HIP HOP star Drake, fresh from releasing new album For All The Dogs, has announced he is quitting music to spend 12 months in Center Parcs Sherwood Forest. His month-by-month plan:
A full year in the greatest place on earth? That’s a flex. Me and the crew are in exclusive lodges, the best crib they offer, complete with hot tub and steam room. Blowing trees among the trees, you feel me?
Ain’t nothing more swag than waking up at the Parcs each day. Knowing not one rapper in a thousand – not Flo Milli, not Lil Uzi Vert, not Q-Tip – could afford this. Practice pool in the games room. My safety game gon’ be on motherfucking point.
Snowy walks around the site’s 400 acres of forest, my bodyguards enjoying snowy walks four to six metres behind me? Seeing in New Year butt-ass naked in the UK’s first treetop sauna? Living my best life.
By this time, I’m out of cash. 75 billions streams can’t fund the CenterParcs lifestyle long-term. I order my accountants to liquidate my investment portfolios and sell properties. I’m in this honeypot for a good time and a long time.
The month of kayaking. Except it isn’t because that shit is seasonal and only runs April-October. Sulk until March.
My son, who I’ve become a wonderful, loving father to after losing a beef with Pusha T, is finally here. I’ve been waiting so long, and now we can attend the Junior Falconers Club. Flying falcons like Saudi money, man.
Income’s low. We move into a woodland lodge, a step down, and I take a minimum-wage position pot-washing at the Foresters Inn.
Former collaborators Rihanna, A$AP Rocky and Giggs swing by for an afternoon of archery and shit. Explain they have to pay. Explain they’ll have to hire the bicycles, because Tracey on bike hire’s banned me for doing wheelies in pedestrianised areas.
One of my dogs flashes a piece in Laser Combat and we lose our holding deposit. Have to take second job as housekeeping.
Nine months eating at Bella Italia and I’m out of shape. I go HAM on Bounce Boogie, freestyle yoga and badminton. Get my face painted like a butterfly for the 45th time this calendar year.
11 months at CenterParcs is just about right for me. Not so long it gets boring or repetitive, not too short that you can’t learn to know every staff member’s name and how they live. By now I’m part of the furniture with my own keys to the five-a-side pitch. It’s the acceptance I crave.
Flat broke, evicted, all my royalties signed over permanently to the Parcs, I need to get back to music. A few spins down the Tropical Cyclone and I leave the domes behind. From now on it’s recording studios and arena gigs a world away from my happy place, a holiday park in Nottinghamshire just off the A614.