From the video description:
In the first of our interviews introducing the cast, music journalist Ginger Babczak sits down with legendary rock singer-songwriter Nick White to find out just what the Hell is wrong with him… er, to get his opinions on his fellow castmates or whatever.
And to hear him piss and moan about a more popular professional rival… boo hoo…
Nick and Sally’s commentary:
“Good Lord, Sally, what a nightmare. That interviewer woman refused to take her top off and didn’t even want to talk about yachts with me! Even worse, the groupies got all camera-shy and only wanted to fake pleasuring me instead of actually doing their duty by me for real.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. White.”
“See, this is why we never should have let women into music journalism. Back in the ’80s it was almost all men and groupies did whatever you told them. Hell, sometimes you didn’t even need to tell them, they knew what they were doing… of course, those were the ones you usually got a fresh dose of the clap from. Speaking of which, did you pick up my prescription for me?”
“Yes, Mr. White.”
“No, no… I wasn’t talking about my ointment and penicillin, I meant did you pick up my Percocets?”
“Oh… um, the pharmacy said they were all out.”
“Bloody Hell… well, don’t just stand there. Phone my dealer!”
“Yes, Mr. White.”
Music credits
Yours truly as usual; an unreleased maQLu track called “Ginger.” Just a little bit at the top and bottom of the video, the better to hear Nick make an ass of himself.
Transcript (ie, spoiler alert)
(Nick is sitting on a chaise lounge with two groupies while Ginger sits in a chair opposite him.)
GINGER: So, Nick White: tell us about yourself.
NICK: 16 hit albums, but more importantly: 6’ tall and 8” long.
GINGER: Um… you’re serious?
NICK: Alright, love, 5’11 and 7 inches.
GINGER: Well, first of all, I’m 5’6, and you’re not much taller than me, so…
NICK: Fine, fine. 5’9. But it is 7 inches.
GINGER: I’ll take your word for it.
NICK: You’ll take it all, darling.
GINGER: Anyway… I was asking about your career and celebrity status.
NICK: Yes, sugar, I promised you I’ll ride you in my Porsche later. Be sure to post the photos and tell all your friends. Well, the hot ones, anyway.
GINGER: So, you’ve had a long and illustrious career as one of the biggest rock singer-songwriters on the planet.
NICK: Let’s not talk about work, darling. Work is boring. Well, except for the bit with the whores coming backstage after a show. That part’s fun.
GINGER: Is it true you’ve never had a #1 single or album?
NICK: No! Absolutely not! My 1987 single “Bouncy Tits” went to #1 in Italy and West Germany.
GINGER: But aside from that, they’ve all just been top 5s and top 10s, right?
NICK: Only because goddamn Bono and Sting always hog the top spots every time I have something new out. Well, them and Michael Jackson, but at least he finally went to the big kindergarten in the sky.
GINGER: Why don’t you just delay your releases so they don’t coincide with U2 and–
NICK: I am not shifting my schedule around on account of that goddamn paddy!
GINGER: Good Lord. What did Bono ever do to you anyway?
NICK: I told you! He hogs all the number ones. And all the Grammys. And then there’s the time he stole my greatest idea.
GINGER: Oh? What was that?
NICK: Well, it was a while back, everyone was at one of the Grammys after parties… well, it could have been the BMAs… or the MTV awards back when they still played music videos… or…
GINGER: Whatever. It was at a party?
NICK: Yes. And I was doing rails, of course, and a bunch of the guys were there… I think Scott Weiland was there, and Charlie Sheen, and Keith Richards, and a few of the plebs, bass players and whatnot. Riff raff, you know?
GINGER: Bass players are riff raff?
NICK: Of course, love. If they had talent, they’d be singers. Anyway, I was telling Sir Bob Geldof about how I was going to name my next yacht Kingdom Cum. And then a week or two later who goes and buys a yacht and calls it Kingdom Come? Fucking Bono!
GINGER: Well, maybe it was a coincidence.
NICK: There are no coincidences!
GINGER: Was he even there when you were talking to Sir Bob?
NICK: How the Hell would I know? I was paying attention to the blow, not that bastard.
GINGER: Oh, fer…
NICK: Funny thing, though: the stupid mick spelled it wrong.
GINGER: What? No, he didn’t.
NICK: Yes he did! “Cum” has “u” in it. As you’ll soon find out.
