The first two days were just as manic as the four weeks that preceded them; EuroSong gave a terse statement to the appeal by the BBC and Bare Necessities, in part to quell the avalanche of complaints, mostly from the UK, about their decision.
“We have received an appeal against a EuroSong Executive decision by the national broadcaster and the artist, and will consider the merits of their appeal on Wednesday. There will be no future statement until after oral evidence has been heard.”
Jack mused that it was impressive in its abruptness, and had an off-the-record chat with a BBC employee. “I heard they are riled,” he admitted. “Very pissed off but have not had this level of anger and animosity towards their contest before. And that includes the tactical voting. Always get some moaning about that, but this is on a whole new plane. He thinks we may win, because this level of anger is unprecedented.”
“Good,” Paige sighed. “That video we made is already at three million views. And the petition is at fifty thousand.”
“Good work.”
“Yeah,” Paige sighed.
Claire giggled. “I think you actually want to do EuroSong now. The moment they tell you that you can’t and you like the idea of it. Before then …”
The lead singer nodded. “’Twas a silly idea before. Now, it means something. And I ain’t bein’ told what I can’t do. And I’ve travelled the length of Europe being kicked every day! That better not be for nowt.”
“Where?” Claire asked and had Paige take her hand and place it on the belly of the pregnant singer. The skin was perfectly smooth and soft, distended by pregnancy. Claire gasped as she felt the movement underneath her fingers. “I can feel it, I can feel it.”
Paige smiled. “Little bugger's been beating me up.”
“I think EuroSong quite like that idea.”
Chapter LXXXIII
Claire
Their arrival in the conference suite of the hotel on Sunday, where they would meet the other contestants, was greeted with an audible murmur and hum that sounded like a swarm of excited bees sweeping through the main hall.
The Bare Necessities were the biggest, most popular and most well-known of acts to represent a country in the contest, and a number of the musical artists singing for their nation were unknowns in their own land.
The Macedonian singer was a student, who had never sung live on stage before the audition; the Luxembourger who had a delicate ballad was best known as a bar singer, the Swedish contingent contained an ex-bank robber and the strange duo who hailed from Slovakia were comedians with their own late night show.
“Non-entities, has-beens, vicious criminals, wannabes, attention whores and failed starlets,” was how a British tabloid described the line-up and Jack only laughed rather than disagreed with the assessment as they prepared for the contestant's briefing.
“Are we the attention whores or the has-beens?” Claire asked, running her finger over the tabloid print.
“I thought we were the failed starlets,” he whispered back.
“Paige is the attention whore.”
“No, the vicious criminal.” Their sniggering caught the attention of the Irish folk singer sitting next to Jack. He laughed at the article.
There was still a question mark over whether the Bare Necessities could perform; they were listed with an asterisk on the list as “pending disciplinary action.” There was no doubt that many in the room would have no objection if one of the favourites was removed from the competition.
Monday was used to create the “Voxpops.” These were sixty-second video clips, used in the live show before a contestant took to the stage, to allow for the stage to be configured according to the national broadcaster’s instructions.
The band had received little conversation regarding the content of their segment, but their BBC producer, assigned to keeping the band on schedule had been in meetings with the Swedish broadcaster who were overseeing their creation.
Paige viewed John Linton with suspicion; the 45-year-old man with his receding black hair had a calm, diplomatic tone and the fiery singer had referred to him as a pacifist-in-chief, especially after the BBC's shambolic performance at their Zurich meeting.
The chisel-jawed man oozed experience and friendliness, and the segment was due to be filmed on a small beach 20 miles from the waterfront hotel.
Agesta was not somewhere the band were familiar with, but Stockholm's official naturist beach, on the South side of the expansive lake was breathtaking in it's glory.
Paige walked open-mouthed as the camera crews unpacked, not listening to the chatter of her bandmates or John Linton behind her. The vast clear brilliant blue water stretched out in front of the beautiful green grass towards a forest on the adjacent bank. It was peaceful and calm; tranquil.
A few naked sunbathers milled around the green grass, but the cool temperature had clearly put off many.
“Paige!” John called. “Are you listening?” She closed her eyes, taking in the gentle rays of the sun and floating in the serenity of her location. Her hands fumbled at the waistband of her shorts, as she longed for the cool breeze against her skin.
The zephyr kissed her body, wrapping it's cool arms around the undressing singer and hugging her tightly. She held her hands out and smiled, throwing her head back and taking a huge gulp of air.
“I've just realised, it's been five days since I've been naked outside. Five days!”
“Paige!”
She groaned, lines of frustration appeared across her face. “What? You’re interrupting my moment of tranquility.”
“Your Voxpop,” he said and outlined the desires of the Swedish director and camera crew. The band knew the real motivation behind them: the local tourist board, who had part-funded the cost of staging the EuroSong contest, were keen to get some value out of their cash injection. They therefore demanded that the local tourist spots were prominently featured. A global audience of 500 million people would tune in to watch the show, and this was an ideal opportunity to air lots of little adverts for their country.
