It's a Girl Thing (29 page)

“Give me that microphone. I'm the announcer. Yes, me. I announce the bands. No one said we were taking turns!” argues Paddy, sounding very annoyed.

“Oh, grow up, I'm doing this one, give me that thing here,” Mrs. Guinevere insists. With a deft pull, she commandeers the mike.

“Hello, Blackwell Live!” she begins. “It gives me wonderful pride to announce another very talented band. This is Lost Messiah!” But before Guinevere even finishes announcing their name, an explosion of sound rips through the humid summer air, and Aaron, Naz, Danny and Jimi are belting out “Golden Gob” as loud as our PA system will tolerate before melting.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeahhhhhh!” is Jimi's opening line.

“Wahhhhhooooooooo” is his next.

He's not big on lyrics, really, is Jimi Steele. Still, something about him beguiles you to watch him every second he's before you.

“Excellent frontman,” says Spike, nudging me. “He's a talented guitarist too. Should go far, these lads. Well, the lead singer will, anyway.”

“Jimi Steele,” I sigh.

“Good name for a rock star,” says Spike Saunders. “Not as good as mine, though.” My expression must speak volumes, because Spike is quickly poking my shoulder.

“Ooh, hello, I think someone is a bit hot for Lost Messiah's lead singer. You fancy him, you do.” Spike sniggers as my face goes crimson.

“She does, but I don't,” butts in Fleur, clearly thinking she's in with a chance. Oh, dear. “And I'm single too!”

“This one's called ‘Stupid Things,' ” says Jimi before the Lost Messiah crash into another teeth-shakingly loud number. “And believe me, I've done a few of them in my time.” He must be talking about one of his many skateboard accidents, although it seems like a weird thing to write a song about. At the front of the stage Gonzo is trying to dissuade some Year 8 lads from crowd-surfing.

“Right, I've got to go and check on our extra-special headlining act,” announces Claude, vanishing into the cheering crowd. Spike raises an eyebrow.

“Catwalk,” I explain, exhaling deeply. “Flipping Catwalk.”

“Catwalk,” sighs Fleur, and then we both stand in mournful silence.

“I can't wait! I'm having a great time,” says Spike genuinely.

“Neither can we,” we lie.

After what seems like an overly long time since our last act, a thick cloud of dry ice pumps onto the Blackwell Live stage, filling the late-afternoon air with billowing, atmospheric white clouds. The stage is filled with fluffy whiteness, like rolling mist. Catwalk's rather lame intro music is building momentum: A drum machine flutters on top of repetitive synth chords.

“It's time for a Catwalk Nation,”
repeats a voice pretentiously again and again. Unmistakably, it is Panama's. The entire crowd leaps to attention expectantly, pushing forward to enjoy the headline act, some kids climbing onto each other's shoulders, cheering and beating the sky with their hands in time with the drums. And as the smoke begins to clear and more cymbals crash, I can just detect five silhouettes posing moodily together center stage. Clad in black Lycra tops, rubber catsuits and trousers, each with a silver microphone headset clipped around their faces and far too much makeup, Catwalk stand dead still with their arms and legs held in strange robotic poses, waiting for their cue to begin. The crowd are actually going berserk as the snare drum grows more frantic, then suddenly a loud crash rips through the speakers.

And they're off!

Leeza and Abigail first, cartwheeling down the center of the stage and then back again, followed by Derren and Zane walking on their hands, then launching into perfect backflips. Finally Panama steals center stage, pirouetting a hundred times perfectly, smiling like an android from ear to ear.

“Hello, Blackwell Live,” she shrills. “Thanks for coming to see me! This is your favorite and mine, it's ‘Running to Your Love'!!!”

“Woo-hoo!” screams the crowd.

Leeza and Abigail sashay past her as she sings. Derren and Zane are doing some bizarre tap dance, whirling their arms around as Panama reaches the chorus.

“I had no idea Panama was such an intellectual,” remarks Fleur sarcastically. “That chorus is really quite profound.”