GINGER: Eww…
NICK: Take your shirt off, love, it’s warm enough in here.
GINGER: Actually, it’s pretty cold in here.
NICK: Are you cold, dear? Really? Pull your shirt up and let’s have a look.
GINGER: Some say your constant womanizing caused the failure of your first two marriages and is putting a strain on the current one.
NICK: Nonsense! My first two marriages broke down because they were insufferable gold-digging cunts, and so is the current Mrs. White. It’s got nothing to do with me, darling.
GINGER: You don’t see a common denominator?
NICK: I don’t do fractions, love. That’s what the accountants are for.
GINGER: Fine. Let’s talk about your coworkers.
NICK: My what?
GINGER: Peers? Colleagues?
NICK: Oh, you mean like Simon Le Bon and Bryan Adams? And of course Michael Hutchence, but he’s been dead for 20-odd years.
GINGER: No, I meant at your studio.
NICK: Simon’s never come by my studio and Bryan has his own. And I just told you Michael’s passed on, so he has a valid excuse for not visiting.
GINGER: I meant the staff at your studio.
NICK: Oh. You’re talking about the peasants! Greedy bastards, the lot of them; always whining for pay raises.
GINGER: Well, what do you pay them?
NICK: That’s a question for the accountants, love. You know, for someone who claims to be cold, I sure don’t see any sign of it. You’re not wearing one of those awful molded cup bras, are you?
GINGER: What do you pay your staff?
NICK: Worst invention ever, those molded cup bras. How are we supposed to spot any nips if you women insist on wearing those awful foam things blocking them?
GINGER: You’re not.
NICK: Where’s the fun in that? The whole point of letting women into the music biz was so we could have some titties to look at when talking business. We didn’t let you broads in to not be able to see any nips!
GINGER: Your receptionist must be thrilled to have to listen to this crap every day.
NICK: Sally? No, she just smiles and says “Yes, Mr. White.” It’s wonderful. You should try it sometime.
GINGER (sighing): Tell me about your assistant recording engineer, Jason.
NICK: What? Jason’s an engineer? I thought he was the janitor!
GINGER: Didn’t you hire him?
NICK: Yes, I hired him on the spot when he did a fabulous job of polishing my yacht racing trophies.
GINGER: And you didn’t know what you were hiring him for?
NICK: Sally handles the paperwork for me.
GINGER: OK… so you’re paying him engineer rates to do janitor work?
NICK: Minimum wage is minimum wage, love. Plus my father tips him a nickel every time I send Jason out to serve as his caddy. Surely that adds up.
GINGER: What about your mix engineer, Richard Browne?
NICK: Oh no, sweetheart. Dickhead doesn’t work for me; if he did, I could fire him for insubordination.
GINGER: But he works at your studio!
NICK: Yes, darling, and I charge him book rate for the privilege. Which reminds me, I need to tell Sally to raise the book rate again.
GINGER: What’s book rate?
NICK: Book rate is what you charge people you don’t like. As opposed to friends rate. Of course, we tell Richard that the book rate is actually the friends rate, and so far he’s not caught on.
GINGER: What about Martin Johnston?
NICK: Martin pays friends rate.
GINGER: So you like Martin?
NICK: Well, of course! Do you have any idea how many multi-platinum albums he’s mixed?
GINGER: But Richard’s done hit records too!
NICK: Pfft! Richard hasn’t had a gold record in at least 2 years! Martin just got a new one last week. Besides, Martin’s wife just bought a rather nice Azimut 80 Flybridge, and since Martin’s booked solid for the next 3 years, practically chained to the SSL board in studio 4 working, he said I can borrow it anytime I like.
GINGER: Azimut 80?
NICK: Oh, it’s amazing! He’s got the one with twin 1800 horsepower MAN engines, top speed of 31 knots… You can fit at least 200 whores into the lounge… I mean, standing room only, of course… sleek Italian styling… side power SP300 bow thruster… 12 piece leather socks for the outside chairs… and it even has a rather convenient in-cockpit bar cabinet! I’ll never steer sober again!
GINGER: OK, OK, OK! Let’s talk about something else.
NICK: Yes, the navigation system!
GINGER: No! Something else aside from Martin’s yacht.
NICK (sighing): Well, I suppose we can talk about my yacht.
GINGER: No! I mean something else aside from any yachts!
NICK: Where’s the fun in that?
GINGER: Why did you decide to build your studio next to a strip club?
