"Yeah?"
"This is that band! That guy ... the guy who was talking to the security bloke on our dressing room when we arrived!"
"Which means?"
You squint at the stage. There he is, in his red tracksuit, laying into his Hammond organ.
"It's him. These are the people who are trying to fuck us, Craig. I bet that ..."
You look around the audience, trying to spot someone you recognise. You're standing handily near the entrance to the VIP enclosure, so you bet there's ... yes, there he is: Tony Gloster, wigging away in his corduroys and his bloody Graham Coxon spectacles ... and there's that idiot Blair Cooper, a little further forward, unmistakable with shades on his head and a Creation record bag.
"Fucking arseholes," arseholes," you pronounce, grabbing Craig's arm and hurrying towards the backstage entrance. you pronounce, grabbing Craig's arm and hurrying towards the backstage entrance.
"Lance, I really don't think you should have anything more to drink for a while."
"Whatever."
A group of chaps are just leaving the enclosure as you approach. One of them sniggers as he sees you.
"What's so fucking funny, dickhead," you snarl as you pass him.
"It's all over," the guy replies clearly.
Followed by more laughter.
You remain still and think for half a second; then you're off again, storming past the guard by the VIP entrance, holding your pass right in his face.
"Don't even think think about saying I've got the wrong one." about saying I've got the wrong one."
He doesn't. What he does say, almost out of earshot as you flounce off, is the same phrase again: "It's all over."
"What did you fucking say?" you scream, turning on him.
"Nothing," he shrugs innocently.
"Wanker!"
You dash away again. Once inside the enclosure, Craig catches up with you.
"Lance, for the second time today, you are behaving like an utter cock."
"No, Craig! Listen! Listen! Call me hysterical, man, but it's a fucking conspiracy." Call me hysterical, man, but it's a fucking conspiracy."
"Erm ... hysterical," he obliges.
"No, no, think think about it! Haven't you heard what they've been saying to me?" about it! Haven't you heard what they've been saying to me?"
"No, all I've been hearing is you mouthing off to people."
"They're saying 'It's all over,' didn't you hear them? The prick in the red tracksuit said it, then the security guy by our hut said it, and that little cock guarding our gear before, he he said it. Hasn't anyone said it to you?" said it. Hasn't anyone said it to you?"
"Sorry, no."
"Oh, fuck it ..."
You glare around at the assembled drinkers and the little queue of girls by the toilet, most of whom are gaping in your direction. It's not something they're used to, the lead singer of the headline band arguing with his drummer in the middle of the backstage area. "Listen, Craig, whatever you think, do me a favour, will you? Please go over to the equipment tent and check everything's okay. One of our guys should be in there with the gear. If he's not, come straight back to the dressing room and tell me. Will you please just fucking do that for us?"
"Okay! Okay," Craig says, holding his hands up in surrender and backing off.
You're getting all hot and hassled now, so you whip off your pith helmet. Aware that appearances need to be kept up, you tidy your hair, take a deep breath and walk at a more casual pace back towards the dressing room. Unfortunately, this is the wrong thing to do. Your reduced speed means you can clearly hear, at least five times as you cross the makeshift beer garden, different people saying the words "It's all over." Not wanting to look like a total, frantic fool, you ignore every single one of them. Then, just as you've reached the other side, a small female insect pounces.
"Lance, hi! Mari Wechter, MTV Europe." Here she is, with her beach-ball-sized microphone and her cameraman lurking behind. "Would now be a good time to have a few words? I'm sure viewers all over the continent would love to hear-"
"Er ... not such a good time right now, no."
"Oh, just for a minute. We're very excited to see you and your band back on the festival circuit. Couldn't you just-"
"Sorry, Mari, can we make it slightly later, I need to-"
"It'll only take thirty seconds of your time. We can't wait to see the-"
"Not! Now!" Now!"
It takes every molecule of willpower you possess to not grab her by the shoulders and shake all the slick, televisual enthusiasm out of her. She gets the message, coughs with surprise and turns back to the cameraman.
"Maybe it is is all over," she mutters. all over," she mutters.
Your patience exhausted, you sprint the rest of the way back to the dressing room, where thankfully a different security guard awaits. This is a big guy, reassuringly older, perhaps in his mid-forties, with short blond hair and a slight beer belly.
"Hello, Lance," he says, warmly holding out his hand. "It's nice to meet you. I'm going to be doing your dressing room security for the rest of the day."
"Ah. And your name is ... ?"
"John," he replies. "Great to be working here. I've been a big fan of yours since Lovely Youth." Lovely Youth."
"Oh ... right! Well, nice one, John." West Berkshire accent, you note, just like your mum and dad. You gesture towards the hut. "Anyone home?"
"Yes, I think your young lady is, as a matter of fact."