The sixty-second promo was cheesy. The band shivered, except for Paige, in the cool air, naked except for a giant Union flag each. The lighting rig for the camera crew added some warmth but it was barely enough to raise the temperature by a solitary degree.
“Hi,” they called into the camera in unison. “We're the Bare Necessities. And we're here for the United Kingdom.” The camera caught the smiles, and laughter from the band. The giant flags around all three of them, and then they ran towards the lake, deliberately dropping the flags as they hit the sandy beach and jumped into the refreshingly cold lake.
Further video was taken of the trio laughing, and talking, and from afar, before they gratefully climbed back into the minibus, where John had turned the heaters onto their highest setting to make the inside of the vehicle toasty warm.
“I don't even need to get dressed,” she teased.
But for all their smiles, and the Voxpops filming, there was a very real chance that EuroSong would demand that she got dressed for their show.
Or send them all home.
Chapter LXXXIV
John Linton
The sun had barely signalled its intentions in the morning and risen above the skyline when the telephone rang in the middle-aged man's bedroom-cum-office.
The EuroSong assignment would have typically been seen as a punishment by many, akin to having to deliver bad news to the presenter on a Top Gear set, or working on negotiating the election debates between the political parties. John Linton, however, adored the EuroSong experience.
The camp joviality, the togetherness of the national broadcasters and the hope and expectation of the entrants, made his week; it was a busy, stressful time, but he enjoyed the occasion.
Never, though, in all the years of working with the entrants the United Kingdom selected did he ever have an act with as good a song, and as well known, as the Bare Necessities.
They were one of the favourites; their song
was well-liked and in Jack they had a charming, boy-next-door look that grabbed attention and would deliver votes. He would have had a good feeling about Saturday if it wasn't for their naked problem.
It would take all of his diplomatic skills, and he knew senior people at the BBC had been talking to senior people at EuroSong. If a solution could not be found, they would send a substitute act: Ashleigh.
He had to find a compromise.
EuroSong called the BBC and the band to a meeting room in the vast hotel complex at 9am. John yawned as he entered; Paige was dressed in just a dressing gown which was considerably more attired than he suspected she would be.
“In light of recent media events and growing public discourse around the uncertainty of the Bare Necessities, as well as the need to allow the member organisation to consider alternative arrangements if required, we are therefore going to hold the oral appeal today,” the Swiss lady recited from the paper in front of her.
John complained immediately; the BBC were sending a lawyer to argue the case on their behalf and the silver-tongued legal hotshot was not arriving until later that day. EuroSong executives were unmoved, breaking into wry smiles as they dismissed the objections to their demands.
They were given an hour; John dismissed Paige and Claire from the room.
“I need two clear voices not four angry ones,” he admitted. The bandmates objected as the BBC producer ordered them from his presence, but Jack's nod of the head was sufficient to send the complaining pair to the vast hotel dining room to get some breakfast.
John and Jack practiced their appeal and arguments before they were called to the EuroSong hearing. A significant amount of research detailing the public acceptance of naturism and summarising studies and surveys had already been submitted to the appeal by their lawyer in the written submissions; the oral hearings gave them a chance to reinforce the messages they wanted to give.
The trio of EuroSong executives sat unmoved and unwavered by the robust submission; John and Jack drew on every argument, showing the public benefits of their lifestyle and the desexualised experience it brought. They showed scantily-clad women in seductive and sexual apparel from previous shows and contrasted that with their own dress.
For two hours, they passionately argued their case, before a short statement from the Board was read out, detailing the objection to any performance that was not “wholesome” and could harm “the image of EuroSong worldwide.”
The Swiss executive nodded in agreement and then asked the two British members to leave the room while the executive debated the submissions they had received.
Jack jabbered as they waited; they were joined by Paige and Claire in the private meeting room, drinking strong coffee from the vending machine.
“Whatever happens,” John promised the band, “there is a away 'round it. Don't worry, I have a backup plan.”
“Does that backup plan involve me wearing some cotton tat to my skin?”
John smiled. “Of course not!”
Paige yawned. “Good,” she squealed through the yawn.
Twenty minutes later, the band was called to the conference room; they all tuned out of the preamble, detailing how hard a decision it was, but then the lead executive read from a piece of paper.
“It is the decision of the EuroSong executive, that it would not be in the interests of the contest or convergent with the rules as issued to the contestants, to permit the United Kingdom to show a performance which has full-frontal nudity on display. While we accept the …”
“Bollocks!” Paige cried. “How dare …”
John glared at her, and Jack poked his girlfriend in the leg, causing her to silence her objections.
“I will continue,” the Swiss lady snapped. “I do not like interruptions. While we accept that naturism is more prevalent and accepted, this is not a show for naturists but a show for music and we do not want to distract from that. We have, however, conceded. The Bare Necessities can be naked on stage; they cannot show full-frontal nudity or they may be disqualified.”
Within minutes, the decision was issued to the press and John spoke with their set designer making alterations. Paige, would still sing naked. And she would be on stage, the BBC planned to make the band silhouettes.
