My Side of Life/by WESTLIFE.CN

by Shane Filan

  We couldn’t miss the fans’ sadness, either. Every night, the women and girls who had pushed their way to be right at the front by the stage were looking up at us and crying. Quite often they would be mouthing, ‘Why?’ Because when it came down to it, we were the ones who had made them cry.

  At the end of the set each night, we all made a short farewell speech, reminiscing on our many, many good times and thanking the fans for everything, before we went into ‘You Raise Me Up’. It was all I could do to get through it without bawling myself. #tissuetour indeed.

  So that was what was happening onstage on the Farewell tour. Offstage was a different story entirely.

  During the days of the tour, I was hardly off the phone from my solicitor, frantically trying to negotiate the IVA with the banks. I was offering higher and higher percentages of my income, but the bankers weren’t biting. They were playing hardball.

  It didn’t help that my dilemma was being played out every day in the pages of the press as if it were a soap opera.

  ‘WILL WESTLIFE SHANE GO BANKRUPT?’

  ‘CAN SHANE GET AN IVA?’

  Some of the stories had the implication that the banks would be going soft and letting me off lightly if we came to a deal. It must have affected the bankers we were dealing with, who were reading this crap over their breakfasts.

  It came to a head in Belfast, a city that had always loved us. We did five nights on the #tissuetour at the Belfast Odyssey Arena, a place that Westlife played no fewer than sixty times in our career. At our last gig there, Peter Aikens, the promoter for every single Northern Irish Westlife show, even gave us a plaque to commemorate it.

  Down in Dublin, my solicitor had another IVA meeting with the bankers that day. I was praying this one would produce a breakthrough. We had agreed that she would offer them 60 per cent of my income over the next three and a half years. It was a big leap from our last offer.

  I told Nicky about the offer as we hung out in his dressing room right before the show. We could hear the fans going mental in the arena. ‘So what’s the craic?’ Nicky asked me. ‘Do you think you’re going to get it sorted?’

  ‘Aye, I think so,’ I said. ‘They’ve turned down a lot but I think it’s looking good this time. I’ve got a feeling.’

  He smiled. The tour manager appeared in the doorway. ‘OK, guys, you’re on!’ he told us, and headed towards the stage. Nicky and I got up to follow him, but as I got to the door, my phone rang. I ran back and grabbed it.

  It was my solicitor. ‘Shane, it’s a no. They’re not accepting it.’

  F**k! What the… I suddenly felt faint, as if I might actually pass out. What more did they want? What was I supposed to do?

  ‘They’re saying 60 per cent is not enough and they don’t like the three and a half years.’

  I could hear an impatient crowd stamping their feet. ‘WEST-LIFE! WEST-LIFE!’ The tour manager reappeared in the doorway: ‘C’mon Shane, mate, we’re on!’ He was looking anxious.

  He wasn’t as anxious as me. We had just over a week to go before the deadline, after which I would be declared bankrupt. So now what?

  There was only one thing for it.

  ‘Offer them 70 per cent,’ I told her. ‘Do you think they’ll go for that?’

  ‘I think there’s a good chance,’ she replied.

  By now the tour manager was pulling at my arm. ‘Shane! Now!’

  We ran down a backstage corridor. My head was in turmoil. I had always assumed that negotiation and common sense would win the day, but now… Now, I was really thinking that in ten days I could be bankrupt. Jesus!

  Fifteen seconds later, the curtain dropped and I was singing the first line of ‘What About Now’.

  It was the first time in my life that I had ever not enjoyed singing with Westlife. The first few songs were horrendous, and I really didn’t want to be there. Then the music and the screams and the adrenaline kicked in, as usual, and I got a bit more into it. After all, it was Belfast.

  Even so, for the first time a penny was dropping on exactly what I was dealing with. For the first time, I thought, The banks don’t want to work with me. They don’t want to do a deal.

  They want me to go bankrupt.

  It was a chilling moment.

  The next morning, my normal positivity kicked in again and I was back on the phone with my solicitor, finalizing the small print of our 70 per cent offer. She confirmed to me that it was a fair one, a good one: we were definitely going the extra mile here.