You find yourself a little caught out by his friendliness. However, your initial character appraisal says there's something sincere about him; perhaps not the most interesting man in the world, maybe a slight jobsworth, but he seems trustworthy, which must go a long way in the security business.
"Listen ... John," you confide, leaning in slightly, "do me a favour, will you? If ... if anyone tries to give give you anything, like a bribe or anything like that ... will you let me know?" you anything, like a bribe or anything like that ... will you let me know?"
"A bribe?" he frowns.
"It's just that ... there's been some weird stuff happening today. I don't know if you've seen anything ... have you?"
"Not that I know of."
"Well, anyway ... be sure to tell me if anything untoward occurs."
"I'll do that, Lance."
"Thanks," you smile, patting him on the shoulder. "Oh, and whatever they offer you, I'll double it," you chuckle.
He looks confused for a second, then laughs awkwardly as you hop up the steps of the hut.
Katie is inside, managing to smoke, nurse a glass of wine, talk on her phone and apply some after-sun lotion to her sunburnt shoulders all at the same time.
"Hang on, he's here," she mutters. "I'll call you back ... Baby! Where've you been?"
"Oh, about," you sigh, flopping down on the sofa next to her.
"I heard," she begins, kissing you on the forehead, "that someone someone lost their rag at the press conference." lost their rag at the press conference."
"Oh, yeah? You heard wrong."
"Well, that's what Dan told me," Katie adds. "He said you told all the journos to fuck off and then stormed out."
"Oh, Christ!" you exclaim, standing up again and opening the fridge. "Where the fuck is everyone's sense of humour? of humour? I was I was joking joking the whole way through that conference, just like I've the whole way through that conference, just like I've always always done, but everyone's so stuffed up their own tight arses at the moment. I don't understand it!" done, but everyone's so stuffed up their own tight arses at the moment. I don't understand it!"
"God, just take it easy, babe, will you?"
"I've been trying trying to take it easy all fucking day," you reply, banging your fist on the toilet door, "but there's some sort of fucking vendetta going on!" to take it easy all fucking day," you reply, banging your fist on the toilet door, "but there's some sort of fucking vendetta going on!"
"Right, I'm off," Katie announces, gathering up her things. "You're stressing me out."
"That's the fucking thing about dressing rooms," you declare, glugging your drink. "People love to come back and hang out, be in with the fucking so-called in-crowd, admitted to the inner sanctum or whatever ... but then, they don't like it as soon as there's a little bit of tension. Don't they ever remember it's actually a workspace? workspace? This is where we bloody This is where we bloody prepare prepare for a performance! Why doesn't anyone ever fucking remember that?" for a performance! Why doesn't anyone ever fucking remember that?"
"All right, that's enough," she instructs. "I'm not just 'people,' if you don't mind-I'm your girlfriend. Tell me what's wrong. There is is something, isn't there?" something, isn't there?"
"Yes," you nod.
So you tell her. You tell her everything: how someone appears to be laughing laughing at you and the band, vandalising the gear, giving out fake passes, slagging you off onstage, telling everyone to mutter "It's all over" as you walk by. Katie listens sympathetically, but it's this last bit she can't believe. at you and the band, vandalising the gear, giving out fake passes, slagging you off onstage, telling everyone to mutter "It's all over" as you walk by. Katie listens sympathetically, but it's this last bit she can't believe.
"How would would I be imagining that?" you scream at her. I be imagining that?" you scream at her.
"Will you stop fucking shouting at me!"
You stop.
"And give that a rest for a while," she instructs, grabbing your beer away.
"Okay," you begin, more quietly. "Do me a favour. Come with me. Let's go and have a little walk around. Listen out, and I guarantee guarantee someone will say it." someone will say it."
Realising you're in no mood to back down, Katie agrees.
You leave the dressing room, wink at John the guard, and wander off arm in arm into the main enclosure, past the bar, across the sea of white plastic garden chairs, where the drinkers catch the last of the evening sun, over to the side of the main stage (you spend a couple of minutes watching Gene, who you must admit are pretty good) then back to the enclosure, through the public arena and back into the VIP bit ... and of course, no one says a damn thing. Quite the contrary. People are nice to you. They smile. The guards are all polite. The journos nod. Even fucking Tony Gloster has the gall to come up and say, "All's fair in love and indie pop, eh?"-at which you grudgingly shake his hand. And with every new person you pass, you feel Katie's mood plummeting further down. When she's finally had enough of walking, just as you're passing the ladies' loos for the third time, she turns to you and gives you one of her serious looks.
"Lance, honey, I hate to say it, but you've got some sort of problem."
"No ..."
"Baby, listen to me, you have-"
"No! Katie, I swear." swear."
"Sweetness, all you need to do is go and have a lie down, chill out. I'll find you a private space. I think all this is getting too much for you ..."
"Lance!" squeaks a female voice.