Spike is giggling and cheering, clearly having the time of his life. “Are these, like, your mates?” he asks.

“No,” we both reply, in stereo.

And I'm about to explain to Spike Saunders the entire sorry tale, about how Catwalk menaced us into headlining Blackwell Live, and all about their nasty threats, and about Panama ensnaring Jimi and life being totally unfair . . . but then, as Panama begins her second chorus, something very very wonderful occurs.

“I'm ru-ru-ru-ru-ru-ru-ru-” stutters Panama, waving her hands frantically at Vinny, the roadie.

Oh my God! Catwalk's backing tape seems to have jammed!

“Love lo-lo-lo-lo-looooove,” stutters the tape, before correcting itself and running normally once more.

Perhaps the crowd hasn't noticed? Catwalk's dance routine has certainly been thrown well out of sync, but they seem to catch themselves up.

“Did you hear that?” One girl chuckles. “Panama's voice was totally out of time with her lips.”

“It's just a tape! They're miming!” I hear people whispering as Catwalk try to shimmy on regardlessly.

“Wanna gi-gi-gi-gi-gi-gi-gi-gi!” stutters Panama's voice. The tape is stuck again. This time for much longer! Panama's face is beginning to turn violet.

“Gi-gi-gi-gi-gi!” it stutters as Vinny bangs the side of the sound deck, trying to rectify the problem. Brilliantly, this just stops the tape altogether with a loud screech. Then it winds backward!

“Evolllllll ruoy ot gninnur!”
garbles the tape before grinding again to a halt.

“You're miming!” screams one lad. “It's just a backing tape!”

“Sing us a proper song!” shouts another.

Vinny is frantically pushing buttons and fiddling with wires. The tape bursts to life again.

“Running to your love!!” sings Panama's taped voice.

“Keep going! Just keep dancing. The show must go on,” Panama snarls at the rest of Catwalk. But by this point Abigail has legged it off stage and Derren is frozen to the spot with his head in his hands; Zane attempts to save the show with one nifty double front somersault, but nerves get the better of him and he lands on his bum with a mighty crash.

Ther-dunch!
is the sound of his bum colliding with the floor.

And then the backing tape stops again, this time for good. Not even lovely Mr. Ball, our science teacher, who helpfully runs forward with a Swiss penknife, offering to work some boffinlike magic on the fuses, can help Catwalk now. Vinny is just sitting with his head in his hands, trying to suppress fits of giggles.

I'd like to say here that sidesplitting laughter and jeers immediately rip through the field, but instead there's a deathly stunned silence. Complete dumbfoundment. Everybody is simply staring forward at the emptying stage, mouths ajar. A crisp bag blows by. In the distance a church bell tolls. Still, no one speaks. Eventually, after what seemed like an age, a singular clap is heard at the very back of the field.

“Thank you very much,” shouts Panama, sadly realizing it was the woman from the burger van slapping the last dregs of tomato ketchup from one of her bottles. On this note Panama makes a bid for escape too, running past what is most definitely Claudette Cassiera, smiling serenely on the side of the stage. It's almost, just almost, as if Claude has had something to do with this whole catastrophe.

“I find it very difficult to imagine you'd be involved in anything like this, Claudette Cassiera,”
I can imagine McGraw's voice saying.
“Very difficult indeed.”

 

 

Throughout the festival site, people are now openly hooting and jeering.

“Encore!” kids are yelling. “More!”

“Put the tape back on! Mime us another song!” chants one particularly rowdy section of the crowd.

“Oh, that's just too bad,” Spike says sympathetically. “The poor things. They started so well too,” he adds. “I've died on stage before. It's no fun at all.”

Okay, yeah, we could correct Spike and tell him why this is the most wonderful end to Blackwell Live ever, but instead Fleur spies a golden opportunity.

“Well, er, you could smooth things over by singing a few songs, couldn't you?” Fleur suggests.

Spike looks at her, then raises an eyebrow. He's clearly thinking about it. “Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt, would it?” Spike says, removing his sunglasses, exposing his beautiful, instantly recognizable face to the crowd. A few girls standing right beside us gasp, nudging each other frantically.

