Tracy talks World Cup and rock festivals

She’s Back!
Hi Emma, We’ve just been talking about that footballer, Louis Sewage? You know, the one who can’t keep his teeth to himself. He’s trying to tell people he ‘fell’ into that Italian player the other day. Yeah, right. Like I fell into Big Bernice Bellamy’s fist at Penny Postlethwaite’s break up of engagement party.
Dad says they ought to ban him for a year but Gran says they should take him into the Amazon and let the head hunters have him. She reckons those teeth would make a nice necklace for a shaman.
In other news I’ve just been invited to open a rock festival. It’s not Glasto or anything like that though, it’s just gig that a few local bands are setting up on the playing fields at the back of the comp. I haven’t told Shayne Slider, my agent, about it because he still owes me £250 from my birthday and I don’t want him to know about my private gigs until I’ve got it back. The organisers are hoping to bring in a few hundred punters and they told me I’ll get 10% of any profit they make. Initially, they wanted the gig to last for three days but the police wouldn’t give them a licence to go through the night and the school needs the field for rounders practice on Saturday morning anyway.
They should be able to attract a couple of hundred people to be honest, I mean. Kathy Pringle, is the lead singer with her punk band, Up the Duff, and she’s one of a family of ten. Her mum was hoping to get those two council houses that were knocked into one on the Kingston road, but the council gave it to the woman who came up from London, the one with twelve kids with ten different fathers, you know who I mean? She was on Jezza last year… has a tattoo of a dagger on her forehead…
Anyway Kathy says all her mob and her extended family are going, if they are I’ll have to watch out because her cousin is that daft lad, Spencer Scoggins and he’s had it in for me since I dobbed him in for carving a cock and bollox into Mrs Conway’s desk with his compass.
Do you fancy coming, Emma? It ought to be a decent day. Dad’s got hold of a load of knocked off lager so he’s going to set up a beer tent. Igor the Immigrant has promised him a barrel of his home-made vodka and Dad reckons it’s cheap as chips so he can sell it for about 50p a shot. That ought to get the punters in the mood even if the music doesn’t. Talking of chips, Greasy Greg is bringing his burger van and Little Willy Short, says he’s going to get a few kids to do chip shop runs for anyone who wants to pay an extra quid so there should be plenty to eat too.
Hey, just thought, Rodney McWillie’s band are playing. He still fancies you like mad, so we might even get to sing with them like we used to at the school discos. That would be cool.
Catch you later, Emma. I’m going to get my hair brush and practice in front of the mirror.
Tracy, the Diva.
Get ready for Tracy’s Celebrity Hot Mail. Get yours soon. You can get the book soon too.
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