Chapter 3
I’m used to running around like a headless chicken on concert night, but this gig at the Royal Highland Exhibition Hall has been particularly stressful.
First, Andy kept breaking guitar strings at the soundcheck this afternoon, and the guys ribbed him about having sausage fingers.
He’s sensitive about his hands, so he got in a tizz and stormed offstage.
Then when he’d been hugged by everyone and apologised to, they continued.
But Simon had been nursing a sore throat since Manchester, so his voice sounded pretty rough.
He decided to power through and gargle Epsom salts before the show, so I had to source a bag and get it sent to his hotel room.
A couple of speakers blew for no reason, and then Nick’s synthesiser wasn’t triggering properly, which took ages for the keyboard tech to sort out.
It seemed to be one thing after the other.
And this weather wasn’t helping things. It was pissing with rain when we arrived tonight and colder than a witch’s tit.
God knows why we had to come to Edinburgh in December.
Sure, the Scots want to see Duran Duran play live (who wouldn’t?).
But there’s been no thought for us lackeys who have to sprint around outside, doing various jobs.
By the time I’d finished, my nuts were practically frozen.
Don’t get me wrong. As a roadie for the most famous band on earth right now, I love my job and wouldn’t change it for the world.
But I’m still jet-lagged from Australia, where the Sing Blue Silver Tour started in November.
So far, they’ve played eleven concerts in five weeks, and this is just the beginning.
A gruelling schedule of concert dates is planned throughout December up until Christmas.
Then we’ll be in Japan and USA until April next year.
Which is fine. It’s what I signed up for.
But part of the issue I’m having is that a few of the security team quit as they couldn’t hack it.
So I’m helping out their crew too, and I completely understand what they’re dealing with.
Trying to keep the band protected from these fans is a nightmare.
The boys can’t even relax backstage after a concert because these women are fucking feral and storm the corridors, looking for them.
They want them to sign their tits. They want their sweaty towels.
They want the water bottles that they’ve sucked from.
Want, want, want. Most of them we manage to herd off at the pass, but a few do escape through.
The uproar from those who don’t makes my hair stand on end and my dick shrivel.
I’ve even taken it on the chin a few times when they’ve lashed out in their distress.
I imagine this is what it was like for the Beatles: the screaming, the crying, the fainting . .. the punching.
Thankfully, the band is playing their final set now.
Two more songs to go: ‘Rio’ and then ‘Girls on Film’.
Then they’ll make a run for it out the back way.
No hanging around tonight. They’re heading straight to the hotel on their tour bus.
We’re off to Leeds tomorrow, and it’s going to be an early start, so there’ll be no partying for the band or crew.
Everyone needs to arrive without hangovers for the afternoon soundcheck at Queens Hall.
I’ll join them after I’ve tidied up. Their dressing room looks like a bomb has gone off in here with all their outfits, towels, and discarded water bottles.
I consider hoarding a few and making some money off of their lip imprints, but in the end, I bundle them all into a black rubbish bag for the cleaners in the morning.
By the time I’ve finished, my eyes are drooping, and I’m looking forward to my bed.
The thought makes me laugh a little. What am I, 23 going on 83?
When I leave the dressing room, I’m not expecting to see a wall of hormonal women in the corridor as the security has been tighter here.
But there are still twenty or so hanging around.
A ripple of anticipation goes through them when they spot me in my leather jacket with teased-up blond hair sauntering towards them. But then someone calls out, ‘It’s nae Simon! It’s nae even Nick!’ There’s a rumble of despondent groans.
I get this a lot because I dress like Simon does.
And I don’t want to blow my own trumpet here, but I’ve been told I’m as good-looking as he is.
I’m not his height of six feet two, but near enough at five foot eleven.
But that doesn’t make a difference to the fans.
I’m not him. Usually, it’s a minor irritation, and I brush it off.
But tonight I’m tetchy because I’m tired, and these Duran Duran fans are soooo demanding.
Strolling up to them, I say in a loud voice, ‘You’re wasting your time hanging around, ladies. I’m their roadie, and the band isn’t here. They left an hour ago. So you might as well go home.’
‘I don’t believe you. They always hang out backstage after concerts and meet their fans.
’ A blonde girl at the front of the group puts her hands on her hips and scowls at me.
She’s eye-catchingly pretty with scarlet lips and shaggy blonde hair à la Bonnie Tyler.
She has a raspy voice like hers too. I can’t help staring at her, taking in the sparkly tight green top, short black skirt, and spike-heeled leather boots wrapped around long slender calves.
