It’s a little past six o’clock in the morning when we reach the Maida Vale studios. I’m still half asleep and the HobNobs have long gone. It’s just about light and, despite being nearly summer, it’s bloody freezing. I wish I’d put on a fleece or thermal knickers. At least it’s stopped raining. For now.
We walk along the length of the queue which already snakes along the pavement and Charlie says hello to nearly everyone. Clearly these are the hardcore fans. Some have chairs and flasks. At the front there are even pop-up tents and sleeping bags in evidence, so obviously the queuing started in earnest last night and those fans have endured the cold and rain to be at the front.
We take our place at the end of the line. Charlie gets plastic bags out of her pocket and we put them down on the damp pavement so that we can sit on them. I wish I’d brought more HobNobs. I admit that I’m amazed to see that there are many, many ladies here before us. Many ladies and one solitary man.
‘Hi, Paul,’ Charlie says as he comes alongside us. ‘All right?’
‘Yeah. Good to see you. I saw on Facebook that you were coming. Mind if I join you?’
‘Be my guest,’ Charlie says. He unfolds a small camping chair and sets it up beside us. ‘You take this, Charlie. I’ll have the plastic bag.’
‘If you’re sure,’ she says, but is very quick to swap with him. Paul settles on the plastic bag next to me.
‘Hiya.’
‘This is Ruby.’ Charlie flicks a thumb at me. ‘A Take That virgin.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ he says.
‘You too.’ He’s a nice-looking guy. Shortish but kind of slender with fair hair, kind eyes and, even at this ungodly time of the day, a warm smile.
‘You’re not a fan?’
‘I do like their stuff, but I probably wouldn’t be up at dawn to see them if it wasn’t for Charlie.’ I confess with a grimace.
He laughs at that. ‘This is how it begins.’
‘I’m prepared to be converted. Have you always been a fan?’
‘Yeah,’ he admits, shyly. ‘I realise that I’m a thorn among many roses, but the good ladies of the GB Army tolerate me.’
‘We love you,’ Charlie says. ‘You balance out the oestrogen level a bit.’
He laughs. ‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘What time does the show start?’ I ask.
‘Seven o’clock.’
I think I must gasp out loud as they both laugh.
‘We’re in for the long haul,’ Paul says.
‘You have to be dedicated,’ Charlie adds. ‘Once we’ve got our entry tickets we can leave and come back later. So we’re not stuck here all the time. They open the doors about four o’clock so that we can watch the sound checks and the end of the rehearsals. We usually try to nip to the Chinese restaurant down the road and have a set meal. Does that sound OK?’
‘You’ve obviously done this before.’
‘Many times,’ Paul concedes.
‘So how come you’re such a big fan?’ I ask him.
‘I was an aspiring performer,’ he says. ‘I went to stage school as a kid and wanted to be in a boy band. Take That were my heroes. Even now I could show you all of their routines.’
‘That would be a sight worth seeing,’ Charlie quips.
‘I just wasn’t good enough,’ he admits, with a hint of sadness. ‘I was there with the future David Tennants and Olivia Colemans. I’m afraid that I was one of the also-rans.’
‘Harsh,’ Charlie says.
‘But true. I had a few bit parts as an actor and a few in the chorus of musical theatre which didn’t really live up to expectations or open the door to stardom. I could have spent the next twenty years chasing a dream and having walk-on roles in Holby City, but I decided to do something lucrative instead. I’m an accountant by day, but I’m in a band even now. I play bass in a pub a couple of nights a week which keeps me sane. The rest of the time, I follow Take That.’
‘We’re both going to try to get to their gig in Paris this summer if I can blag some extra shifts,’ Charlie says. ‘You should come.’
Then a bunch of ladies walk along the queue, chatting as they go. When they see Paul, they stop to hug him. While he’s distracted, I whisper to Charlie, ‘He’s very nice.’
‘Yeah.’ She glances in his general direction and says rather non-commitally, ‘He is.’
‘Is that it?’
Charlie checks he can’t hear and then whispers to me, ‘He wears Tom Ford’s Neroli Portofino just like Gary does.’
‘Does he? Is that a good thing?’
‘Are you mad?’ she says in disbelief and shakes her head at me. ‘It smells like paradise and a basket full of fluffy kittens.’
I spend the next hour trying not to sniff him. We wait some more and then, at two o’clock – when we’ve been waiting for a mere eight of our human hours – we get our valuable golden tickets that allow us to go into the studios at four o’clock where we can enjoy another three-hour wait for the show to start.
‘We can go and get some food now,’ Charlie says, folding Paul’s camping chair.
‘Fantastic.’ I’m up and off my plastic bag quicker than a flash. ‘I’m starving.’
This show had better be good for all this effort. I tell you, at the very least, I want twenty-four-carat gold dust raining down on me from above and a chance to sit on Gary Barlow’s knee.
Chapter Fourteen
We’re seated at a window table at the Golden Phoenix next to the obligatory waving cat. Over a set meal for three, Nice Paul tells us more about his life. He’s single, no lurking children – not that he knows of, anyway. Always good. He seems solvent and sane. He’s ticking a lot of boxes. He has an easy, self-deprecating way about him – the polar opposite to Mason Soames.
I wonder what Mason’s doing this weekend. I bet he’s not queuing in the cold to see a band. Mason is the kind of guy who knows someone, who knows someone else who’d get him into the VIP Gold Circle – and not standing tickets either.
Then, fortified with rather excellent Chinese food, we head back to the studio. The second we’re allowed in, I follow Charlie and Nice Paul in a rush down to the barrier in front of the stage to bag a prime space. The atmosphere is crackling with anticipation and I’m really excited to be here, so Charlie and Nice Paul must be about to wee themselves with ecstasy.
As the small theatre fills up, sound checks for the acts start, so there’s plenty to keep us occupied while we wait and I hardly notice the pain in my back and my feet. Charlie hands out bottles of water to us.
‘Go easy how you drink it,’ she says with a wink.
I take a sip and realise that my ‘water’ is neat vodka that has survived the bag search. Well that’s certainly going to go some way towards easing the pain.
‘You’re driving,’ I remind Charlie.
She shakes her bottle at me. ‘Mine is water.’