  The #tissuetour rolled on, with return visits to Birmingham, Nottingham, London and Manchester. Yet for once, Westlife shows were not doing much to lift my spirits. In fact, we all felt like we were heading towards a funeral.

  Every night was a sea of tearful faces, sorrowful fans and heartrending signs in the crowd. Every night our farewell speeches got more intense and more moving. We began to get obsessed with counting down to the final, Croke Park shows: ‘Jesus, only eighteen days to go!’

  ‘Seventeen…’

  ‘Sixteen…’

  Two weeks before the end of the tour, we had a day off. It was 10 June 2012.

  This date had been in my head for the last month. It was the legal deadline to secure an IVA before I would otherwise be declared bankrupt. It was a Sunday, but even so, my lawyer was meeting with the bankers one last time.

  I was going spare with worry waiting for news in Cobham, so Gillian and I decided to go to the cinema. Well, what can lift your spirits better than a good comedy? We’d loved Sacha Baron Cohen doing Ali G, Borat and Brüno, so we went to see his new movie, The Dictator.

  It was funny but I was not in the mood for laughing. I didn’t see it all, anyway. Halfway through the film, my solicitor called me from outside the IVA meeting. The bankers had some further queries. I spent thirty minutes on my mobile in the cinema foyer.

  The Dictator ended and Gillian and I drove home. I was still mad with anxiety – but the phone call had encouraged me.

  It meant that the bankers were seriously considering the proposal, right? They were thinking about it? And now they were still talking, into the evening – they wouldn’t do that if they were just going to kick it out!

  I was offering them a great deal that included 70 per cent of everything I would earn over the next few years – why would they turn that down?

  I talked myself into it. F**k, yeah! They were going to accept!

  Great! I thought. I don’t even care that I’m paying them such a big share of my earnings. Gillian and I can keep the house, and I can leave Westlife with my head held high. We can shake hands, sort this out together, and then I can move on.

  They were definitely accepting… or were they? It had got dark by now and I was pacing around the house, going back and forth between elation and despair. It was after eleven o’clock at night when my phone finally rang.

  It was the solicitor.

  ‘Shane, they said no.’

  They said no.

  ‘No?’ It was all I could say.

  ‘They said no. I really thought that they would accept it. I’m shocked that they didn’t. I’m so, so sorry.’

  I am bankrupt.

  I thanked my solicitor for her efforts, hung up the phone, and burst into tears.

  I am bankrupt.

  My whole life flashed before my eyes. It felt as if somebody had died. My kids were upstairs fast asleep in their beds. For them, everything was great; life was great; Daddy is a pop star. They didn’t know everything had just vanished beneath them.

  I am bankrupt.

  Everything I had worked for since Westlife had started was gone. Everything. Castledale, the cars, all of our money: all gone. The world would know tomorrow just what a failure I had been and how I had f**ked everything up.

  I am bankrupt.

  I sobbed inconsolably. Everything I had kept held in since Shafin started going wrong came pouring out. This was it. This was the bottom of the barrel. I had never felt worse in my life.

 
I. Am. Bankrupt.

  It should not have come to this.

  It had come to this.

  Bankrupt.

  15

  A CITY OF TWINKLING LIGHTS

  It was an hour before I could calm down from the news. I was bawling and raging; angry, confused and scared. I had never thought it would happen. Right up until the eleventh hour, I had thought something would save me. Now, I had to face up to a new life.

  A life as a bankrupt.

  All the while I was howling and panicking, Gillian was right next to me. She was listening, talking, coaxing me down and telling me everything was going to be OK. She was upset, too – but she was so much calmer and more rational than me.

  Eventually, I fell into silence. It was midnight. We had a cup of tea.

  ‘Look, you couldn’t have tried any harder,’ Gillian tried to console me. ‘You did your best. There is no more you can do. You still have me, Nicole, Patrick and Shane. What more do you need?’

