PINK. No, of course I don’t know who she is, but is that just so uncool that it’s almost cool? No, I didn’t think so.
Namibian hasn’t a clue either, but we both recognise songs from airtime on the radio. Well, we’ll go and have a little look at her concert – to see what all the fuss is about.
Once upon a time, reciprocal laminates abounded; drivers from one tour would organise free passes for colleagues within the industry, and vice versa.
However, in today’s financially crippled economy – does Pink get the bus to her shows? – this seems to have ceased. Nowadays, most big tours are “no comp tours” – that is, no complimentary tickets.
Oh well, neither of us are particularly concerned: Namibian has a film to watch, and I’m mid-way through a riveting account of Ibn Battuta’s 14th century pilgrimage to Mecca.
There is, of course, always time for a pint first. And who should we run into? Little Dick, that’s who, and he is cannily waving three passes to the Pink concert. Namibian accordingly changes out of his tracksuit bottoms; I deftly locate some earplugs.
Ooh, it turns out that PINK – or is it just Pink? – is rather good. She ought to be famous. She is already? Rightyho.
And what an incredible gymnast she is: she spins rapidly while dangling on ropes, and performs a death-defying trapeze routine from the rafters. And she can sing, something of a rarity among pop stars these days.
She belts out some Led Zeppelin and a great version of Queen’s Bohemian rhapsody, all in glittery, figure-hugging costumes. But she’s got no chance with me – her hair’s too short. What is it with these modern girls?
Back at the trucks, the windows have to be wound right up to keep the hailstones out. And Namibian gleefully draws my attention to a giant shopping centre next door. And an Irish bar, and a Sealife Centre. Yet I still maintain…that Oberhausen has nothing of interest.