An hour later, the producer rejoined Jack and two of his colleagues outside the hotel’s vast conference suite. “No Paige or Claire?”
The wry smiles of the BBC employees were unmistakable; Paige had flown into a loud, uncontrollable rage as the verdict from EuroSong had hit home. Rarely had their upmarket hotel had a furious, naked, pregnant woman ranting in their bar and they had left the wild singer to simmer her stupor into something more agreeable.
Along with the Irish commentator of the show, and the BBC escorts, Jack and John entered the large conference venue where the running order of the show would be drawn, live on EuroSong's YouTube channel.
The room was filled with contestants and broadcasters. The décor was staid and clinical; lacking in warmth and character in similar quantities to a Russian gulag in December. The EuroSong logo hang everywhere, akin to a dictatorial empire, and the president of the EuroSong corporation gestured to his loyal subjects.
Jack whispered to the BBC man, “all hiel EuroSong,” as the corporate anthem echoed in the room, and the handheld cameraman panned his camera around the event.
The UK contingent, Jack, John, the Irish host and BBC escorts, whispered amongst themselves as the president spoke in French and then repeated himself in English.
He recounted the great tradition of the competition, but few paid any attention to him. When he finished espousing his work of propaganda, a shapely woman walked on stage; her dress covered in the EuroSong logo.
“Who wrapped her?” John joked, eyeing the delicate curves of the Swedish host.
She spoke that it was a great honour and then approached a giant fishbowl: the glass cauldron wasn't too much smaller than she was and the petite lady had to reach in so her body rested on the lip and her shoulder was in the void, just to reach the balls a few inches wide.
She swirled the cream coloured spheres around the bowl, and selected one of the orbs. She passed it to the EuroSong president, who tapped it on her lectern and unfurled a tiny British flag.
“United Kingdom will go first.”
“Shit!” Exclaimed Jack, too audibly for discretion. “No-one ever wins going first!”
“It's not a great draw,” whispered John. “Too often you've forgotten what the act is by the time you get to the voting.”
“I warn you Paige'll say it's a conspiracy!” Jack muttered. But Paige didn't: she couldn't believe that there was a problem with going first.
“Whenever I do my benefits I’m often on first,” she said. “But that’s partly because they are open air and it’s freezing!”
“Well EuroSong isn’t,” Jack started. “And research has shown …”
“Not your bloody EuroSong research again. If we win and we went first then we’ve rewritten the rules, eh? So who cares?”
Chapter LXXXV
Ricky
The Tempest wore a dark blue designer suit with designer sun glasses. Ridiculously expensive garments that were designed to impress; Ricky thought he looked classy.
His chauffeuse smartly shut the door behind him as the strobe of flashbulbs erupted on the steps of the court. His solicitor pushed the hacks aside, before the hired muscle cleared a path, sweeping journalists away from the public highway and knocking a single mother to the ground without stopping.
She shouted at the brute; he snarled in return. Ricky pretended not to notice behind his sunglasses, striding into the court.
His solicitor gave a short speech to the journalists, eschewing the substance of the allegation and complaining of dishonest and naive teenagers, eager to tarnish his client's good name for a quick bout of money and notoriety.
The initial hearing two weeks previous had set a trial date in the Magistrates Court, but Ricky had two hours o
f pacing impatiently in a waiting room as they waited for their case to be heard.
A couple of other defendants recognised him and the rapper was placated with a warm salad of ego stroking and platitudes.
“Richard Nicholls,” the voice called from the end of the drab corridor and the Tempest sidled confidently before the judges, cockily swaying peacock-like as he entered the court room.
The three judges watched him as he entered the dock; he took an oath to tell the truth and then the prosecutor outlined the case against him: he had hit and assaulted a boy because he believed his wife was having relations with the teenager.
He shook his head and squeezed his hands into fists. He tried to speak but one of the judges cut across him and barked at him to be quiet.
His victim was the first and only witness; Freddie recounted that day in the gardens: how he came to feed the ducks, and had met a lonely woman. They fed ducks together and chatted. He'd never met her before, but they just talked. And then Ricky arrived, thumping him and knocking him out cold, accusing him of seducing his wife.
The defence solicitor was antagonistic, but Freddie knew how to push Ricky's buttons from the other side of the court. When he suggested that Ricky's actions were clearly someone who was insecure, and perhaps he was used to his partners seeking other lovers, the singer erupted from his position, shouting across the room.
Ricky was warned; he had shown his violent temper.
The photographs were displayed to the magistrates, as was the CCTV footage of the incident. A few moments later, Ricky said he had pushed but not hit Freddie, but he may have slipped on the wet mud by the bank of the lake and hit his head. He claimed to be a “non-violent” person.
The visitors gallery in the court was packed with dozens of his fans, who watched proceedings and cheered when he spoke with more confidence than his previous outbursts.
It made little difference in the end, the magistrates believed Freddie, along with the stills taken at the time, and convicted the singer. He was given a conditional discharge for two years and told to pay the teenager £2,500 in compensation.
Bare Necessities 2 (The Bare Necessities) Page 34