  We went up to bed. I lay staring at the ceiling, as the whole grisly last five years replayed in my head like a bad dream. Where, exactly, did it start going wrong? When should I have said, ‘Enough’? Why had it ended this way? Why?

  Eventually, I fell into a shallow, troubled sleep. The morning came quickly, and with a start, but as I woke up I found that my nightmare was continuing.

  I am bankrupt.

  Bang! The bedroom door flew open. The kids came running in and jumped all over me as I lay there like a zombie. They were so innocent, so happy, and it upset me so much that I had to jump up and run to the toilet so I didn’t start crying in front of them.

  They are too young to see me like this. I have to worry for them; not them for me.

  That morning I moped around the house. Then I got on a bus and went to Cardiff to play a pop concert.

  I heard the air brakes screech on the big fancy tour bus as it pulled up outside my gates in Cobham. I wandered out to get on it in a bit of a daze. Nicky, Mark and Kian were all making their way to the show separately, so at least I had time to collect my thoughts on the drive to Wales.

  I called Louis from the bus. He was as brilliant as ever. He gave me the same pep talk as Gillian, ‘Look: you have your wife; you have your kids; you have your health. Nobody can take those away from you.’

  It was exactly what I needed to hear. So was the next thing that he said to me.

  ‘And you have your voice. I’ll get you a deal. We’re close to it already. You can start over.’

  My bankruptcy wasn’t yet all over the news and Twitter, but I knew it was only a matter of hours. Luckily, it gave me time to tell the other lads myself. I wanted them to hear it from me, not from anybody else.

  I couldn’t have timed it better. Westlife were doing a meet-and-greet before the Cardiff show, signing autographs and having our photos taken with fans. We all lined up and, just as it was about to start, I dropped my bombshell.

  ‘Lads, I want to tell you something. I didn’t get my IVA. I’m bankrupt.’

  I did it like that because I didn’t want it to be a big scene. It worked. Three heads swivelled my way; three jaws dropped as one. Nicky, Mark and Kian all went to speak… and the first wave of fans was upon us.

  ‘Can you sign this, please?’

  ‘Can I have a photo?’

  ‘Why are you splitting up?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ I whispered to the lads, and we got down to the serious business of writing our names. When we were finished and had gone backstage, they asked me a string of questions. Mostly, they wanted to know if I was OK.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’m all right. I’ve got nothing, it’s all gone, but I’m happy. I’m going out to sing tonight and I’m going to enjoy it.’

  The weird thing was – it was true. I got up onstage in Cardiff that night and I loved every second of it. I knew I wouldn’t get any money from the show, or any of the rest of the tour, because it would go straight to my trustee.

  But I didn’t care. I felt happy again.

  In a strange way, it reminded me of what it had been like right at the start of the band, when we weren’t getting any money and we were just doing it for the joy of singing. It was all about singing again, all about being a pop star, and none of the other shit.

  The worst thing in the world had happened to me, and I was still alive. I still had my voice. The fear had gone: it felt like I had had a skyscraper lifted off my chest. It was the first gig I had properly enjoyed, without having anxiety at the back of my mind, for a long, long time.

  When the tour bus dropped me at my house again in the early hours, Gillian was waiting up.

  ‘How was the show?’ she asked me.

  ‘It was amazing!’ I said. And I meant it.

  It set the tone for the rest of the Farewell tour. I cocooned myself off with the band, didn’t do any interviews and didn’t even look at Twitter. My bankruptcy was all over the papers by now, yet I didn’t want to get distracted by crap like that.

  These were my last two weeks in Westlife. I wanted to savour and appreciate every minute. Every arena we played, I looked out and thought: I may never be here again. I was going to sing solo, sure, but it would be in places a lot smaller than this. It was so bittersweet.

  The fans were all saying the same thing to me at the meet-and-greets: ‘Are you OK, Shane? Are you going to be OK?’ ‘Sure,’ I assured them, every time. ‘Forget all the business stuff now. Tonight is all about singing.’

