It's a Girl Thing

by Grace Dent

“The tickets. You have to stop selling tickets! That’s enough now.”

  “But the school field is massive, Mr. McGraw,” chirped up Fleur, breaking our cardinal rule: Always let Claude do any talking to McGraw. “We can fit in loads more people than two thousand,” Fleur argued.

  “Ha! Well, that is exactly the sort of careless devil-may-care response I’d expect from you, Fleur Swan,” snapped McGraw, who was actually quite rattled by events this time, not just depressed, as I’d predicted. “Let’s have a riot, shall we? That’s what you want, isn’t it? The school razed to the ground? Looting? Chaos?”

  “Errrr.” We all stared blankly. He was beginning to scare us a bit, as his eyes were bulging.

  “And I suppose you’ll be carrying the can when the worst-case scenario happens and somebody loses a foot in a stampede, will you?” shouts McGraw.

  “Can? What can? And how will someone lose a foot?” muttered Fleur, genuinely flummoxed.

  “Okay, shall we stop selling tickets then, Mr. McGraw?” said Claude. “Like, right now?”

  “Hallelujah,” whispered Samuel McGraw. “Thank you, Claudette Cassiera. I knew you’d take my point.”

  “Pghhh,” said Fleur, who obviously couldn’t keep her displeasure under wraps a second longer.

  “Right, you can go now. Off you trot,” said McGraw as we filed out. “But believe me, if I see one more ticket on sale, well, you girls will see a dark side to my countenance.”

  “Mmmm,” we all murmured.

  “I mean, let’s get something straight here, ladies,” McGraw shouted after us as we slumped away down the corridor. “Nobody likes a good time as much as myself. And I mean nobody. But there have to be limitations and boundaries to the fun. Do you hear me?”

  “Gnnnnn,” we all moaned, walking faster.

  “We can’t all just have fun willy-nilly, you know? That’s not how life works, is it?” he yelled. Thankfully we were too far away to care.

  Naturally, the second we told people that tickets were sold out, they became the most very desirable piece of paper a kid could have. Things just went berserk.

  I have never been so popular.

  My cell phone began to buzz at all times of the day and night with people I’d not spoken to for months. Like people I once sat beside on a school trip in Year 7 who’d suddenly remembered what “really good mates we were after all.” Oh, and by the way, could they have two tickets for themselves and their cousin Hubert? It was really tough saying no to people, but we were determined McGraw wouldn’t catch us out.

  By Thursday, demand was at fever pitch. McGraw himself was patrolling the school confines, rounding up enterprising black-market ticketsellers and making them enact humiliating punishments like litter-picking and chewing-gum removal. Sadly, this just gave the illegal market for tickets a more dangerous, glamorous edge; tickets began to change hands for £20 a time, which I’d have been happy about if we’d been seeing a penny of this profit. In fact, the LBD were so busy trying to distance themselves from these nefarious activities and trying to appear disgusted whenever McGraw goose-stepped past us, as well as sorting out squillions of other things, lordy me, I was quite exhausted. I wasn’t too busy, however, to notice Panama and Jimi, who seemed to be going everywhere together by this point.

  It was vile.

  “I don’t understand boys,” mulled Claude aloud on Thursday afternoon as we wandered home, totally shattered, from school. “They make absolutely not an iota of sense at all. I mean, what do they actually want from a girlfriend? Why would Jimi Steele bother with Panama?”

  “Thank you,” I sighed. I’d been saying that every day since last Sunday, at least twenty-seven times a day, on repeat play.

  “Well, I’ve got an idea, Claudey.” Fleur smiled. “Why don’t you ask Liam Gelding about what goes on in a lad’s mind? You’ll be seeing him later, won’t you?”

  “Might be,” murmured Claude.

  “Oooooooh hooooooh!” Fleur and I singsonged, extremely childishly.

  “It’s not like that,” Claude snapped back. “He just keeps turning up to help me with Blackwell Live stuff . . . and then he, er, well, ahem, he stays for his tea.”

  Fleur shot a knowing glance across at me. I winked back. There was something old tight-lips wasn’t quite telling us here.

  Claude carried on walking like this was a totally normal thing to admit.

  “What, like, you have romantic dinners together?” said Fleur, grasping at straws.

  “No, Fleur,” says Claude. “It’s more like, well, you know how my mum really loves cooking? Like stews and curries and cakes?”

