by Dillon Khan
‘You can choose not to listen to it by going elsewhere,’ I offered.
‘But even if you do go elsewhere they’re all playing the same Britney or Christina song. No one’s giving an alternative. As listeners we have no say in the variation and quality of playlists. Labels and music outlets are in bed with each other,’ said Tola.
‘Good point,’ agreed Sam. ‘How the hell is a playlist chosen? It’s got to be political. It’s not based on what us kids want to hear. If so, why the hell is poppy shite like S Club 7 on all the bloody time? Real music doesn’t get a look in.’
‘Leverage. You support their latest pet pop project in return for more access to their bigger acts,’ said Tola.
‘Surely it’s not that blatant?’ I said, disbelieving.
Tola raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine. The entire thing is manipulated.’
‘Bah! All conspiracy theories. Next you’ll say Armstrong didn’t land on the moon,’ said James III.
‘Well, take magazines that depend on record labels advertising in their mags for survival. Do you think they don’t know who their paymasters are? Same for TV and radio – advertising is a big source of revenue,’ said Sam.
‘That’s far-fetched. So if they give Ricky Martin a bad review, labels will spend less?’ I asked.
‘I’d give Ricky Martin a bad review for free,’ said James III. ‘Look, it’s all based on popular music. Programmers will play music that will rate. They can’t do it based on favours. If it’s a shit track it won’t get put on. Money’s got nothing to do with it,’ he argued.
‘C’mon, James. Don’t tell me you’re just cute looking?’ said Cara ironically.
‘You think I’m cute?’ James III gave her a cheeky grin.
‘I thought you knew. Would you like me to grab you down under and confirm?’ Cara asked with equal cheek.
‘Eww. Get a room!’ Sam put her sandwich down in disgust.
By mid afternoon the department was dead quiet as people dispersed to studios or edits. I still had research to do for the show and it was going slower than traffic out of town on a Friday afternoon. All I could find was news about yet another rapper who’d been shot. Nine times on this occasion.
‘Jay, you busy?’ asked Oli, standing behind me holding a camera.
‘No,’ I admitted, having not written anything for over twenty minutes.
‘Can you do a second camera for an interview? Stuey and Max are stuck in traffic in Oxford Street and the Minister’s asked me to cover.’
‘What about Tola? She’s Stuey’s intern,’ I said, not wanting to step on her toes.
‘I can’t find her. I can ask someone else if you’re busy …’
‘It’s no problem, I can do it,’ I said, bouncing to my feet, not even bothering to ask who the interview was with.
It went smoothly, as Oli asked his questions unfazed by Britney Spears who was sat opposite him. After fifteen minutes of a flirtatious interview, we both took a couple of Polaroid pictures with her for posterity and turned to leave. But, as everyone was distracted by the changeover and sixty-second break for make-up, Oli quickly turned back to Britney and handed her his business card.
‘Oh, and there’s a party tonight at the Mayfair Club,’ he said, his lisp in full effect. ‘Fancy coming, love?’
The entourage of people from her management, the record label, hair and make-up and so on looked aghast at this dishevelled short stump trying it on. His stunt risked pissing off the head of T.A.D., Irishman Declan ‘the Duke’ Patricks, who’d notoriously once reduced a producer to tears for asking Madonna the ‘wrong question’.
I stared at Oli, disbelief plastered across my face too. Had the blokes in the office dared him to ask her or had he gone rogue? Bagging an artist would make you legendary between these walls and only a few had managed to do it. When we got out of the dimly lit interview room and into the full glaring light of the Greenhouse, I could see the reality of the situation. His cheeks were red and the armpits of his T-shirt were as sweaty as someone pushing a trolley of Class A drugs through the ‘nothing to declare’ lane at Heathrow.
I got to my desk with Polaroid picture in hand, to see Tola at her desk in a sweat of her own. She had returned from the library with several bags of tapes to find out I had taken her chance to film Britney. She was none too pleased.
