Live and Fabulous! (29 page)

Spike meets thousands of people every year. I can't believe he actually remembers any of this stuff. Maybe he doesn't meet many people he can chat to.

The next thing Spike says, however, absolutely floors me:

“And what about that Jonny, Jimi, Timmy bloke?”

“Jimi Steele?” I squeak. “How do you know about him?”

“Er, because Fleur sends e-mails to my fan club telling me what you're all up to.” Spike laughs.

Fleur bristles with pride, mouthing at me and Claude, “See! I told you Spike reads them!”

“And you, Ronnie, posted some messages on my web boards last summer saying you'd been making out with ‘the skater dude' a few months after I met you last time,” Spike says.

I've gone crimson!

“You sounded really loved up!” teases Spike. “It really cheered me up!”

“Ugghh ... I just wanted to keep you up to date on the LBD gossip after, y'know, you were so kind to us.” I smile. “I didn't actually think you'd read your own web message boards!”

“Oh, I don't just read them,” whispers Spike, mock-solemnly. “I post on them too! In fact I got so bored during the last stadium tour of Southeast Asia that I stole Lewis's laptop and began posting messages slagging myself off. I pretend to be a mother of three in Doncaster called Vera.”

“Hang on a minute!” gasps Fleur. “I had an argument with you a few months ago! I'm Blondie101!”

“I'm Vera the Fearless!” whispers Spike, tapping his nose. “Hey, just don't tell the
Midnight Mayhem
girls!”

And then a grand cheer erupts right through the VIP room: The Fusia phone network has been restored!

What a relief! Fleur's phone begins to buzz furiously, her first greeting being from an apoplectic Paddy Swan, who threatens to “drive down to Astlebury and rip the arms off the joker with the tattoo gun.” Oh, dear. Next along is Daphne sounding pretty cross indeed that we left this morning without telling her where we were going.

“If only she knew the half of it!” tuts Claude.

I decide to leave Fleur alone to make some apologetic phone calls.

I think I'm suffering from a celebrity overdose.

I sneak off to the VIP bathrooms. I need a break from all this craziness. Standing in the loo, in front of the mirrors, soaping my hands in the metallic sinks, I can't stop ogling the all new, improved, über-babe Ronnie Ripperton.

Ooh, y'know I almost fancy myself! And to think that three short weeks ago, on Blackwell Disco night (or Black Friday, as Dad calls it) I was
this close
to shooting myself repetitively with a nail gun.

Look at me now! With my va-voom celebrity hair and makeup! And I'm hanging out with the Spike Saunders entourage! I'm on top of the world!

“Cool tattoo,” remarks a girl beside me, drying her hands. “Is that real?”

“Er, wah ... eh?” I say, snapping out of my trance.

“The tattoo?” repeats the girl, clad in navy cut-off trousers, sports jacket and a yellow baseball hat. Her long brown hair is swept into a ponytail.

“Ooh! Ta,” I say, remembering the artwork on my neck. “It's not real.”

“Ah ... well, good for you!” she smiles, taking off her cap and displaying a red streak in her gilt-tipped hair. “It's a crazy concept, isn't it? Drawing stuff on your body, like, permanently? ‘Cos y'know, things change, don't they? You end up feeling different about stuff, you know, like tattoos, music, boyfriends. No feeling lasts forever, does it?”

“Hmmm, I know what you mean,” I smile, letting out a little groan. I used to think Jimi and I would last forever.

“Oh,” cringes the girl, “I've put my foot in it, haven't I?”

Don't even ask how I wound up telling a total stranger the entire story of Jimi Steele, Blackwell Disco and the curse of the flaky buttmunch. And all about Joel, who began sounding a bit like Superman when I described him. It all just spilled out. What is it about the ladies loo that makes you do that? It just felt good to get it off my chest.

“And Jimi's never even told me that he loves me,” I sigh, scooshing myself with complimentary perfume.

“Ooh, that's cold, man,” says the girl. “Well, you're right to teach him a lesson.”

“S'pose,” I sigh.

“We have to go now, Ammy,” instructs a fierce lady with a clipboard looming impatiently beside us. “We're totally behind schedule.”

“Fine,” the girl says, turning to me. Her eyes are astoundingly green.

“Well, better split. Gotta go to work ... hey, but if you ask me, sounds like the jimi one needs another chance.”

“D'you think?” I say.

“Well ... yes and no!” She laughs. “Probably yes. I mean, he sounds like he's being a real doofus ... but it's all pretty regular guy stuff. Guys do stupid things. They forget about parties they've arranged to take you to sometimes. Cut him some slack, eh?”

“Hmmm, maybe you're right,” I say, noticing the Celtic tattoo spilling out of the bottom of her trouser leg.

“Hey, actually,” she says, “forget that, don't listen to me. My man problems are world famous,” she groans, sweeping out the door. “See ya, kiddo!”

“Bye!” I smile.

Of course, I don't feel one iota clearer about my love life. But she was lovely, whoever she was.

It's almost 10 P.M. on Sunday, and we're standing in the wings of Astlebury's world-famous Hexagon Stage. The Kings of Kong went down like an absolute storm. I've never heard people cheer so loud and stamp their feet for an encore. The LBD got so wrapped up in the Kings' post-gig celebrations (and yes, Curtis really is just as lush up close, even if he does need to use stronger deodorant) that we ended up missing Amelia Annanova's set completely! I never even set eyes on her!
Aggh,
never mind ... it was worth the sacrifice just for the pleasure of seeing the Kings' drummer, Benny Lake, striding into the VIP area, stripping his T-shirt off and then asking us ever so kindly, batting his big brown eyes, if we'd mind finding him a beer.
Phwoaaar!