  “Yeah,” we say.

  “I think she’s trying to feed him to death,” Claude said solemnly.

  “What a way to go,” gasped Fleur.

  When I got home to the Fantastic Voyage that Thursday night, I found my dad huddled in one of the back alcoves with a posse of rather hairy strangers. Large steaming plates of Cumberland sausage and mashed potatoes with oodles of onion gravy cluttered the table, along with many pints of lager. Everyone was eating, drinking or smoking merrily. Immediately, I spotted my uncle Charlie among them!

  Oh my God, I’d not seen this man for about five years! And he hadn’t changed a bit. (Charlie’s not my real uncle, by the way. He’s just a mate of Dad’s who has turned up every few years since I was a baby to rattle on with Dad for entire weekends about guitars. I truly hope Mum doesn’t come back at this moment. She’d probably just turn around and walk out again.)

  “Miss Veronica Ripperton!” shouted Uncle Charlie, putting down his half-rolled cigarette and attempting to bear-hug me into his stinky leather jacket.

  “MghghUncleCharlie!” I said.

  “Now, boys,” shouted my dad. “And here we have my Blackwell Live Festival-organizing daughter, Ronnie. This will be your boss for the next few days, so watch yourselves. She takes no prisoners.”

  “Like her mother,” said Uncle Charlie.

  “Very much so,” whispered my dad.

  “Dad. Who are all these people?” I said, removing bits of rolling tobacco from my hairline.

  “Now, don’t be too shocked here, but I’ve got you some proper help, in the shape of this road crew for Blackwell Live,” said Dad rather proudly. “I mean, come on, Ronnie, don’t we always say that if you’re going to do something, you may as well do it properly?”

  “Yes!” I laughed.

  “Well, now we’re really doing it properly!” he said. “Another lager, anyone?”

  Everyone cheered.

  Chapter 11

  blackwell (really) live

  “Dad! I think I can see that bloke’s, er . . . bum.”

  “What? Where? Oh, him . . . oh, that’s fine. That’s normal.” I’m transfixed by a staggeringly hairy bottom, rising like a hirsute moon over the back of a pair of grubby denims. The bum’s owner, Vinny, is bent double, wiring up a microphone in the center of Blackwell Live’s rather impressive stage.

  “He’s a roadie,” announces Dad, biting into a veggie burger. Not Dad’s usual breakfast fare, but the lady setting up the burger van, one of the many culinary delicacies selling at Blackwell Live, offered him a free sample.

  “What do you mean, ‘a roadie’?” I ask.

  “That’s what Vinny is. He works on the road with rock bands, you see, setting their gear up and dismantling it all again and—”

  “Wearing jeans that show his bum crack?” I giggle.

  “Unfortunately, yes, it goes with the territory.” Dad smiles. “Hey, but don’t knock them. These lads your uncle Charlie brought with him are like gold dust, Ronnie. Best in the business.”

  I can see that.

  They’ve never stopped slaving away since the second they arrived on the Blackwell Live festival site. True to his word last Sunday, Dad called in a few favors from my uncle Charlie, who works with rock and pop bands; and, lured by an offer of free pub grub and limitless lager, Charlie rounded up a small team of rather jaded, equally hair
y guys who could lend us a hand for Blackwell Live.

  “Dad, what does Uncle Charlie actually do for a living?” I ask, squinting in the morning sun.

  “He’s a tour manager; on the road with rock bands,” Dad explains, as if that makes things any clearer. Dad sees my bemused look. “Okay, well, when a band goes on tour, Charlie’s the bloke who makes sure they get to where they’re meant to be, and sorts out their money . . . and makes sure they’re in bed in time to look pretty the next day. All that important stuff that no one wants to do.” Dad nods at Charlie, who’s in deep conversation with Claudette.

  “So, he’s like the band’s dad?!”

  “Yeah, I suppose he is.” Dad chuckles. “But I bet they give him less trouble.”

  “Cheers, Dad,” I groan.

  “Hey, Ronno, it’s a bit of luck, though, eh? That these lads had a few days going spare? They’re on their way down south to another gig, y’know? I told ’em your gig was for charity. A kiddies’ charity. That’s it, isn’t it?” says Dad, wiping onions and ketchup off his face.

  “Yeah, sort of,” I reply.

