Minerva
Whenever I start to lose the will to live as I think about the state of the world, especially these days, I think about the arrivals gate at Birmingham Airport. It would be very easy to think that we live in a world of bigotry, greed and hate, but it’s not as depressing as all that. Not really. It seems to me that love is everywhere. A lot of the time, it’s not particularly notable, or culturally significant, but it’s always there – parents and children, husbands, wives, spouses, boyfriends, girlfriends, significant others, old friends, new friends, online friends you’ve never met. If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky little feeling that love, actually … is all around.
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Minerva McGonagall didn’t quite know how she’d ended up here. Well, no, that was a lie, she did. Being famous and successful in the 1980s was very different to the modern-day equivalent. Unless she intended to survive somehow solely on a state pension in a few years, she needed to boost her name. She had no intention of going on Strictly Come Dancing, Celebrity Masterchef and if another person suggested that she fly to the other side of the planet to eat some insects on camera, she would not be held responsible for her actions, thank you very much. As for Tiktok? Not a bloody chance.
Once she’d had a huge team behind her, management, PR, solicitors on standby whenever she needed them… and she had needed them. Now, it was only her manager and long-suffering friend Poppy who booked gigs for her, got small local magazine pieces done on her and she’d somehow let Poppy talk her into this absolute nightmare. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t cook, dance, sew or do any of the things the British public seemed to value in washed-up stars of the past. So, as Poppy had sternly explained to her, a Christmas single was the last ditch attempt at reviving a career that had been circling the drain for almost two decades.
She glared at Poppy through the window of the vocal booth as the song started in her headphones.
“I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.” She sang. Ok. So far so good. “Love is all around me…”
The music cut out.
“Min, you did it again. It’s Christmas, not love, remember?” Poppy’s voice came over the talkback mic.
“Yes, Poppy, I’m aware. I’m just so familiar with the original.” She snapped.
“Yes, that’s why we’re remaking it,” Poppy grumbled.
“Let’s go again.” Minerva scowled into the control room and crossed her arms over her chest.
Poppy nodded wearily and the sound engineer hit record again.
“I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes.” She tried to clear her mind of the word love, she could do this, “Love is all around me, and so the… oh fuck wank bugger shitting arse head and hole!” She roared, slamming the headphones to the ground.
The sound engineer sighed and picked up a newspaper, clearly used to such juvenile behaviour from artists. “So, you think the new Prime Minister’s as queer as they say?”
“Oh, probably even more so, lets be realistic. We’ve all seen the pictures.” Poppy sat down on the sofa in the control room and closed her eyes.
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“Good morning music lovers! You’re listening to Peter Pettigrew on Radio Two. It’s seven o’clock on 29th November and it’s finally time to reveal… that eighties rock legend, Minerva is officially releasing a contender for this year’s Christmas number one!” Peter said into his microphone. “Words that I never thought I’d be saying in 2024, let me tell you. And joy of all joys, she’s here in the studio with us this morning and we’ll be catching up with her right after we play her song. Here it is, a reworking of The Troggs 1967 classic ‘Love is All Around’, It’s Minerva with ‘Christmas is All Around’.”
Pete heard the opening chords of the song start and pulled down his headphones with a sigh. The song was awful. Beyond awful. And now he had to interview the surly woman about the awful song while praising both it and her. As if he had nothing better to be doing on a Friday Morning.
Minerva swept into the room. “Mr Pettigrew?” She said, arching an eyebrow as if his appearance was inherently disappointing to her.
“Minerva! Such a pleasure to meet you! Congratulations on the song, it’s—”
“Utter bollocks.” She rolled her eyes. “The last attempt of a grasp at fame from a washed-up has been before she’s forced to resort to cooking or dancing on the BBC.”
“Oh, I did Celebrity Masterchef last year!” Peter grinned at her. “Got to the semi-final and everything.”
“Oh, of course you did, dear.” Her soft Edinbourgeois accent didn’t make this comment any less cutting and Peter just cleared his throat before sitting back down at his desk while someone handed Minerva headphones and got her set up in front of her mic.
“Well, you heard it here first! The amazing Minerva’s hope for that elusive Christmas number one! And we have her here in the studio with us this morning. Minerva! It’s wonderful to see you, welcome back to the airwaves! New Christmas single, a cover of Love is All Around!”
“Yes, hello, good morning.” She said a little sourly, “It’s true, except we have changed the word ‘love’ to ‘Christmas’.”
“And that’s an important message to you, is it, Minerva? That Christmas is all around?”
“I’m not a fucking child.” She scoffed, ignoring as multiple people glared at her.
“Ah yes, well sorry for the language there, listeners. You can, uh, take the girl out of Scotland…” Minerva just stared at him icily.
“Is there nothing better you’d like to talk to me about, Mr Pettigrew?”
“Uh, um, well…” Peter floundered for a moment before grinning, “Is it true that you dated David Bowie in the eighties?”
“Oh no, don’t be absurd.” She frowned and Pete opened his mouth to apologise, “We just fucked regularly.”
“Sorry to our listeners for uh, more colourful language.” Pete scowled at her. “So, Minerva! How do you think this song compares to your old stuff?”
“Seriously?” She laughed, “I think it’s quite obvious to anyone who’s heard it that the song is utter shit, Mr Pettigrew. But wouldn’t it be great if this year the Christmas number one wasn’t LadBaby, whoever he is - a famous man child, or some talent show hack or Mariah Bloody Carey? No, wouldn’t it just be wonderful if it went to a recovering alcoholic who hasn’t had a hit in thirty years, who won’t be looking forward to unlimited coke and an orgy this Christmas Day, but will be spending it stuck in some god awful hotel with my manager Poppy, the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met, probably fucking miserable because this gamble didn’t pay off and we’re going to need to get actual jobs next year? So, if you believe in Father Christmas, bairns, like your Auntie Minerva does, buy my fucking single, or stream it, or tweet it or whatever people do with music these days and try and ignore the clunkiness where we try to shove an extra syllable into the fourth line of the chorus.”
Peter, whose mouth had dropped open during this monologue, collected himself. “I believe you’re referring to ‘If you really love Christmas’.”
“I am indeed, Mr Pettigrew. ‘Come on and Let it Snow’. Ouch.” She laughed bitterly.
“Well, it’s been fantastic to have you here Minerva. All the best for the single over the next month! Again, we’d like to apologise for the language during that segment. Nothing like live radio, eh? Up next we have ‘Christmas Magic’ by Perrie. After that, it’s time for the news, and is the new Prime Minister in trouble already?”
Minerva took off her headphones and set them on the desk, then left the recording booth without looking at Peter, who sighed loudly in relief then face planted his desk.