes, Henry, thank you. I am right.”
Henry shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. “Mr May, sir?” Brian looked up from his brand new issue of The Beano which had come in the post that day. “Yes?” Henry looked visibly flustered. “Well, I was wondering if I could have a day off. I’ve been working every day, without a break for nearly seventeen years now. It’s my Mother’s birthday on Monday and I’d like to…” “Tie her down?” Brian interrupted – and then roared with laughter. “Yes, yes, of course, have the day off, once you’ve completed all of your other duties and providing that they have called off the badger cull by that day.” “But, but…” Henry stammered. “No need to thank me, old chap, you’re very welcome!” boomed the massive-haired, wrinkly rocker. Just then, the phone rang. A tinny version of “Don’t Stop Me Now” echoed through the halls of May Mansions. “Get that will you, Henry?” Brian asked, wearily, “I’ve had a very difficult day.” Henry nodded and picked up the home-made phone, which was constructed from a calculator, a transistor radio and a pair of chopsticks.
“Mr May, sir, it’s your agent, Mr. Leech, and he has one or two proposals for you.”
“Ah, Lionel Leech, excellent. Well, what are they, Henry?”
“Lady Gaga would like to co-write a song with you and for you to play guitar on it.”
“Sounds great, it’s a fantastic way to introduce Queen’s music to the younger generation. I’m in!”
“OK, the next one – Justin Beiber wants to do a version of Bohemian Rhapsody and wants you to appear in the video, in one of those pairs of trousers that shows half of your underwear.”
“Beiber? What a fantastic way to introduce Queen’s music to the younger generation. I’m in!”
“Your agent wants you to know that Queen fans may object to someone like Beiber covering one of Freddie’s greatest songs and that you may be destroying the legacy of a great band.”
“Nonsense. I’m Brian May, I have a degree in Astro-Physics and I’m always right.”
“Very good, sir. The next one is a bit tricky. Sasha Baron Cohen would like you to appear in his new film in a scene where he appears as a giant badger who is wanking off and… er, spunks all over your face and in your hair… whilst you play ‘Another One Bites The Dust’ on the guitar.”
“That’s absolutely disgusting!”
“I quite agree, sir!”
“Yes, you tell Leech to tell Sasha Baron Cohen that it has to be one of the songs I wrote, not a bloody John Deacon song! The cheek of it. If it’s ‘Save Me’ or ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’, then it’s an excellent way to introduce Queen’s music to a younger generation and I’m in!”
“Very good, sir. Mr. Leech says that he will be in touch soon with arrangements for all these collaborations.”
“Brilliant, thank you, Henry. Freddie would be proud of me, I’m sure.”
Just then, Anita Dobson came home from a hard day’s work of being Angie off of Eastenders. “Hello darling!” said Anita. “Hello, my love” said Brian. They both embraced and their hair styles both embraced each other too. They then sat down to a magnificent dinner of Heinz’s finest baked beans on lavishly buttered slices of Hovis wholemeal bread, washed down with plastic beaker after plastic beaker of Ribena. Brian told Anita all about his very hectic day and Anita pretended to listen to him whilst thinking about having sexual intercourse with Leslie Grantham. “Well!” said Brian, “I need to go and practise the guitar… one day I may make a career out of it!” Anita laughed politely (as he had made that joke ever day for a couple of decades) and enquired (still thinking about Dirty Den), “Brian, it’s Wednesday, our ‘special’ night. Can I expect you in bed at about half-past ten for our weekly lovemaking?” Brian grinned and winked. “Well, sweetheart, it all depends. Can I ask you to., er, well, perhaps you’d consider.. you know?” A look of annoyance spread over Anita’s face. “No Brian, I’m not putting that fucking badger costume on again, not tonight, not ever!” Brian’s face fell. “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Grasping his sixpence and grabbing his ‘Red Special’, Brian went out to the garage to compose his masterpiece about badgers which, hopefully, he could then perform with some second rate popular artist who could help bring Queen to the younger generation. I’m in!