The Dream Factory

With a click and a whir of the DVD player the dream factory spluttered into life. A shrewdness of record company apes in their late 30s huddled around the small LCD screen eager with anticipation for the casting selects had finally arrived.

'Hello my name's Diana. I'm 30 years old and I'm with Storm.'


The smallest but most vocal gibbon, cloaked in a fuchsia sports jacket, started yelping immediately.

"Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat."

This 'monologue' was delivered with the scattergun speed of a teenager suffering from both Tourette's and ADHD, whose poor mother was desperately trying to wean him off Ritalin, thereby exacerbating his condition. A head butting motor tic caused spittle to fly out of his mouth as he spoke.

Someone else piped up.

"She's too fucking old. I mean look at her. She's definitely been in pornos."

Diana then turned to her profile.

"And look at her arse. It's kinda cellulite-y."

"Yeah it does that weird thing where it pinches in and then goes baggy at the bottom. You know that thing? She's out mate."

To most observers Diana's figure was of course perfect. At that moment someone from sales walked in, his face red with hypertension.

"Alright lads. Fuckin' hell. You lot call this work? Are you sure you don't wanna do a job swap with me? Honestly I'm telling you there's some right sorts down the Tesco's head office. I'll go on the video instead."

A chimpanzee with particularly long arms slapped him on the back with affected bon homie.

"Mate, if you can ship us 20 thousand albums you can come to the shoot, the edit, the grade, whatever you fucking want."

After a few snorts of laughter they all went back to their leering.