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The dream is always the same one. I'm in a limo... one of those absurd stretch creations that's half the size of a city block. Through the thick tinted windows, a city... it's amazing how they all blur into one, isn't it, until even the most historic landmarks are spattered with the same corporate brand names as everything else.. a city is racing by, but the only sights I'm seeing are a pair of hairy balls as they slap against my face.

A random thought pushes into my excitement. A month ago, even less, I'd have been spluttering, retching, choking and beating the crap out of my boyfriend for even suggesting that I go down on him in a moving vehicle. Tonight, I'd bite his dick off if he even suggested I didn't. Only it's not my boyfriend doing this, is it? I'm riding in a limo with the biggest rock star on the planet. And I'm sucking off the biggest cock star in the galaxy.

Welcome to the world of Rick Ramrod and the Electric Hard-Ons.

It's 2025, and even the scrapbook has faded. Five years ago, you couldn't get away from his name. Today, you're lucky if you meet somebody who even remembers it. Even you, sitting there reading this... do you remember?

Five number ones, three number twos and the top selling album of the 21st century. There was one month when he had the top twenty-three downloads on every chart you could name. Twenty-three. Add streams, piracy, airplay and Youtube hits, and one of the papers reckoned there was at least one Rick Ramrod song in eighty-four percent of homes in America.

Can you even begin to imagine that? That's more than voted for the President. More than choose margarine over butter. More than admit to having cheated on their spouse and then brought home chocolates as a silent apology. Eighty-four percent.

And then... nothing. Worse than nothing. His office commissioned a poll last week, thinking they could maybe engineer a comeback of some sort. Zero name recognition among the twelve to twenty-five year olds; less than zero among everybody else. How far do you have to fall to clock up less than zero percent? Even the usual, ubiquitous "I don't knows" were in no doubt on this occasion; and, while the survey company tried at least to sweeten the pill with a massive margin of error, guess what? The score was still less than zero.

So, I'm telling you this not because I'm earning the big bucks for my sordid tell-all memoirs, or even because I think you'll be impressed that I once worked for the fabled Rick Ramrod. I'm telling you this because, if I don't write it all down now, I'm afraid there's a time when even I'll have forgotten. And when I bounce my grandchildren on my knee and they ask, "granny, what did you do between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one?" (you know how precise little kids can be), my face will go completely blank, and I'll be just another statistic in the war against dementia.

Yeah, sweet nineteen and I had no shame. I was a bit of a fan. A lot of a fan. Rick Ramrod was about to release his second single, "It Ain't Called Flossing For A Reason," and I was checking out his Facebook page like I did every morning (and afternoon and evening, and night-times when I couldn't sleep for dreaming about his... enough) when I saw it.

"Ten o'clock Wednesday, Central Park Arena, Cum One, Cum All" - a video shoot. I was there by five. The previous evening. Not quite the first of the girls in line, but certainly within the first couple of hundred, and usually at that sort of thing, you're left to fend for yourselves. There'll be a couple of cops to keep order or whatever, a couple of newsmen hoping a fight might break out, and nothing to do for the next seventeen hours.

Not this time. All along the concourse that had been staked out for the expected line, portaloos, concession stands, fan club booths... it was like being inside the venue, before it even opened. And they weren't fleecing us, either. Girls were walking down the line, handing out free coffee and hot soup to the shivering hordes.

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