After three frosty rejections from Iceland to flog frozen sausage rolls and Vienettas as the face of their Christmas ad campaign, Melanie Brown AKA Mel B AKA Scary Spice of the Spice Girls has been forced to think outside the box, and inside the bag, to pave her way. Since the Spice Girls’ split her bandmates have moved on to bigger things – Posh Spice has graced the catwalks of New York and Milan while Mel C is turning on Nunea- ton’s Christmas light this year.
When I met Mel B for our interview, she was rolling a tightly packed joint on the hotel lobby’s glass table, carefully shuffling around what looked like weed. A thin sheen of perspiration clung to her brow, and she was shaking violently. Mel’s publicist explained to me that Mel was delighted to be the new face of spice, the synthetic cannabis, as Mel slurred “It’s not just shit grass y’know!”
“Sorry love, can we start the interview after I’ve had my spice? I’m rattling, and I haven’t had a fix since 11 this morning.” I checked my watch; it was 10:52. “I’m the new face of Spice… Spice Spice!” she gig- gled, as she urged me to take a drag. I re- fused the offer and she started to pull on the joint, her eyes crossing as she did so. “So what do you do as brand ambassa- dor for spice?” I asked her, pen hovering over my notebook.
“Well, I just smoke it, and tell other A-listers how great it is at all the par- ties. I’ve already got Louis Walsh on the stuff. That’s why he had to quit X Fac- tor, but shhhhhh’ she giggled, her finger pressed against her lips. ‘I’m hungry, are you hungry? I’m so hungry. Yeah, let’s get some food.’ She snapped her fingers at the closest member of staff and pro- ceeded to order one of everything off the lunch menu. Mel complained very vo- cally about the size of the burgers, until I pointed out they were sliders. “Slide on this, you prick!” she shrieked across the hotel lobby.
“You still haven’t properly explained your new role as the face of spice…?” I pressed, knowing this wouldn’t be the next Frost/Nixon. At this point Mel was slumped across a chaise longue, clutching her bulging belly. “Paint me like one of your Spice girls”, she slurred, laconically exposing a nipple.
“What more is there to tell you?” Her eyes were tight red slits. “I get to have a great time, and get paid to do it daily. Spice is my life now, I am the ultimate spice girl. Not like Halliwell, she’s not even ginger! The cuffs and minge don’t match, if you catch my drift.” She winked and her false eyelashes stuck together. “And she’s got a wooden leg. Or was that Captain Birds- eye?” Her voice softened and trailed off but her botoxed forehead stayed fixed in a scowl. She refreshed Eddy Murphy’s Ins- tagram for a fourteenth time.
I had to cut the interview short after Mel thought it was fitting to throw a vase of peonies across the table, narrowly missing the bellboy’s head. As I helped her into a cab Mel hung out of the win- dow and slapped a small shiny bag into my hand. “Spice up ya life” she said, a poorly rolled bifta hanging out of her mouth.
Hours later I see on my twitter feed that Mel was spotted in Camberley try- ing to hotbox a bus stop. In this world of sponsored content and fake celebrity en- dorsements, Mel B’s commitment to the brand is admirable. Brand ambassador, with these endless whiteys and hallucina- tions you are really spoiling us.