Mailbox. Saved messages.
Hello Mr. Richie? ,it's me Adele.
And not just any Adele. Adele twatting Adkins! Of England and Skyfall. You're fucking welcome.
Don't use my last name that often actually because I'm kind of working on becoming a single-name phenomenon. You know, like Beyoncé. Or Cher. Or that green Yoda c*nt.
(You know that little shit's real name is Duncan Beiny? That's showbiz for ya!)
Can I call you Lionel, babe?
I was wondering if after all these years I've spent being culturally relevant and you've spent performing your Greatest Hits in The Middle East you'd like to meet
To go over everything in your back catalogue and see whether it would sound any better performed by a white British vocalist in her mid-to-late twenties? Nothing too official, just a totes casual singalong? Say you, say me, say a bottle of Pinot Noir and a baby grand?
Alright, ok, so there may have been an itsy bitsy ulterior motive behind that last message. Hands up, Lionel! You got me, guilty as charged! I'm dropping an album this winter and I need inspiration. And by inspiration, I mean key lyrics. I'm a singer, not a scribe. I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier. Bloody sue me!
No wait, please don't do that actually Lionel.
They say that time's supposed to be conducive to the creative process and heal ya, but since 2012 basically I ain't done much songwriting/ healing. My agent says I should 'buckle down and focus'. Er, sorry love, it turns out I find it slightly hard to focus in my study due to constantly being distracted by the reflected glare of my motherfucking GOLDEN GLOBE and GRAMMY AWARDS.
I mean, SERIOUSLY. I can't move for bleedin' awards where I live. It's more cabinet than house. I don't own stationery or furniture. The only free storage space I can find is in my ears and vagina.
My pussy is not about to become a pencil palace.
Hello Lionel darling, can you hear me?
I'm in California - looking for you in person since you won't respond to my Tweets - and the Strip is kinda noisy today. Rumour has it you're an occasional Angeleno! Bumped into Jessie J at check-in and she made me get her an upgrade to First Class, the cheeky bitch. The two of us spent the entire LDN to LAX flight drinking champagne, sending Leona Lewis Snapchats of our boobs and dreaming about who we used to be
When we were younger and free bunking classes at the BRIT School. Dancing to The Spice Girls at the BRIT school. Getting high in the BRIT School loos. Did I ever tell you how I haven't read a book since I was six? They understand that sort of elective subject streamlining at the BRIT School.
I got so fucking c*nted every weekend back then my memory is completely shot.
I've forgotten how it felt before the world fell at our feet.
Specifically, I've forgotten all the compulsory modules we took on copyright law and the intellectual property of artists. I can't remember a thing about PRS or plagiarism. Not that I really need it in my line of work anyway, huh Lionel?
Ooh! I found a boy standing outside Starbucks. Maybe he's you!
Lionel babe, just ringing you from the taxi (the plane back to Blighty will take off any mo' now, so I'd best be quick). I just wanted to say that I totally GET your concern. I GET that you're skeptical about me releasing an 'original' single called 'Hello' so soon after our Pinot karaoke sesh. After all, I literally took notes 'All Night Long'. But you're jumping to conclusions.
There's such a difference between us (though the test audiences do have a point, my imminent 2015 release and your iconic 1983 hit are eerily similar in lyrics, theme, style and chord progression). But I wouldn't worry about it. We LOOK totally different, and radio is dead
And a million miles separate our core fanbases. That's my estimate of the distance between London and L.A, at least. That's a whole lot of cultural borders to be crossing. A whole lot of mental leaps for listeners to make.
A million miles is far, Lionel. One thousand Proclaimers songs far.
Right, the air stewardess is getting uppity. Bye.
Hello from the other side
I estimate my lawyers must've called a thousand times
They just want
To tell you I'm sorry for everything that I've done. Can't we settle out of court?
But when I call you never seem to be home
Hello, how are you?
It's so typical of me to talk about myself, I'm sorry
I hope that you're well
Did you ever make it out of that town where nothing ever happened?
By that town where nothing happened I mean THE SHITTING PAST. You're ancient, Rich. SERIOUSLY, Hello was released four years before I was fucking conceived. Everyone who listened to your song originally is dead now anyway. You're a has-been.
Think your new slimmer moustache makes you contemporary, Lionel? Moustaches aren't contemporary, full stop. I wax my moustache and THEN bleach it. Then turn it into eyebrow extensions and sell it as part of my official merchandise. You can't compete with this diva's depilatory acumen.
I'm rambling. Call me.
It's no secret that the both of us
Are running out of time
Surely we can help each other out? We've all got a finite lifespan as artists. Sure, I'm hot shit now, but by 2017 I could be an old lady doing GoCompare adverts.
By 2018 I could be LeAnn Rimes. She was a prodigy, now she's past it. 'How Do I Live' was released when she was only fucking fifteen, Lionel.
How old is she now, eighty?
Anyway, that's not the point. The point is I've extended a sodding olive branch. Why don't we collaborate? Hell, there's still time to organise a photoshoot for an Adkins/Richie festive greetings card. HELLO... AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS.
Don't want to play ball? Fine. There's a ton more artists whose creativity I can pillage. Marvin Gaye, Etta James... There's a very short window for this offer. It's A-dele or no dele.
And if you want no part of it whatsoever? Never mind! I'll find someone lik-
Mailbox full. End of messages.