We followed Jimmie down the hotel fire escape and boarded the bus and we were away.
“So Jollity, who are you?”
“I’m Josephine, but everybody calls me Jollity, perhaps because I’m always jolly, just like you. I had a happy childhood as a little girl; I had the best mum possible, a little brother and a dad. He was a publisher of technical manuals, not very thick, written for the ordinary man, they sold very well.”
“But my father got more and more successful, he bought a newspaper, he changed, my brother changed, the happiness went, they shouted at me and Mum, it was hateful. Mum died.”
“I retreated into myself; I learnt to play the guitar; I had already learnt to play the piano, thank you Mum. I played and sang at school events and parties, and later at pubs and clubs.”
“My father is Martin Jackson, he owns the Daily Crap, you must have heard of him.
My brother is Phillip Jackson, he sings under the name of Phiz Jak, you must have heard of him...”
Laughter from the other girls. “This morning’s papers have a report about our escape in the escape lane. The Daily Crap reported that we had had a very bad accident and that we ought to be removed from the road, from everywhere, because we are so dangerous. The Daily Crap says something bad about us nearly every day. But we don’t care.”
“Why don’t you care?”
“Cus who reads the Daily Crap? I’ll tell you: old codgers, people older than a hundred who read the Daily Crap every day and nothing else.”
“Our target audience is teenage girls and young women, so no wonder that we don’t care. But you must know who does care...”
“Oh, yes” I said, “my brother hates you for that. He’s lost a large part of his following to you girls. He hates you and his father hates you too.”
Much laughter. I had to sing: You Hate to Love Me Only
Hate me, hate me, hate me Why do you hate me? Hate me, hate me, hate me You have the energy to hate me Hate me, hate me, hate me I have no energy to hate you Hate me, hate me, hate me I cannot hate you Hate me, hate me, hate me Love me, love me, love me Why don’t you love me? Love me, love me, love me I have the desire to love you Love me, love me, love me I can only desire to love you Love me, love me, love me I only love you Love me, love me, love me
“That’s his best song, isn’t it? Not bad, you sing just like your brother.”
I laughed, “Just like my brother? No, not really.”
Jimmie pulled the bus into a motorway service point and we sang and danced for the people in the car park: Baker Street, Born under a Bad Sign, Bring Me Love and Talking about Things
Jimmie had a quiet and earnest talk with me. “The girls can sing and dance well, but they can’t write songs. They’ve tried, I’ve tried, but the results were crappy. That’s why they cover so many numbers.”
“Anyone who’s any good at writing, wants to perform the songs themselves. But you are happy to share your songs. So that is one reason why the girls like you.”
“We will pay you properly each time we use one of your songs – all rights and credits remain with you. And you can if you wish join the team – perhaps you need an agent.”