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πŸŒ™ COLDPLAY ANNOUNCE MOON MUSIC OUT OCTOBER 4TH 🎡

||The OFFICIAL Coldplay FanFic Thread 1||


iPsy

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:bigcry::bigcry::(

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gone for a whole week!!!! :bigcry: x 1000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000042

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Here's a li'l fanfic I cooked up in a play-format for y'all, entitled 'The Sorry Death of Will Champion'.

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Enjoy.

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Brian Parmesan

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The Sorry Death of Will Champion.

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Chris Martin stepped into the building of the London studio. He stopped to busy himself in the commode and spent a good sixteen minutes sitting down, then lathering his face at the sink with a large tube of moisturiser. He rubbed it in well, then he rubbed more. He didn’t stop until a radiant gleam emanated from his forehead. Thus, it was done. Entering the calm and sound-proofed atmosphere of the studio, he saw Will, Jonny and Guy, sitting with their instruments, tuning up. Chris Martin still had his tube of moisturiser out. Taking a seat near the guys, he squeezed the tube vigourously and rubbed the lotion deeply into his hands. Upon finishing, he put away the tube, extracted a nail file from his pocket and began to delicately pare.

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JONNY: Stop preening, will ya, Chris? It’s so unmanly.

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Chris looked at him, proud and disdainful.

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CHRIS: I’m a star, Jonny. I have to look perma-good. You wouldn’t understand. Just sit there and practise your D.

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JONNY: D minor.

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CHRIS: What?

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JONNY: It’s a D minor, Chris.

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CHRIS: Uh, whatev.

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Chris flopped a hand at Jonny, who continued to noodle, picking lightly with his plectrum. He looked thoughtfully at the singer, who was now rummaging through the contents of his takeaway, arranging the organic rice, tomatoes and falafel on a little plate, and drinking a free-range cup of tea.

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JONNY: But seriously, Chris, I’m starting to think you’ve turned a little decadent. The wealth and the praise and the love of millions has gone to your head. Believe me, you’re out of touch with the street. Look at your breakfast. Look at your bag of lotions. You’ve become awfully effeminate and I sense within you a growing contempt for the common man.

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CHRIS: Well, I was never a street urchin, Jonathan. I have no contact with the β€˜street’ to lose. Just so you know, I am a product of the highest educational and societal standards. I enjoyed the delicious scrum of the rugby boys at my boarding school, and then while at uni, I thrusted and parried the witty barbs of my foes in the ancient language of Latin. Oh, how I loved to thrust among the lads. Those were happy days for me, Jonny. But then, one wild florid afternoon, the undeniable happened, and the substance of Coldplay emanated from my brain in the most pure abstraction of my living self. I felt the call. It was a holy time for me. I had to make it real for other people. So, you see, Jonny, Coldplay is a product for the middle classes, by the middle classes. And those a little bit upper.

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Jonny turned to Guy and Will.

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JONNY: (quietly) See what I mean.

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They continued to set up their instruments while Chris finished his breakfast. After a few yawnsome minutes of listening to the band tuning and noodling, Chris rose impatiently. He clapped his hands to rouse them.

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CHRIS: Come on, guys, let’s get it together. Come on now – group huddle, group huddle! I need to write! What have we got? Give me a tune! Inspire me, guys.

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Jonny and Guy came to him and huddled. Will stayed in his seat and watched morosely the group standing in silence, their arms locked, their bodies pressed together a little too closely. Minutes passed. Chris’s eyes jumped eagerly from one sullen face to the next. Jonny and Guy looked awkwardly at the floor. Chris Martin was filled with impatience.

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CHRIS: Okay, okay, exit the group huddle! Exit, exit, people! Back to your places. What happened to the team? Jonny, Guy - you’re both bloody useless.

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GUY AND JONNY: Sorry, Chris.

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CHRIS: You there. Drummer-type-person. Speak to me.

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WILL: Well, I feel a horrid and overwhelming sense of ennui, Chris. I wake up in cold sweats. I can’t eat. From the moment I wake up, everything turns grey, as if a terrible fog has descended. My life has become torn between spasms of all yellow, and long, steady periods of living existential gloom. I’ve been like this for months. I can’t play drums any more. I can’t read. I can’t make love to my wife. Every day I feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into a terrible abyss of -

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CHRIS: For fuck’s sake. Does anyone have any good news?

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The room fell quiet. Chris waved his hand in dismissal.

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JONNY: Aren’t you the main songwriter anymore, Chris?

