No, it’s not because we’ve been naughty, or indeed for not being naughty enough; this is purely for logistical reasons – to avoid having too many subcontractors on a single tour.
Don’t worry though, we’re simply moving onto another road trip for the next nine weeks: some lot called AC/DC. Just the name has me lurching for earplugs.
So, no more tales of Mystic and his magic earplugs (photographed after he’d dropped one in his beef lasagne), or his fungal mug, with week-old tannin grime.
Another character that I shall now miss is Captain Birdseye, yesterday speaking of never visiting Namibia due to the threat of cannibalism, and telling me whites are called “longpigs” in Papua New Guinea, because we taste like pork.
Well, all good things come to an end. Before we say goodbye, though, a familiar, yet anonymous face enters “Catering” – this is an area frequented by the entire Tina Turner crew – wielding a fistful of pornographic films.
Unable to recall whom he’d borrowed them from, he ostentatiously holds them aloft, and asks: ‘who do these belong to?’ Feet are shuffled; shirt collars are hidden behind. Blushing and silent, nobody owns up.
Now that we’ve swapped tours, we had to move two miles away last night. The space was needed for the three trucks that replaced Namibian, me, and our mutual pal, Alice. Due to an absurd amount of drugs in his twenties, Mark was nicknamed “Alice” – after Alice in Wonderland. He’s lovely.
Nowadays, nobody even knows that his real name is Mark. Lucky that his name is in the tour programme, then? Nope, it’s been misspelt as Mary. Just to be clear, he is a red-blooded male, hardly ever seen in a dress.
Famished this morning, I’m already missing Catering which, fortunately, lies only two miles away, a mere pedal or two on the trusty bicycle. (Bicycles are a major part of touring).
For us, there will be no more “beef enchilada’s” – Agh! Why do people add an erroneous apostrophe when they are simply pluralising a noun? – or loud thrash metal at nine o’clock in the morning.
In short, for the next few days, we have no catering. There’s a huge social aspect to huddling over interminable cups of tea in there, and now there is a gaping hole.
So, we’re swapping “Private Dancer” for “Highway to Hell” – talk about jumping from the frying pan into the fire. But, although I’m technically off the tour now, not only am I watching the show this evening, but I’m eating as much as physically possible without throwing up, and entertaining complimentary guests.
And I’m planning to have just one last, lingering perv at the dancers going up the stairs. Regrettably, the best bit coincides with a backstage chat over a cup of tea, thus missing the eroticism completely.
The sassy hip-swaying in “Proud Mary” is also ruined, at least for me, by a prominent, middle-aged, bespectacled chap in a green cardigan near the front. He waves his arms, clapping, cueing the sax solo and singing wildly, looking like a human windmill in his own little world. I’d bet money that he sells insurance.
A whole new motley bunch of characters will be introduced shortly – and plenty of European cities – but, for now, it’s goodbye to the Tina Turner 50th Anniversary Tour. And it’s farewell to the “Sexiest Granny on Earth”, according to a banner in the front row tonight.
Tina, you’re simply the best, better than all the rest…