But now it's time for Astlebury's star attraction. There must be well over 100,000 people waiting for Spike's performance. Back here in the wings, Spike's been pacing nervously back and forth for the last twenty minutes, praying, crossing himself and sticking his head round the side of the stage, to sneak a glimpse of the crowd, before leaping up and down excitedly, retching with nerves. On stage, an army of hairy technicians fiddle with mike stands and snare drums. As well as Spike's entourage, Lewis, Fenella et al., we're also in the pleasant company of Daphne Swan and Rex, who seem totally starstruck and more than a little bewildered by the events of the last hour.

Incidentally, Rex isn't an evil giant after all. He's just a rather nice, overly tall hippie dude from Brighton who must have terrible trouble getting trousers to fit him. Never mind, though, he's never stopped grinning since the second we called to say that not only was Daphne a VIP, but we'd found a spare gold wristband for her new beau if he wanted to come along too. It turned out that Caleb, Spike's brother, had been chucked by his girlfriend the night before so she'd not be using hers.

“What a piece of luck!” Fleur said mischievously, eyeing the gorgeous Caleb before nicking his extra gold band and running off to find Daphne.

“How do you girls do it?”
laughs Daphne, gazing at the crowd, utterly flummoxed.

“It's just a fluke,” giggles Claude. “Every time!”

I feel totally chundersome just looking at this huge crowd. How Spike manages to walk out there and actually sing with a zillion sets of eyes drilling into him beats me; he certainly earns that gold turbo-bubble button.

“Hey, look, Ronnie, Twiggy's getting a right telling off,” whispers Claude, pointing over to the comer where Twiggy Starr's being slapped, poked and thoroughly harangued by Fenella.

“Just do your job like you're supposed to!” Fenella is barking. “You're not irreplaceable, y'know. I could find nine other clones who look pretty with a guitar by the end of the week, if I chose to!”

“Oh, pur-lease, Fenny-wenn,” Twiggy smirks. “Shut your trap, will you? You're all gob. Just try getting rid of me. I'm part of the furniture around here, dear.”

Fenella twists on her crocodile-skinned stiletto heel and goose-steps away, leaving Twiggy's best mate Spike to have a quieter word.

“Look, you have got all those chords for ‘Lost' straight in your head, haven't you?” asks Spike. “You didn't exactly nail it in rehearsals, did you?”

“It's all fine,” says Twiggy, quite believably.

“And what about ‘Windmill'—you've rehearsed that bridge again, haven't you?”

“S'all up there,” sighs Twiggy, tapping the side of his head.

“It better be, Twiggy,” warns Spike. “We're going out live on BBC1. And we're getting syndicated worldwide by MTV2! And ...”

“You worry too much,” scoffs Twiggy, then belches loudly.

Spike wanders away, shaking his head.

“Five minutes, Spike!” yells Fenella. “C'mon, people, let's start moving! Where's Foxton? Where's the drummer?”

“Ere,” grunts a wide-eyed guy with a bald head who's been in and out of the loo seven times in the last half hour. He must have a weak bladder.

“And where are the backing singers! Are they still in wardrobe?” screams Fenella. “Lewis, round everyone up now! Now!”

Suddenly, the entire Spike Saunders road show emerges, guitarists, backing singers, synth players, percussionists, all swigging from bottles of water, practicing scales, pacing about nervously, hugging each other and wishing each other the best of luck. They all look quite terrified as they gather around Spike for a little pep talk.

“I just want to say good luck to everyone,” Spike says. “There's no need to be nervous, they sound like a friendly bunch. Let's just do what we always do and we'll be more than okay. I've got every faith in you lot ... that's why I pay you so much!”

Everyone groans at Spike, albeit highly affectionately.

“We can do this, can't we?” he says. “Right?”

“Right!” choruses the gang.

“So, let's do it then!” he grins, and behind him the vast audience begins to chant an unmistakable rowdy chorus.

Gulp! I'd be out the back gate hiding in a hedge by now.

Spike gives Fenella a small nod. Fenella winks, then gives a thumbs-up to a woman in a headset, who nudges an old rocker who's acting as emcee. Taking a deep breath, the emcee picks up his silver microphone and begins yelling in an excitable, raspy manner,
“Well, helllllloooooo, Astlebury!”

The roar almost knocks me off my feet!

“You've all been very patient,” he says. “But here's the person you've all been waiting for! Let's make some noise for one of the biggest-selling recording artists this side of Jupiter! Are you ready for Mr. Spike Saunders?”

The noise is deafening!

Spike's drummer takes the stage first, running out and jumping behind his kit, kicking off with a rather terse, forceful beat on his foot pedal. The crowd immediately begins clapping above their heads, in syncro, as Spike's entire band rushes onto the stage, finding their positions, gradually adding voice and texture to the noise. Wow! Then, just as things can't get any more electrifying, Spike Saunders sort of swaggers onto the stage, raising the biggest, most rapturous cheer of the weekend, punching the air to the beat as he goes.

“Where's Twiggy?” shouts Claude.

“Over there!” I scream as Twiggy stumbles out of the shadows, swigging from a bottle that doesn't look much like gently carbonated Peruvian water to me.

“Rock 'n' roll! Twenty-four seven!” shouts Twiggy to, well, no one in particular really. With around five million folk worldwide watching with growing horror, Twiggy slings his guitar over his chest and begins a clumsy sprint to the center of the Astlebury stage, strumming the opening chords of “Lost” as he goes. The audience roars as Twiggy makes a grand entrance, dropping theatrically to his knees and skidding right across the waxed floor with his tongue hanging out ...

... grossly misjudging the size of the stage and plummeting headfirst fifteen feet into the space behind the safety barrier, almost squashing a
Rolling Stone
photographer as he falls.