‘Jay, you should have told me. That’s sneaky,’ she said, peeved off.
‘It’s not like that. Oli asked me and didn’t know where you were.’
‘Well, why didn’t you just call my mobile?’
‘You’re right, but he was in a rush. I’m sorry.’
‘Well, don’t let it happen again,’ she said firmly.
‘OK, OK, I didn’t realize you fancied Britney that much,’ I said, trying to make a joke. She didn’t laugh.
It was the end of a laborious day and Max still hadn’t returned, deciding to stay in town for some ad-hoc meetings with Stuey – in a pub. I had one last thing to do before I left and that was to swing past Kate Smith’s desk, the intern for T.A.D. She kindly donated a signed poster and CD of Britney’s latest ‘for my cousin’ to save me the embarrassment of asking.
By the time I’d got out of work and back to the garage, Mr Rafi was standing by the gates of his workshop with a half-smoked cigarette hanging off his bottom lip like he was Clint Eastwood in a western.
‘You’re lucky, I was just about to lock up,’ he said, heading back into the garage.
I followed him and waited in his workshop as he went to get my keys. Moments later, he returned singing in Hindi, and suddenly stopped in his tracks.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, staring at me.
‘It’s a poster,’ I said proudly.
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘It’s a poster of Britney Spears. I thought you might like it for your workshop. I even got her to sign it to you. See, With all my love, Britney. Oh, and I got a signed CD for one of your lucky grandkids.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ he said, his eyes sparkling behind his thick glasses. ‘You’re a good boy, Jay. This will make me more popular than their other grandfather.’
I was pleased I’d gone to the trouble. I jumped into my repaired car and reversed just beyond the gates. As I was about to pull out, Mr Rafi hurried over to me.
‘One last thing. I know my grandkid’s going to quiz me so I’d better know, who is this Britney?’
17
Don’t Look Back in Anger
With Max gone to Denmark with Hugh and Oli to film a fashion special, the workload instantly halved as we aired pre-recorded specials. While the mouse was away the cat had to play. Max couldn’t be having all the fun in Copenhagen, so I took up any gig offer on the table, ensuring I was out every night with the other interns or people from various departments. We either blagged official tickets or, if that failed, a small camera and a mic with The Beat logo usually got us in, then we filmed the stars in attendance for half an hour before joining them at the afterparty. The footage didn’t go to waste as The News Feed would put it into their bulletins just so long as we got someone famous tumbling out drunk at three in the morning.
When the weekend finally arrived, all the interns decided to hang out on the Sunday as the following day was the last bank holiday in May. We’d made a plan of action including a Maharishi clothing sample sale in an abandoned warehouse in Old Street followed by a late lunch at Tayyabs in Whitechapel, then a quick visit home to change and back out again for a big night at Hanover Grand.
This would have been a great weekend for Sophia to be in London but she was in exam mode and couldn’t make it down. She had made her presence felt all week though, with snide comments via text about me being out every night and not having time to call her. I didn’t like it, but I was trying to be supportive and understanding. She was stressed and wasn’t enjoying revision while I was partyin
g. I tried to explain this week was a one-off and that I just wanted to make the most of it, but it didn’t get through. Like Mary Mary, I was starting to feel like I had shackles on my feet.
After lunch, I headed home to see my mum and to get some fresh clothes. I hadn’t seen her for weeks so this would be the perfect time to catch up. We’d developed a dysfunctional relationship after my dad left. Instead of growing closer together, we grew further apart. She worked two jobs as I went from primary to secondary school and then to university, which meant I barely saw her. I respected her for it but before long we’d lost even the weak bond we had. Recently our contact had been reduced to the odd phone call during the week and Sunday lunch once a month, but I didn’t allow myself time to feel sad about it.
As I walked down the high street in Finchley Central where I had grown up, it brought back a sense of normality considering how crazy life had been in recent weeks. I hadn’t realized how slow and sleepy the place really was. Well, compared to Notting Hill, most places were.