The other women throw me dark looks and mutter.
‘Yeah, I bet he’s lying.’
‘Let us meet them.’
‘We paid good money for our tickets.’
‘We’ve been waiting to see them.’
It’s not at all what I want to say. What I want to say is ‘Better luck next time, ladies.’ But somehow, I find myself opening my mouth, and this falls out: ‘Come on then. But just you.’
I point at the blonde girl, and she smiles at me all sugary sweet now. ‘That’s more like it,’ she says.
There’s swearing and colourful cursing, as well as kicking and pounding of walls behind us, but the blonde girl pays them no heed. I take it no one here is her particular friend.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask her as we walk towards the dressing room door.
‘Sadie,’ she says huskily, and a shiver rolls down my spine.
‘So you want to meet Simon, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ she says decisively. ‘Simon.’
‘What about John? He’s pretty popular with the ladies.’
‘He’s OK. But Simon’s my favourite.’
I drag my hand over my face. Why the hell I’m taking her to an empty dressing room, I don’t know. But then I decide that she’s been so bolshy, it serves her right to see that I was telling the truth.
I open the door and stand back. ‘After you.’
She grins at me, and lust spears my groin.
Wowser, as they say in Australia, she really is stunning!
I’m actually glad that Simon isn’t here as I’d be green-eyed with jealousy if he decided to hook up with her.
Sadie shakes her hair back and straightens her spine, preparing to meet her idol.
She steps into the empty room; and I watch her, leaning against the doorframe, my eyes raking over her long legs and sexy black leather boots.
Sadie swivels round, her lips pressed into a flat line. ‘Where is he?’
I smirk. ‘Maybe he’s in the toilet, taking a dump.’
Her forehead wrinkles; and I feel an insistent pressing in the space between my eyebrows, like I got a headache coming on, which isn’t surprising after the day I’ve had.
I sigh. ‘I told you. They’ve left already.’ I gesture to the soiled towels that I’ve herded into the middle of the room. ‘But help yourself to a sweaty towel, though I’m not sure which one is Simon’s. They’ve all got foundation on them.’
The girl’s red lips part slightly, as if she’s not used to someone getting the better of her. She’s a bit of a spoiled madam, I conclude. But she also looks so disappointed that I soften ... and go to my duffel bag and hand her one of my concert tour T-shirts.
‘Look, here you go. Have this. It’s signed by them and everything.’
Sadie takes it mutely. Without even a thank you. Oh well, I tried. If she’s going to take it that badly ... I shake my head and say, ‘Sorry, but at least you got to stand in their dressing room, which is more than some fans get to do. And you’ve got a signed T-shirt, which is gold.’
She still doesn’t say anything, but the scowl is back.
So I shrug and say, ‘See ya’, and walk off down the corridor, leaving her standing there, looking like she’s going to blow a gasket.
I snigger to myself, thinking, She’s even prettier when she’s angry.
It’s a pity I’m not supposed to get involved with fans as I would have totally invited her back to my hotel room.
But I signed a contract stating that I would behave in a professional manner at all times when on tour.
OK, perhaps what just happened wasn’t that professional of me, but Sadie kind of deserved it. Sadie. It’s an unusual name; it reminds me a little of Salem and witches.
The rain has eased off as I step outside to the private parking lot, but the wind blows in cold gusts around my ears.
Drawing my jacket around me tightly, I walk to the van and unlock the back door.
I should check that there are some spare guitar strings for tomorrow since Andy went through so many today.
I’m rootling through a box of gear when there’s a noise behind me.
Then someone grabs the back of my jacket, and I’m picked up and thrown onto the van floor.
My head knocks against an amplifier, and I lie there, dazed.
The van door slams shut and locks, and footsteps crunch around the side. Oh fuck, I think. This isn’t good.
The driver’s door opens, and someone slithers into the leather seat. But from my position on the floor, I can’t see who it is. But I’m not a lightweight guy, and the fact I’ve been picked up as if I were made of marshmallow and thrown in here suggests I’m dealing with a strong man.
The van starts up and starts backing out onto the road. Strangely, ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ by Bonnie Tyler is playing on the radio as we pull out onto the main road. My heart is pounding, and my hands start sweating as Bonnie warbles away about getting ‘a little bit terrified’.
‘W-where are you taking me?’ I stutter fearfully.
A throaty female voice answers flatly from the driver’s seat, ‘To my place. You’re going to pay for that little trick.’