It's been a crazy month and a bit since an audience of 19 million people watched me win 'X Factor'. If you were one of those who either watched me or voted for me, I wanna say "Thank you. Thank you for making ALL my dreams come true." I've gone from fronting a band going nowhere and painting and decorating to hanging out with celebrities, going to parties, appearing at HMVs nationwide, snogging fit birds with bangin' ba-donka-donks and covering songs by my idol Chen Pacino. Nice, yeah? I want to personally thank Basil who's given me this dead high profile outlet for my thoughts so I can let you know exactly what's been going on. He's a top bloke.
January 15th 2011
I was out with the totally hawt Stacey McClean last night and we saw Cheryl Cole who came over to the VIP section and threatened to kick Stacey's head in cos she thought she'd spilled her pint. Gotta love Cheryl. She keeps it realer than real. Hardcore.
So, like, I've got my tongue deep inside this girl's arse, yeah? My stubble all over her creamy cheeks and she turns around and she's all indignant:
"Excuse me! Do I know you?"
And I'm like, "Duuuuh!" and show her my special Simon Cowell approved 'Platinum Pussy Pass', which is really just a badge that says "Matt Cardle: 'X Factor' Winner 2010" and she goes MEN-TAL. "Ohmygod!Ohmygod!Ohmygod!" Paddling like a toddler with new Marks and Sparks wellies in a puddle of her own sex wee-wee. And I can't blame her, cos I'm kind of a big deal now and if I could get my tongue up my own arse I'd never get out of bed. Ya get me? Sweet.
So it's all awesome, yeah? But now, right, cos she's made such a scene, EVERYONE in the Post Office wants an autograph. Yawny, yawn, yawn! So I make my excuses and I'm out of there like Prince William's hairline. Ass ta la vista, baby!!!
January 22nd 2011
Dannii Minogue gives me a bell this morning. We've both got the same special ringtone for each other on our iPhones; 'Boom Boom Pow' by The Black Eyed Peas. It's sooooo hardcore, but it makes us laugh. Good times. Anyway, literally as soon as I won 'X Factor' she whispered that she had an idea for a duet. When I'd completed the rough demo (a cover of Chen Pacino's 'H-H-Humpin' Ya') and we were listening to the playback, she looked at me with tears in her eyes. I knew exactly how she felt. It was deep. Titanic deep.
She says she wants to hook up later 'cos there's some coving in her lounge that needs sorting. So it's off to the Wickes in Hanworth. I know what you're thinking: why not B&Q? Well, with Wickes there's a far wider range of products at everyday prices, so, y'know, that's why I go there... PLUS I have some of my best song ideas wandering around the aisles looking for their greased felching grips. With this particular job I reckon the Wickes duopolymer coving will be perfect cos it's really light to handle and the Wickes cove adhesive is easy to use and fills in the gaps proper well.
Got to Dannii's place around 2ish and after a cup of tea she asks me if I want to get started. "Sure," I said, "the lounge is through here, isn't it?"
"Cripes, you're dim, mate. I meant me mut, Matt!" In her Aussie accent she flattened the vowels so that the last bit sounded like "...me mat, Mett!" I looked at her funny cos I didn't really understand. Ms Minogue heaving her Asda floral gusset to one side, fixing me with an intense stare and intoning "You. Owe. Me." soon made the message clear.
Yeah. She's right. I do owe her.
I suppose if I had to liken Dannii Minogue to a bar snack it would be a twiglet. Or pork scratchings. A salty, piquant taste that takes a little getting used to. I don't really like either of them, but, y'know if I'm pressed and there's a lack of any other savoury snacks...
January 25th 2011
Spend the morning jamming with the band I was in before I went on 'X Factor'. I've told them I haven't really left and that once the hysteria dies down and Simon's 'Platinum Pussy Pass' has expired we'll get back together. I'm not sure though. I see myself more as a Darius Danesh or John Lennon solo artist, y'know, a social commentator. We'll see.
My Manager rings to tell me that HMV in Sudbury is closing down, so my appearance there this afternoon is cancelled. That's weird. "I thought HMV weren't going to be closing their shops for a while?" I said.
"They must have heard about your recent appearance at the Bayswater HMV* where you played that stuff from your second album," he laughed. He's always kidding me like that.
"So, Jeff, what time am I getting there?"
"No, seriously. It's cancelled. They said they might as well close down today if you turn up."
"Right, so what am I doing this afternoon instead?"