I was in good spirits, with a bounce in my step, listening to Santana’s ‘Maria Maria’ on my CD player. But suddenly my senses were tripped and adrenalin began rushing through me. I felt my legs turn to jelly as Biggie’s words became prophetic; I honestly thought I could hear the sweat trickling down my cheek. I felt my mouth go dry and the sensation of impending vomit grab my throat. I looked for a place to hide but the high street seemed empty, as if a Western-style showdown was about to take place. It wasn’t far from the truth, because I was about to come face-to-face with the meanest, ugliest outlaw in the West – well, the north-west. Michael ‘Four Eyes’ Gambler.
He was the neighbourhood bully and my nemesis from the time I joined secondary school in a crisp navy blue blazer till I left in an egg-and-flour-covered blazer. Michael Gambler didn’t even go to my school – I wasn’t sure if he went to one at all. One day he might see you, smile and nod as he walked past. Then on other days he’d jump out of a telephone box, grab you, drag you into it and smack you around aggressively if you didn’t empty your pockets sharpish. He would take anything of value that could be sold, used or eaten, ranging from a calculator or weekly bus pass to half an egg and cress sandwich.
His nickname alluded to the fact that he wore glasses and was possibly the only bully on the planet who did. But myth and legend had caused the meaning to evolve over time, and led us to believe that he saw all and there was no escaping him. As a result, I chose different routes home every day of every week. I’d move down the street between vehicles as though I were in the SAS, taking cover and establishing vantage points, trying to get a sense of what lay ahead. For years I suffered psychological torture wondering if that would be the day he got me. If he didn’t, the satisfaction of getting home safe was short-lived knowing it would start all over again the next day.
This guy was in my nightmares. And here he was again, the last person I expected or hoped to see, acknowledging me from across the street with a ‘what’s up’ head nod. He bowled over to me like he was Liam Gallagher strolling up and down a stage.
‘Yeah mate, what you sayin’?’ he said, giving people at the nearby bus stop the impression we were friends.
‘Cool,’ I said, trying hard to look as if I were.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said.
My body stiffened up as I stood in silence.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, trying to remember.
I hesitated, but then told him. It would be unwise to get beaten up over my name.
‘That’s it, Jay. Yeah, I knew I knew you,’ he said, maintaining an emotionlessly straight face.
My brain was in overdrive trying to read him, to see which way he was going to go. Then he leant in and said, ‘Listen, I need something from you.’
And there it is, ladies and gents, I thought to myself. Mr Crazy was in town and now my bag was gone with CD player and wallet to boot. I looked around to see if there were any exit strategies available, or if I could garner any help from the two old ladies at the bus stop. I really didn’t fancy getting beaten up so resigned myself with a sigh to losing my bag.
‘I saw you the other day,’ he continued.
Oh God, he’s tracked me to my flat in Angel. He’s going to have a field day in Pritz’s room with all the clothes and money lying around. Oh God, oh God, oh God …
‘You work on that Beat show right – what’s it called, BEAT Total?’
I nodded, not wanting to correct him. ‘You saw me?’
‘Yeah, you and PJ were talking about the new Common album.’
Wow, I barely came into shot during that discussion, how the hell did he see me? Hold on, he’s not interested in the show or Pritz’s flat; he wants me to help him ransack The Beat! I felt my cheeks fill with blood and my hands get clammy. I clenched my butt cheeks a little tighter.
Michael put his arm around me and began to walk me away from the bus stop while continuing to talk in my ear. I was in trouble. Deep trouble.
‘I watch that shit religiously. Never miss a show. Bruv, I’m lookin’ for a hook-up,’ he said as the smell of weed from his clothes ran up my nose.
I stayed silent and stared at the pavement below.
‘I need a favour,’ he said, thinking I didn’t understand his previous request.
I looked at him like I was watching a car in slow-motion as it skidded on ice, wondering if it would stop in time or crash.