NICK: I’m a regular there so I got a smashing good deal from Luigi on the property. There was a beauty salon here before but those silly women insisted the place was haunted. I mean, just because the place was owned by a Sicilian and the courtyard parking lot had a lot of 6’ long humps in it doesn’t mean that the screaming voices are angry ghosts. Pfft… women.
GINGER: Um… 6’ long humps?
NICK: Yes, darling. Luigi told me they used to grow tomatoes in the courtyard. That’s why the soil was freshly disturbed.
GINGER: I, uh…
NICK: You know how much Italians like their tomatos. Perfectly reasonable. And those silly hairdressers insisted bloody handprints would keep reappearing on the wall. Ridiculous! I had the decorator paint that wall black and I haven’t seen a damn thing since.
GINGER: They said there was screaming, though.
NICK: Oh, you know how you women are. Screaming over absolutely anything. I get ladies screaming all the time after my shows. I’m sure those hairdressers were just hysterical. They always are.
GINGER: Wow. Well, so I guess you get along with Luigi just fine. What about the others from the strip club? You and Betty have some history, don’t you?
NICK: Now, darling, you can’t believe anything Betty says about me. That old slut has been rammed by every prick in the entire music industry, and she’s shit out Lord knows how many kids.
GINGER: I really don’t see what that has to do with—
NICK: You could drive a 747 through her cooze with room to spare, of course she can’t tell a big cock from a little one anymore.
GINGER: I, um…
NICK: Don’t listen to her. I told you it’s a solid 7”.
GINGER: Well, I, um…
NICK: You’ll find out in a few minutes.
GINGER: So… about Atlanta…
NICK: Terrible town. They talk a big game about Southern hospitality but when you get them backstage they just go on about how Jesus says they shouldn’t and they’re saving themselves for marriage and all that bullshit. Well, I’ve been married three times. I’m not falling for that again.
GINGER: I meant Atlanta Nixon. You know, the brunette stripper next door.
NICK: Brunette stripper next door… could you be more specific?
GINGER: Your weed dealer?
NICK: I have 4 or 5 weed dealers.
GINGER: Are they all strippers?
NICK: No, just whatserface next door… what is her name… Amy? Annamaria? Argentina? Um…
GINGER: Atlanta.
NICK: Yes, that’s right. Her.
GINGER: Tell me about her.
NICK: Terrible. Talks a big game about loving her fellow man but any time I ask her to put her pussy where her mouth is she insists she has a boyfriend.
GINGER: What about Paris?
NICK: Lord, those Frenchies might be cheese eating alcoholic surrender fetishists, but I’ve had some great times fucking their whores at the Crazy Horse. And even at Fashion Week, though one must be careful with those bloody supermodels. Asses so bony they leave bruises on your hips. And no tits. Speaking of tits, let’s have a look at yours.
GINGER: I’m talking about Atlanta’s coworker Paris. The stripper.
NICK: Yes, there’s lots of strippers at the Crazy Horse, though of course they get all offended if you call them that.
GINGER: I’m talking about the redhead who works next door at Luigi’s.
NICK: There’s no redheads at Luigi’s, darling. At least, there’s no natural redheads. How about you, love? Carpet match the drapes?
GINGER: Ugh, whatever. Do you or do you not have an opinion on Paris the stripper from Luigi’s?
NICK: Can’t seem to place her. What’s her bra size?
GINGER: I don’t know.
NICK: Nothing memorable? Must be flat, then… Oh, that’s right, there is a titless ginger over there. I thought she was Pádraig’s sister til he got all pissed off and told me he has nothing to do with, quote, “that Saxon bitch.” I think he’s fucking her and he meant to say “that sexy bitch.” You know how the bloody Irish mangle our beautiful English language all the time.
GINGER: OK… well, tell me about Pádraig. You and him get along, don’t you?
NICK: Oh yes, love, we’re great friends. Y’know, he’s alright for a mick. He hates Bono, too. Something about how Bono sucks English cock.
GINGER: Um… what?
NICK: I know! I didn’t know he swung that way, either, but Lord only knows what those nerds get up to at the UN.
GINGER: So your friendship with Pádraig is based on hating U2?
NICK: Yes. Of course. That and drinking shots and pounding sluts. Quite the swordsman, Pádraig is. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but chicks love a good foreign accent. Why they love an Irish accent, I’ll never know, but it seems to work for him.