  Charlie’s arrival was more than “a bit of luck,” it was a god-send: Blackwell Live’s road crew comprised of three roadies, Vinny, Blu and Pip, as well as three enormous, burly, bald-headed security guys with awesomely wide necks and biceps the size of my thighs. One of our security blokes, who boasted an eagle tattoo on his neck, went by the nickname of Masher. I didn’t press Charlie for a reason why. It was just great knowing that McGraw now had to quit his yakking about Blackwell Live getting out of hand.

  “Anyway, Charlie owes me,” concludes Dad, watching as a multicolored Blackwell Live banner is hoisted above the stage by two Year 7 girls. “I’ve bailed that rogue out of trouble enough times over the years.” Dad adds, burping majestically, “Hey, fantastic burger, by the way, Ron! You wanna try one?”

  Tempting, but I couldn’t eat a thing.

  Today is the big day! It’s July twelfth! Today is Blackwell Live!

  I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or vomit.

  It’s 10:00 A.M. Surreally enough, in under three hours our opening act, Christy Sullivan, will take to the stage. The lovely Christy is backstage already, pacing back and forth in an expensive Italian silk shirt in navy, snakeskin jeans and dark sunglasses; he’s chatting nervously to his, in my opinion, even better-looking older brother, Seamus.

  “Er, are you sure you need me today, Ronnie?” Christy says, his voice faltering. “I mean, I’m not bothered if you wanna cancel me. I know I’m not much of a singer and all that . . .” Christy’s face is as white as chalk.

  “Oi! You’re not getting out of this that easy, Christy Sullivan.” I smile reassuringly. “Besides, then there would be a riot.”

  Christy attempts a smile, but a worried frown battles through. Seamus rolls his eyes at me.

  I make a mental note to have Masher keep a close eye on him—we can’t have our opening act absconding over the back fence. Saying that, I’m not much calmer. I barely slept a wink last night and I certainly can’t face breakfast. I must be functioning right now on pure nervous energy.

  The LBD were here on Blackwell’s playing fields until almost 10:00 P.M. last night, taking delivery of one rather magnificent all-weather stage, two huge powerful speakers, and a modest refreshments marquee and dance tent. That was very exciting!

  All paid for in full too!

  Ha, stick that in your pipe and smoke it, so-called Cyril from Castles in the Sky.

  It took hours of hammering, carrying and hoisting by the Castles crew, but as darkness fell, we had a proper festival site with a real PA system, just like you see on MTV!

  “Pah, who needs Astlebury? This is much better!” announced Fleur, which made the roadies laugh out loud.

  “Hey, you’re not wrong, kiddo,” chirped up Uncle Charlie. “Small music festivals are always better, there’s a better vibe,” he drawled.

  That made us all smile.

  Well, for a short while anyhow. Charlie then continued to tell the LBD an exceedingly long-winded story about his first Astlebury Festival experience back in 1978. “Back when the festival was only fifty people and a few goats” and “it was all about the music then” and “not the big corporate event that rock festivals are these days blah blah blah. . . .” But by this time the LBD’s minds were on other matters at hand, such as getting back to Fleur’s to make backstage passes. Yes, you heard that right. Backstage passes! Apparently we needed them.

  “Look, girls, there’s no point having a backstage VIP area and Masher and the lads guarding it if we don’t know who’s meant to be inside or outside of it!” Uncle Charlie had warned us. “Especially if you’re expecting trouble with that . . . wossis name? Christy Sullivan? That’s ’im. Christy Sullivan’s fans. Oooh, they’re the worst offenders at festivals, those young teenage girls. They’ll spend their whole day either screaming their lungs out, giving me a migraine, or plotting to get backstage and manhandle the talent. Bane of my life . . . ,” Charlie moaned.

  So with that peril in mind, the LBD were up till well after 1:00 A.M. last night, cutting and pasting Access All Area passes for bandmembers, friends and crew; and with their glittery, laminated finish and candy-striped ties, very chic they are too! Poor Fleur has been delegated the task of dishing the passes out, a job I do not envy. Every Blackwell kid wants to go backstage and rub shoulders with the bands, and every band had a posse of mates they want to take backstage with them. It’s a nightmare working out who to say no to! Fleur’s phone never stopped buzzing on Friday, the worst offenders being the EZ Life Syndicate, who by 11:00 P.M. last night had demanded THIRTY AAA passes for “the Syndicate” and “their entourage”! Bless Christy Sullivan, he only wanted three passes: for his mum, dad and granny. Awww. He’s so sweet, you could eat him, isn’t he?