You both whirl around. It's Petra.
"Lance," she chirps, "Craig says to tell you all the gear's okay, and Stan's in there guarding it."
"Ah! Thank God," God," you gasp, at this most rare piece of good news. You're so relieved, in fact, you can't help giving Petra a little hug. you gasp, at this most rare piece of good news. You're so relieved, in fact, you can't help giving Petra a little hug.
"Oh, you arsehole!" arsehole!" screams Katie, driving her fists between the two of you. "You complete screams Katie, driving her fists between the two of you. "You complete shit! shit! I was going out of my way to be nice to you, and you can't even respect me enough to keep your fucking hands off her in front of me!" I was going out of my way to be nice to you, and you can't even respect me enough to keep your fucking hands off her in front of me!"
"But, Katie ..."
"No, you just fuck off," she cries, holding up an angry warning finger. "You can drown drown in your little fucking paranoid and miserable world, and take her with you. I damn well hope you're happy." in your little fucking paranoid and miserable world, and take her with you. I damn well hope you're happy."
And with that, she is off.
Petra's bottom lip trembles.
"Sorry, Lance," she blurts, and dashes off.
Exhausted, you turn around to the beer garden, where once again an amused audience watches. Setting your controls for the heart of the dressing room, and specifically the alcohol rider, you decide the only possible solution to your woes is to immediately get as drunk as possible.
You've been drunk for gigs before. Actually, you've been paralytic paralytic before; you've passed out, people have had to slap you and splash cold water over your face in order to bring a shred of consciousness back to your sozzled body. And you've always managed to perform, and perform well: singing almost note perfect, your guitar playing rhythmic and strong. Only experts would notice the difference. Strange, really, but everyone has their good points. You're sure that if John McEnroe downed five pints of lager and a bottle of wine, he'd still before; you've passed out, people have had to slap you and splash cold water over your face in order to bring a shred of consciousness back to your sozzled body. And you've always managed to perform, and perform well: singing almost note perfect, your guitar playing rhythmic and strong. Only experts would notice the difference. Strange, really, but everyone has their good points. You're sure that if John McEnroe downed five pints of lager and a bottle of wine, he'd still be fairly be fairly good at tennis. good at tennis.
The ingredient that dramatically alters, however, is how you treat the audience. Stone-cold sober, which only happens very occasionally: you're a bit moody and monosyllabic, only really warming up by the end. A little tipsy: you start getting cheeky and the banter flows. But moderately drunk, you believe, is when you're at your best. Nicely antagonistic, a couple of insults fly, sometimes something controversial like throwing out a lairy audience member, arguing with a bouncer, maybe shouting at a roadie. Keeps everyone on their toes. When you smile at the end of the show and advise everyone to get home safely, that's the payoff; it's so so much more effective than if you'd been pleasant all evening. Drunker than that: you start quarrelling with the band and ignoring the crowd, although you still hurl abuse at the little fuckers when they shout out song requests. Again, it keeps people in a nice state of alertness, but perhaps it shouldn't happen more than once per tour. Recently, you have to admit, it's been happening a lot. Thirty-two shows since much more effective than if you'd been pleasant all evening. Drunker than that: you start quarrelling with the band and ignoring the crowd, although you still hurl abuse at the little fuckers when they shout out song requests. Again, it keeps people in a nice state of alertness, but perhaps it shouldn't happen more than once per tour. Recently, you have to admit, it's been happening a lot. Thirty-two shows since The Social Trap The Social Trap was wheeled out in May: for perhaps half of those you've been smashed. It's been a tough year. was wheeled out in May: for perhaps half of those you've been smashed. It's been a tough year.
The upshot of this drinking record is that no one is particularly concerned at the state you're getting yourself into tonight at Aylesbury Craig makes a few comments, mostly because he saw the frenzy you were in earlier, but Martin's been totally ignoring you since the press conference and Dan, judging by the near-empty bottle of rum next to him, isn't an awful long way behind you. Bob comes in to do his usual schoolteacherly routine at around eight thirty ("Now, gents, remember what we're all here for-keep a little bit back for the celebration afterwards") and Petra looks perpetually worried, but that's probably because she's expecting an ice pick in her back from Katie at any moment.
Nine o'clock approaches, and Heidi cheerfully arrives to escort you to the backstage bar for the Radio One interview. It's at this point that your powers of speech vanish, and all you can do is shake your head.
"Come on, Lance. Perhaps a little of that old sparkle, to make up for earlier?"
"Sparkle," laughs Martin. "You'll get more sparkle out of a dead badger right now."
"Well, someone's someone's got to do it," Heidi insists. "Dan? Martin?" got to do it," Heidi insists. "Dan? Martin?"
"I ain't going anywhere," growls Dan.
Martin sighs and goes into his standard martyr routine.