‘I got this demo,’ he continued, pulling out several CDs from his jacket pocket.
My eyes widened from my wince. ‘Okaaay,’ I said slowly.
‘Do you think you can get it to your boy PJ?’
I tried to stall. ‘Er …’
‘Listen, if you can get him to play this –’
‘We can’t play it,’ I interjected. Michael’s face sank and a voice inside me shouted, Take cover, as though a bomb was about to explode. ‘Um … We can’t play it when it’s just a CD. PJ doesn’t do radio and we only play music videos.’
He paused. ‘But if he plays it in the background, talks us up and it gets big we’ll make a video and then you can show it,’ he said, like an excited child dreaming of playing for England, even though the child is thirty-five years old and has two blown knees and a beer belly.
‘We only really play artists who are signed to major labels and indies, to be honest, but, hey, I’m sure if it gets big then we will.’ I knew there was more chance of me being invited around to the Queen’s for tea.
‘I just want you to put it in his hand and tell him to listen to it,’ he said quite simply.
I looked at the CD in his grubby hand, not totally sold on the deal.
Seeing this, Michael acted fast. ‘Listen, I can hook you up in return. What do you need? Name it, I got it all: TVs, videos, camcorders and jewellery. My house is like Argos, you can come an’ choose whatever you like.’
Maybe I should ask him if he still had my Nintendo Donkey Kong from 1990?
‘So what do you reckon?’
‘You know what, yes. I will do that for you, Michael. I will do you this favour. I’ll even play it for all the bods at The Beat, as a favour. I’ll even play it to the head honcho.’
‘Wicked. Absolutely fuckin’ wicked,’ he said as he punched the air. I was just happy his fist wasn’t anywhere near me.
‘But you have to do me a favour in return,’ I added.
‘Whatever you want,’ he said.
I contemplated what to say for a moment. Maybe I could ask him to move to another country forever. ‘I want you to give us the first interview at The Beat when you make it,’ I said with my tongue in my cheek.
‘Yeah, of course, bruv,’ he said, bumping fists with me. He was now looking at me in a way he’d never done for the seven years he terrorized me. With respect.
I smiled uncomfortably. ‘Anyway, I really gotta go,’ I said hurriedly, trying to get away just in case
Mr Hyde came out to replace Doctor Jekyll.
‘How will I know how it went?’ he asked as I walked away slowly.
‘You can call me,’ I said over my shoulder.
‘You got a card?’ he shouted back.
‘Nah, they’re printing them. Call enquiries. It’s piss easy,’ I said, smiling. From experience I knew how hard that was and that he’d soon give up.
‘Nice one, Mr Beat!’ he shouted as I walked off.
I turned down a quiet side road a few turns from my mum’s house. The warm sun signalled the coming of summer and as I dropped his CD into the nearest wheelie bin, I finally felt a lifetime’s satisfaction at getting one over on him.
18
Three Lions
Having filmed some Adidas-sponsored stars talking about their love of music (and their new football boots) a few weeks earlier for the show, the return favour from the head of Marketing, Jessica, saw us attend the sportswear giant’s celebrity-filled party in Amsterdam at the start of the Euro 2000 championships. Editorially, we were filming Total BEATS there to show ‘the continuing love affair between the world of sports and music.’ Personally, we were there to rub shoulders and get our pictures with the legendary football players of yesteryear who were in attendance.
But the real reason lay over sixty miles away from our current location: the Philips Stadion in Eindhoven, where a few days later we’d be sitting in VIP seats watching England v Portugal, courtesy of our hosts. Stuey and I were on the trip by default as Hugh and Oli couldn’t get anyone to cover their shows. I didn’t care. I was thrilled to be going to a football tournament for the first time.
On match day we headed for Eindhoven via a midday meeting in Brussels. Alison Cooks had asked us to meet a fellow party promoter who wanted to bring Beat-themed parties to Europe. The weather was hot and sticky and after getting stuck in several traffic jams we arrived in Brussels two hours late.