“Spike Saunders. Spike Saunders! Oh my God!” they shout, informing everyone in earshot. The whisper beings to spread rapidly, growing louder and louder until everyone within fifty meters is pointing and shouting, “Spike! It's Spike Saunders! Look, over there!”

One girl simply faints, right there on the spot before us.

“I mean, seeing as I'm here, eh?” says Spike. “If nobody minds, that is.”

From where I'm standing, I can see Uncle Charlie clutching his brow and shouting hoarsely into a walkie-talkie at the side of the stage. His face is practically burgundy, the poor bloke.

As a non-negotiable riot erupts around us, Spike runs as fast as he can through the crowd, mounting Blackwell Live's main stage and grabbing a nearby acoustic guitar.

“Hello, Blackwell,” he begins. “I'm Spike Saunders.”

“Wooooo-hoo!” screams the bewildered crowd en masse.

“Er, thanks for letting me hijack the festival,” Spike says, strumming the guitar a little. “You know, I don't like to turn up uninvited to places, but hey, you seemed like a friendly bunch.”

“AAAAARGH!!”
screeches a thousand girls.

“Sing us a song!” screams one young lass.

“Er, okay,” says Spike. I think he might actually be a bit nervous. He looks at the crowd in a puzzled way. “You know, it's been a long time since it's been just me and a guitar, I'm kind of not sure what to play for you,” he teases.

“ ‘Merry Go Round'!” screams some rather noisy fans near the front barrier. “We want ‘Merry Go Round'!”

“Ah, ‘Merry Go Round,' no problem at all!” Spike shouts, and the audience erupts as he plays the very familiar opening bars.

“Ooh, hang on,” Spike says just before he begins the first verse. “This one is for my mate Ronnie. She likes this one, she does.”

And as I turned around to grab Fleur's hand and yell, “That's me! He means me!” I saw something very wonderful indeed.

Making her way through the crowds, brandishing a large veggie burger smothered in onions and ketchup in one hand, stepped the one and only Mrs. Magda Ripperton.

My mum had shown up!

And at that very second, I was so happy, I thought my head was going to explode.

Chapter 12

So many unforgettably fantastic things happened during Blackwell Live, it's all the LBD have talked about for the last week, from dawn to dusk and sometimes even in our dreams.

We must be quite, quite intolerable. Thank heavens we have each other to natter with. Okay, thank heavens we have each other, full stop.

Like, there was that excellent finale, where Spike Saunders sang “Cold Heart” (an excellent track from the
To Hell and Back
CD) with the entire crowd joining in with the choruses.

That made me cry for some curious reason.

I don't know why nice things make you cry sometimes, they just do.

And the police weren't even that angry about what happened. Well, not really, considering. Once Chief Superintendent Johnson heard the LBD had collected over a thousand pounds for charity, he turned a blind eye to the riot van and police reinforcements he'd had to deploy.

Whoops. Next time we “invite an international superstar to our garden party” (his words), we've promised we'll tip him off.

Thank heavens for Mrs. Guinevere, who dealt with the police with outstanding diplomacy; and later on, when she returned from informing Mr. McGraw of the goings-on, well, she wasn't even the slightest bit ruffled. She was actually still quite jubilant.

“But did McGraw miss out on Spike Saunders?” Fleur asked.

“Oh, well, he barricaded himself into his office hours ago.” Mrs. Guinevere smiled. “I believe he'd seen quite enough once Death Knell began jumping out of coffins covered in blood. It was a lot of visual stimulation for him to take in.”

“But what's he doing in there?” asked Claude.

“Well, to be exact, he's listening to a recital of Barber's
Adagio for Strings
on Radio 4 with the blinds firmly pulled down . . . oh, and doing the
Guardian
crossword.” Mrs. Guinevere chuckled. “His parting comment as I left was ‘Alas, even Emperor Nero fiddled while Rome burned.' ”

“Well, at least he's happy, then,” concluded Claude. “Well, er, sort of.”