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CHRIS: I cannot control my gift, Jonathan. It was sent to me from above, from something wiser and more blessed than our philosophies. When the inspiration comes, I blaze across the lyrical heavens. I cannot merely ask it to appear. It is too big, too strong a gift for a mere Englishman to control. But clearly there’s nothing coming from the rest of you. I have no choice. I shall have to work alone. (sigh) Okay, okay. Clear some space on the floor here. Chop-chop! Give me room. Move over. Let us immerse ourselves in quiet.

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The band obeyed, moving themselves to the edges of the room, and as all fell quiet, Chris Martin sat in the centre, deeply embedded in a plush, leather armchair purchased by his Gwynny at John Lewis. He crossed his legs. He stared into the middle-distance. The band watched nervously. Minutes passed. Jonny sat quietly for a while, then he looked around, then he looked at Will and Guy.

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JONNY (WHISPERING): Why’s he staring at a wall?

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Chris jumped up in fury, waving and flapping his hands about.

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CHRIS: I’m searching deep within myself, you fucking peasant! My lyrics come from beyond the conscious world, from a pure, radiant source that only a few can tap. It’s between me and IT. Not me, IT, and Jonny bloody Buckland. The inspiration was coming to me, bold, and clear, like a bright new, slightly-improved world, and I nearly had it.

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Jonny hung his head with embarrassment.

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JONNY: Sorry, Chris.

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GUY: Can you get it back, Chris, all that stuff you saw?

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CHRIS: Let me try, Guy.

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Chris Martin sat and stared at the wall. His eyes widened in anticipation. The band looked on anxiously. But after a minute, he closed his eyes in bitter disappointment. The band waited. They looked at him and they looked at each other. Suddenly, Chris Martin jumped up in fury and slapped several times the back and sides of the leather armchair.

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CHRIS: No. No, no, no. No, it’s not happening. The moment’s gone. My creative fount has failed to spurt, thanks to you. Are you happy now, Jonny? The world has lost a masterpiece.

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JONNY: Yeah, sorry, Chris.

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Chris slumped back into the armchair, fuming, folding his arms, glaring at an amplifier. They sat for a while.

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CHRIS: Fine. We have no inspiration. Let’s converse in the meantime. Let us know ourselves. Let’s understand our purpose and destiny. Then we shall return, our powers consolidated, with renewed vigour and greater insight. So, what have you all been listening to?

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JONNY: U2.

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WILL: U2, Chris.

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GUY: Well, I’ve been listening to quite a bit of Wagner lately. I picked some up on vinyl. And I’ve got Alban Berg’s Violin Concerto on my ipod. And some Webern. Good stuff. It’s part of my growing interest in the Second Viennese School and early twentieth century European Cla–

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His words met with a cold and imperious glance from Chris Martin.

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GUY: I’ve been listening to U2, Chris.

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Chris rose and walked around him.

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CHRIS: I should think so, Guy.

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They sat in silence, despondent, watching in silence as Chris paced the room in self-absorption. Their eyes met now and again, as they watched their leader anxiously. Chris looked at them all in turn, muttered in disdain, and then flounced to the mirror that lay across the length of one wall. Examining his lank frame, he sighed repeatedly.

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CHRIS: (sigh) I need something in my life. (sigh) Something’s missing. (sigh) I’m not complete.

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He moved his hands about in front of the mirror, as if conjuring the image he had envisioned in his mind.

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CHRIS: I know. Perhaps I should get a little black boy!

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THE BAND: Eh?

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CHRIS: You know, like Auntie Madge has. It’s all the rage these days! She’s got two of them now. She picks them up from Malawi. I could get one! You know? Just one little boy for little, old me. It’d look dead charitable in the press and all. Charity and adoptions and stuff. I like all that. Hey, did you know that Bono’s all chummy with the Pope? Well done to him, I say. Well done. But if he gets a sainthood, I bloody well want one as well.

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Chris swayed around the room in a waltz-time dance, and watched himself in the mirror, carrying an invisible Malawiian child in his arms.

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CHRIS: Ah, yes, I think I’ll give my Aunt Mads a call. She’s not the only material girl in town. Ah, just think. I could carry him around to all the parties in a little handbag. Or on a little leash. I’ll be the belle of the ball. He could even dance with me on stage! Wouldn’t that just be the cutest?

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WILL: Isn’t that a bit, you know, immoral, Chris?

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CHRIS: Oh, you’re such a bloke, Will. Learn to accessorize!

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Chris reached down to the coffee table, picked up a few B-grade fashion magazines and hurled them at Will. Will examined the pages, then placed them on a table.

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WILL: Well, just cos’ Madonna does it…

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CHRIS: Madonna’s fabulous. I’ll nothing about her from your mouth, Will Champion. So, shut it.

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WILL: (sigh) Fine.

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Will had assented, but he caught Jonny’s eye.

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WILL: (whispering) I know what you mean, Jonny. He’s losing it.