  Of course, even with the AAA passes made, I still had my hair to dye from dark brown to “Auburn Gloss,” my nails to French manicure and my festival outfit to choose! Every combination of every garment I own was tried, assessed and discarded, creating a towering clothes mountain of skirts, denims and tops, then eventually, at 4:00 A.M. this morning, I settled for the outfit I’m wearing now: my hippest deep-indigo-colored hipster jeans, a minxish midriff-exposing baby-pink T-shirt and . . . wait for it . . . a hot-pink lacy thong that Fleur bought me last Christmas, arranged so you can see a glimpse of it from the back of my jeans! Obviously, I’ve spent the whole morning turned away from Dad so he doesn’t see the thong and burst a main artery.

  “Sure I can’t get you anything to eat, Ronnie?” asks my dad, placing his arm around my shoulder as Ainsley and Candy from Death Knell stagger past backstage, carrying flutes, synths, steel drums and bags of costumes. “You’ve not had a bite yet,” Dad worries.

  “I’ll have a large coffee, please, Dad,” I say. “As strong as you like.”

  It’s going to be a long day.

  By 11:00 A.M., backstage is really hotting up: Fleur Swan is flitting about with an armful of Access All Area passes, her tiny pert posterior clad in perilously miniscule black velvet hot pants. Obviously, Fleur looks a zillion dollars and certainly has the eye of Killa Blow from the EZ Life Syndicate, who never misses a chance to cup her waist with his arm or direct a joke in her direction, making her dissolve into fits of giggles.

  “You’re terrible, Killa! Leave me alone,” squeals Fleur unconvincingly until they spot our compere Paddy Swan, clad in a pinstripe suit, looking ever so slightly like a simmering psychopath.

  “Errr, morning, Mr. Swan, lovely to see you.” Killa winces, removing his hands from Paddy’s daughter, then continues to beg Fleur for more Access All Area passes so more of his “crew” can “show him some love” backstage. And as each face arrives, Claudette Cassiera, looking blithe and beautiful in close-fitting black jeans and an aqua-blue crop top with Top Bird across the front, plus funky handlebar bunches in her hair, ticks them off on her bright red clipboard, warning everybody to listen out for an
important announcement at 11:30 A.M.

  “If you want to know what time you’re going on stage and in what order, do yourself a favor and be here,” Claude warns, turning to me with a quizzical look. “Ronnie,” she whispers as Guttersnipe’s Benny and Tara report in for duty, “have you any idea which band your uncle Charlie’s roadies and security usually work for?”

  “Funny you should ask,” I reply, helping pin a rose into Tara’s crimped white-blond hair. “They’re very tight-lipped about it, aren’t they? I can’t get a straight answer. That roadie Pip keeps changing the subject, and as for Vinny—”

  “Vinny says he can’t remember!” Claude adds.

  “And Uncle Charlie just said ‘no comment’ when I asked.” I laugh. “Hey, it must be someone reeeeally embarrassing, eh? They’re too ashamed to admit it.”

  “Must be,” agrees Claude. “But never mind, they’re being absolute stars anyway. Masher is doing a brilliant job on the main entrance gate. There’s hundreds of kids here already waiting for us to open and not one of them has got past him!”

  “Er, that might be something to do with the fact he looks like a bulldozer in a bomber jacket,” I venture. “He’s got SATAN SLAVE tattooed on his left hand, have you seen that?”

  “Exactly,” Claude chirps. “He’s the perfect security guard.”

  She has a very hard streak, that girl.

  As Claude prepares to speak to the group, I scan the backstage area: There’s the whole extended EZ Life Syndicate, Killa Blow with his breathtaking defined cheekbones wearing an ostentatious bright white padded jacket-trousers combo and more gold than Queen Elizabeth II on a state occasion. Killa is flanked by pretty Chasterton chicks with high ponytails and large silver hoop earrings and lads wearing designer sportswear, Burberry caps and expensive shoes. Close by, Aaron, Naz and Danny from Lost Messiah are messing about, dressed in ripped combats and sleeveless vests emblazoned with gold dragons and prints of ninja warriors. Very sexy. Naz is plastering liquid hand soap into his hair, trying to form a perfect Mohawk, while beside him, Catwalk’s Abigail and Leeza are making a big display of brushing their toned bodies with strawberry-scented talcum powder.