"Have you got any of those greased felching grips left? Louis Walsh says he wants you to pop 'round. He's got a little project for you in his spare room. Hold on. No, wait." I hear Jeff rustling some papers.
"Sorry. Not spare room. Dungeon. He says you owe him."
Fair enough.
January 27th 2011
'Loose Women' this lunchtime. The hospitality room here is amazing. They've mimicked nature’s colour scheme by painting the room in colours found outside the window. Not sure if they went with Wickes' own or luxurious Dulux, but they've painted both the walls and ceiling in an unobtrusive caribbean pale blue, which is tastefully offset with a palm green throw rug on the hardwood floor. I'm on after Kerry Katona who looks like she's back on the medication she was taking when she made that famous appearance on 'This Morning'. She asks if I want to try some of her special 'diet powder'. I tell her I'm cool.
When the four 'Loose Women' interview me I feel like a wounded Antelope on the plains of the Serengeti being stalked by hungry lions. That Carol Mcgiffin is the worst. She hands me her damp knickers off-camera whilst they're playing my video for "When We Collide" (which Simon told me I'd made my own and stayed at number one for three weeks!) and whispers that she wants a "Cock and Va-Jay-Jay collision." I'm sure she's drunk. I tell her to call my manager Jeff. She needs to back up and get in line.
January 28th 2011
Mid-afternoon and I'm collecting one of those cut crystal glass bowls from 'Woman's Own' for being voted as having The Sexiest Buns Of The Year. The award is handed over by Max Beesley, who's won it the past five years running (!). As we pose for press fotos he grips my hand really tight, making me wince, and with his grin fixed hisses in my ear, "Better watch your back, Cardle. You don't fuck with me in my house." I wouldn't dare. I love Max. He's done loads of great work. He's mates with Robbie Williams and he did that brilliant film with Mariah Carey. Everyone I know calls him "The Guv'nor". I tell him to give my manager Jeff a bell cos it'd be sah-weet if he could play piano in my touring band. He seems really made up and gets a bit weepy as he hugs me and repeats "Thank you, thank you, thank you," over and over again. Apparently those 'Jobsite' ads don't pay too well and 'Hotel Babylon' has been cancelled.
January 29th 2011
A strategy meeting with the Syco team at Cowell Towers. They suggest a co-headlining tour with Susan Boyle to maintain my profile which'll end with an appearance at the death metal festival Bloodstock. I'm being honest here, I'm not sure about it. When I go out live I plan to do a load of stuff from my second album 'Dark Delicacies', which'll come out after this 'X Factor'-related one. It'll be a concept album charting one man's descent into the darker recesses of his own private hell. Most of it'll be just me and an acoustic guitar addressing stuff that really matters to me in songs like 'Hey, Mr Broadband' and I'll be hooking up with The Black Eyed Peas to record the Will. I. Am. penned 'Platinum Pussy Pass'. I agree with Alan McGee, he really is the reincarnation of Sly Stone. I'm not sure if the sheer scale and ambition of my work will go down well with Subo's audience who don't tend to be as thoughtful, quiet and respectful as mine.
I'm just about to venture a tentative "Erm, I don't think so, Simon," when Leon Jackson bursts into the room waving a pistol and screaming "Where's my fucking career, bitch?"
I hit the floor and scramble under the table in a blind panic. Simon's dead calm. "I don't know what you did with it, but I'm afraid you won't find it here, Leon," he says, and then Subo leaps on him and wrestles him to the ground. Apparently, Joe McElderry was waiting at the front of the building in the getaway car. Really scary.
Simon has Leon undressed by security and his ankles and wrists bound to a chair. Simon's eyes look like pools of blue-black oil. Cold. Full of rage. His face is hard.
"Who sent you?" he asks as he slaps Leon with the back of his right hand. Again. And again. A small purple egg starts blooming under Leon's right cheek. Leon spits a mucusy a thread of blood at Simon's feet and laughs a mirthless, hollow laugh. "Fuck you, Cowell," he says.
They drag him away unconscious. "What's going to happen to him?" I ask. "Don't worry about Leon. Worry about yourself, Matt." He sits down, straightening his shirt. "Now, about this tour..." he says, wiping the back of his hand with a white silk hanky which comes away all red and blotchy with Leon's blood.
"I'm in," I say eagerly. "Whatever. Whenever. Wherever. I'll do it!"
* You can read this diary entry in my bezzie mate Basil's previous blog. Take it easy, yeah?
