Band of Gypsys Read Online Free

faction of their own movement. There’d been a time when Ax and Sage had been addicts of oxytocin, shoring up the famous love affair with brain-wrecking quantities of the intimacy drug. But they were clean now—thankfully (since Alain was genuinely fond of the fools, and that potion is a brain-wrecker). There was nothing fake about the besotted trefoil infatuation.
    ‘Drowning in it. But it won’t help you to nail him.’
    All real megastars must have crap sex lives, thought Fiorinda; left alone in the nest. It has to be true, because which of us rock musicians, performers, hardwired from birth to be continually starving for love and pleasure, forced by the working conditions to be addicts of excess… Which of us would strut on stage, or fret in a recording studio, a moment longer than we had to, if we were getting what we needed at home? It would be: make the money, take your bow and quit.
    And how often does that happen? How often does any of us get clean away?
    See, I’m not really trapped. I’d be worse off if I was having a brilliant career.
    Comforted by this thought, she jumped out of bed as a vicious alarm sounded. Brushed her teeth and dressed briskly and chastely (sorry mates, not going to roll around in sexy underwear, this is not one of those videos). The global stats that ran along the bottom of her out-of-shot monitor screen were gratifying: and here we go. Cribs of the certifiably insane. “Hi everybody, and special hi to anyone who’s looking in for the first time. Welcome to Montmartre, and the rooftops of Paris. This is our garret, acres of space, which is not exactly realistic, but hey, we’re dilletantes, what do you expect? This is our bed, with the personalised coat-bedspread—
    Question, is there any heating?
    ‘Hi, Ian in Rotherham. Yeah, there is, sometimes. We have heating from the arondissement Renewables Grid, this is our dear little radiator. We’re allowing ourselves the same units of energy per day, per person, counting power, heat and sanitation, as we’d get in a camp. If we were getting the statutory ration, which a lot of inmates don’t. But it’s Thursday and we’re on a three day week here in Paris…
    Question, do you get fleas?
    ‘We have no personal vermin, Alice in Queens, which is great, and as unrealistic as the wide open spaces, by the way. The lice powder is just in case.
    ‘Let me show you round. These are my clothes, all hung up on my piece of string. These are my boots. These are Ax’s clothes; and Ax’s other hat, his Ned Kelly hat. I love this old hat, as long as he doesn’t wear it. The mess is Sage’s stuff. I kick it out of the way, oh, I trod on his board, it’s okay, they’re tough. Et voila our tasty tins, the ATP battery micro-ondes and that’s the drinking water. My boyfriends fetch the water. Isn’t that sweet of them. You’re wondering if the ag.labour campers really feed on out of date tins. They do. Fresh produce goes straight out the gates.
    ‘Here behind this screen, yes, do come in! Is our very green chemical toilet, which we don’t have to share with a hundred other people, unlike most of the folks who grow your veg for you. The brown stuff is a big problem in the camps, it spreads diseases: I hope you’re remembering to wash everything before you eat it. The cold winters have helped, tho’ it’s also a problem that the camps are not built for our evil share of climate change, which as you’ll have noticed is a colder climate… I’m now going to empty it downstairs. Come along, please.
    Do you always get landed with that job?
    ‘Hey, Sejer in Sweden. Nah, just often. They do fetch the water.’
    (Oh, Hi, M. Jouffroy, Il fait encore froid, eh?)
    ‘That’s our concierge. He doesn’t like the English, but he’s okay.’
    Sploosh, sploosh. Swill, scrub—
    ‘There, that wasn’t too bad. I’m used to it, I don’t even mind the smell of disinfected shit when it’s fresh, after about a million post-civilised rock