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Chris walked around Will behind the drumstand, pinching the top of his balding head and prodding him playfully on the shoulders.

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CHRIS: Why are you looking so sour about, anyway?

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WILL: Well, it’s because of my emotional crisis. You know, the one I mentioned earlier.

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CHRIS: Well, I know what’s good for you, sweetheart. Come on, gang.

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Chris picked up a microphone. He stood directly in front of Will, cleared his throat and began to sing.

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CHRIS: When you try your best but you don’t succeed.

When you get what you want but not what you need.

When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep.

Stuck in reverse.

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Jonny and Guy stood up and began to fill in the chords and bass. Chris came nearer and then began to circle Will, singing and stroking his arms and head with gentle caresses.

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CHRIS: And the tears come streaming down your face

When you lose something you can’t replace.

When you love someone but it goes to waste,

Could it be worse?

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WILL: Oh, fuck off, will ya?

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The music ground to a halt. Will threw down his drumsticks, then his head in his hands. Guy and Jonny gasped in shock. Chris looked cross, but couldn’t hide his alarm.

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CHRIS: Okay, Will. Okay. It’s okay. I understand your problem. Now, stop. Just stand over here, and listen. Look at me, sweetie. Come on. Stand up here and look at me.

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Will stood up and came near Chris, who put his hand on Will’s shoulder and stood directly in front of him. He looked him in the eyes, calm and serene. With a movement of his hand, he forbid Guy and Jonny to accompany him. Their instruments relaxed in their hands. Chris held Will with a firm grip. He held him for a moment silently, then he began, slowly and quietly uttering his verse in a voice that was neither speaking nor singing.

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CHRIS:

Look up, I look up at night,

Planets are moving at the speed of light.

Climb up, up in the trees,

Every chance that you get

Is a chance you seize.

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Will released himself. He began to pack his things. He looked away from Chris’s gaze. Picking up his drumsticks, he put them away, together with his lunchbox and flask, into his pink rucksack.

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CHRIS: Such arrogance, Will.

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WILL: I’m not arrogant. You’re just condescending to me with this nonsense. Just leave it out. I’ve followed you all this while, but no more. I put my faith in you once. But when you harp on like this, it makes me doubt your, and by extension, my own spiritual worth.

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CHRIS: Well, don’t leave us. Without a strong backbeat, how can we stand? We need your firm foundation. How can we condescend to our listeners without you? Now, look at Jonny, he’s starting to cry. Look at him, Will. Just look at him. Look into his damp and sorrowful eyes.

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WILL: Sorry, Jonny. I have to leave. I’m leaving for good. I need stability. I need certainty. I’ve joined a church.

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CHRIS: Church? Since when do you go to church? I thought I was your spiritual guide, your mentor in all worldly and extra-worldly matters. I am a seer, Will. I help the world with my wisdom. My lyrics are profound. Hot, and smelly and profound. They give you all the emotional fulfillment and comfort you need. I have sold 50 million albums. That’s 50 million more than Jesus sold. What can he give you? Stay. Do not spurn my cure, for I alone am your church. Come to me, and I shall carry you. Climb my mount. Nuzzle your face in my burning bush. You have me. You have Coldplay. Since when did you need to run to the arms of another?

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WILL: Since I started having an emotional crisis. You’re not helping. You can’t help me any more. In fact, I think you’re causing it. Look, Chris. I’m an ordinary bloke. I play the drums. I look like a builder. I can’t be doing with all this. I’m going. See ya.

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CHRIS: Sit down, William.

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Chris spoke sternly. It was an order.

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WILL: Leave it out. This is hard for me.

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CHRIS: Sit down. You cannot be trusted to roam free, where you might repeat these things. The outside world doesn’t know. The outside world doesn’t understand.

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Jonny arose, waving his arms around between them.

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JONNY: Chris, leave it out, will ya? Come on, leave it. Will’s alright. But, Chris, you’re not the same. Stuff has gone to your head, and now you’re taking it out on poor Will. Truly, you have lost your moral compass.

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CHRIS: Sit down, Jonny. Wipe your tears.

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JONNY: Yes, Chris.

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Jonny sat. Chris faced Will.

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CHRIS: This is your final warning. Put down your bag and join with us again. We are your true spiritual home. Learn your place.

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WILL: My spiritual home? My place? (Will shook his head in disbelief) You’re delusional, Chris. I’m sorry. I’m going. See you, guys.

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As Will walked towards the door, Chris tied Will’s bass drum to a piece of unused guitar cable. Two toms were still cumbersomely attached above it. He began to swing it madly round his head.

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CHRIS: Feel my wrath, William.

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WILL: Feel your - ? Oh.

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