  There was a heartbreaking occurrence as the tour neared its end. Gillian and I had started following the Twitter account of two parents whose little girl, Niamh, had neuroblastoma a form of childhood cancer. We spoke to them, and they told us Niamh was a big Westlife fan.

  We arranged for our tour bus to call at her hospital on the way to a gig, but the bus turned up late and we had no time to do it. We were to rearrange it – but two days later, little Niamh died. When Gillian and I got the call telling us the news, we broke down in tears on the tour bus.

  Her parents didn’t think that she would die. They were busy raising funds to get her treated in America. It was so sad, and I became a patron of her charity, Niamh’s Next Step.

  It certainly gave me some perspective. So I had money troubles – so what? There was real pain and suffering.

  As the tour went into its last week, we played the Metro Radio Arena in Newcastle. It had a different sponsor’s name now, but it was the same place Westlife had played our first big headline show, more than eleven years earlier.

  Wow. Talk about memories…

  At the pre-show meet-and-greet, a woman about ten years older than me, who had clearly been into Westlife from the start, came up to me. Shyly, apologetically, she handed me a £20 note.

  ‘Here you go, love,’ she said, quietly. ‘Get something nice for your kids.’

  It was like she was giving a child a fiver to go and buy some sweets. It was such a kind gesture, and so touching. ‘Thank you,’ I told her, and meant it. ‘But I’m not going to take your twenty quid.’

  ‘Oh, please, please…’ she begged me.

  ‘No, but I’ll sign it,’ I said, doing exactly that. ‘You keep it, and you will always remember the day you offered it to me.’

  I gave it back to her, and she went away happy. It was the sort of moment that restores your faith in human nature.

  ‘Jesus, Shane, you should have taken it!’ said Nicky, as Mark and Kian nodded and creased up behind him.

  I laughed as well. It was nice to laugh again.

  After Newcastle, we had just Glasgow, Belfast and Dublin left. They were three heartlands for Westlife: three great Celtic cities where we had always gone down amazingly.

  The three shows in Glasgow were stunning, and Belfast was a brilliant chance to erase the thought of my appearance there a few weeks earlier, when I’d taken that terrifying phone call just before I went onstage. It was nice to be able to leave the city with happy memories instead.

  Now Westl
ife just had two #tissuetour shows left – the small matter of two sold-out gigs at Croke Park, on 22 and 23 June.

  These shows were such a rollercoaster of emotion for me. I think I felt every human feeling known to man, and a few more besides. Just like the first time we had played there, every family member and friend we had in Ireland seemed to be there.

  Yet this time felt different.

  We were so proud that we had sold out 170,000 tickets for this huge, final farewell, but at the same time it was tinged with an almost unbearable sadness. It was spectacular, and amazing, but we would never do it again.

  This really was it. After a truly incredible, unforgettable fourteen years, it was goodbye to Westlife. Not au revoir. Goodbye.

  At the end of the second show, I walked out alone along the enormous walkway that led into the crowd to bid everybody farewell for the very last time. The mobile phones, cameras and lighters twinkled around me in the teeming rain like a city at night.

  ‘People always ask us, “What’s your favourite memory of Westlife?”’ I said. ‘Well, tonight is my favourite memory of Westlife. Right now.’ The tidal wave of applause nearly knocked me over.

  ‘It doesn’t get any bigger than this. We started off in Sligo fourteen years ago when twenty or thirty people came to our gigs. Now we’ve got 85,000!’ I think this time the clapping was even louder.

  ‘I want to thank the three boys behind me. My three best friends for the last fourteen years. We’ve travelled the whole world, we’ve broken all the records – we’ve done everything we could have wished for.

  ‘This was all we wanted to be when we were younger – we wanted to be pop stars, like the Backstreet Boys. We got to do it, for fourteen years, and that’s all thanks to every single person in here tonight.’

  Everybody was cheering. My eyes were watering in the rain.

  I thanked our Irish promoter, Caroline Downey from MCD, who along with Dennis Desmond had put on every single Westlife gig in Ireland since we started. There had been a lot of them. I said hi to all my family and friends from Sligo. I had no script; I was just talking from the heart.