Phew! The Beyonce European leg is over. Ray of sunshine that it most certainly was, I did notice that very few men attended the concerts. Why, you ask?
Well, those that did, I’m surmising, were either dragged kicking and screaming by their girlfriends or were of a particularly sensitive and artistic persuasion. By which I of course mean more bent than a question mark. Or ‘gay’, to use the politically correct term.
Imagine, therefore, what alchemical transmutation was taking place within me after 25 shows on the trot. I found myself on more than one occasion, at any hour of day or night, breaking into song. ‘C’mon, Baby, it’s you-oo-oo-oo,’ I’d croon to nobody in particular. Worrying stuff; the Rubicon had all but been crossed.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending how you look at it, a path has been clawed back from the brink. ‘I’ve got a lovely little band for you after Beyonce finishes,’ said my boss on the telephone recently, quite possibly covering the receiver to share a moment of hilarity with the rest of the office staff.
Now think for a moment. Which sort of band springs to mind as being least suitable for me to tour with? Bear in mind I say ‘Whatho’ a lot and think that wanging brazil nuts at fellows’ top hats with a catapult is splendid fun.
‘Slayer,’ he continued, stifling a chuckle. I groaned. What are the chances of scones at four on that tour? I mused mutely. ‘Fuck all,’ answered my friend Scott, who happened to be standing nearby. It seemed I’d spoken aloud. Lucky, I suppose, that I hadn’t been belting out another ‘C’mon, Baby’ and shaking my bootie.
‘You might get a fatted calf slain on stage at four,’ added Scott, ‘but there definitely won’t be scones.’ Well, the general tenor of this news was dampening; here I was about to share a month with heavily tattooed men rarely seen in coattails. Would they regard me as a breath of fresh air or simply a prick? I fretted.
Smokin’ Hot Girls
Worse still, what would the women be like on a Slayer Tour? ‘Terrifying,’ said one. ‘Dirty sluts,’ said another. ‘Seemingly midway through a sex change with the appeal of a PortaKabin,’ added yet another voice. Oh, that was mine, rhapsodising – or rather gloomily pondering – over the unlikely possibility of exchanging amiable civilities with a well-read stunner. Would I meet a poppet with hair the colour of ripe corn, who spends weekends growing cress on blotting paper and making daisy chains?
‘Yeah, take me to the next show,’ slurred an astonishingly bold girl shortly afterwards. Her tits were falling out and we were standing outside the Limelight Club in Belfast as I prepared to load up Kerry King’s guitars. ‘Can I bring my 6-month-old-baby as well?’
My gut instinct was right – a girl fantasising in a panelled library about a personable young man to bring her flowers wet with the morning dew each morning is unlikely to be a Slayer fan. Not impossible, I should say, but unlikely..