by Peter Kay
Their names were Sean Bannon and Chris Choi and they'd been brought in to teach us the basic skills required for being a steward. Both in their late thirties, Sean was a completely bald Geordie, with no eyebrows or nasal hair, nothing. Chris, on the other hand, was hair personified. He had it draping down over his muscular shoulders. He spoke in a deep South Yorkshire accent and could have passed for an ageing rocker himself if it hadn't been for a very gay-looking handlebar moustache that sat perched on his top lip.
The way they delivered their spiel I could tell they'd done it a million times before. They had it completely off pat, even the bad jokes. It was slick and polished to perfection and I particularly liked it when they handed back and forth between each other, like so:
'Now, what do you do if a member of the public alerts you to a suspicious package in the arena? Sean?'
'Thanks, Chris. Well, if a member of the public does alert you to a suspicious package the first thing you should do is tell your supervisor straight away because time saves lives, isn't that right, Chris?'
'That's right, Sean. Get your supervisor on the scene and please, whatever you do, don't try and handle the situation on your own. Sean?'
'Chris is right and one thing you must never do is run out on to the concourse shouting, "I think I've found a bomb." It'll cause just one thing: instant panic. Isn't that right, Sean?'
'That's right, Chris.'
Our heads were twisting from left to right and back again. It was like watching the men's semi-finals at Wimbledon listening to them talk.
Sean continued: 'I knew a young lad who tried to be the hero and he's now dead. You won't get any medals from the Grim Reaper. So don't be a hero, right, Chris?'
'Correct, Sean. Nobody's holding out for a hero apart from Miss Bonnie Tyler. Do the right thing and tell your supervisor straight away and they'll QQC the situation – Quickly, Calmly, Quietly.'
Quickly, calmly, quietly wasn't QQC but they were in mid-flow and I didn't have the balls to stop them. What they were saying was comedy gold and I couldn't write it down quick enough. My hand was aching. They even commended me at one point for my eagerness at taking notes.
'You've been warned,' Sean continued. 'Don't come running to us when you've had your legs blown off. Chris?'
We covered the lot over those three long days – evacuations, first aid, frisking. We spent a considerable amount of time learning how to conduct a complete and thorough body search.
'When we frisk the public what primarily are we looking for? Any ideas?'
An oldish bloke in front of me stuck his hand up and said, 'Knives? CS gas?'
Sean and Chris exchanged worried looks.
'Er... not really, mate, we're going to be hosting a lot of family events at the arena, Disney on Ice, Postman Pat, that type of affair,' said Sean.
I had to admit that I was still dubious about some of the other potential stewards. There were some right oddballs in the room, including a bloke who was sat by the side of me. He was very sinister-looking with dark straggly hair and a long black overcoat. I mean, what was the crack wearing that? It was over seventy degrees in the shade and here he was looking like a cross between Edward Scissorhands and the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I think he was just getting a kick out of being around a school, albeit an empty one.
We broke for an hour and then continued with frisking the public after lunch.
'There's one thing you've got to be vigilant for when frisking the public. One thing that has become the archenemy of every steward and performer in the world. Tell them what it is, Chris.'
And before Sean had finished his sentence Chris had already written two words on a blackboard behind him: 'Flash Fotography' (and yes, he did spell it like that).
'People might think we are being over the top when we talk about the dangers of flash photography but we've seen the dangers first-hand, haven't we, Sean?'
'We have indeed, Chris, many times. I'll give you a scenario. Somebody tries to take a photograph at a live event, a husband, a lover, whatever, and "bang", one flash, in all innocence. But what they fail to understand are the repercussions that single flash can cause. Because now the floodgates have been opened. Isn't that right, Chris?'
'All hell has broken loose, because once one does it, they all do it. We did a concert in Stockholm recently with one major artist, I'll not give his name away but let's just say, "Wake up, Maggie". He was onstage parading an assortment of his classic hits when a member of the public who'd smuggled a camera into the arena let rip with a flash, and before you could say "Hot Legs" all hell had broken loose. It went flash, flash, flash, flash, flash, flash, flash, flash . . .'
He carried on chanting the words aggressively as if reliving the whole experience, with his eyes glazed over. Like veterans do in those films when they get flashbacks to Vietnam. Then just as things were becoming uncomfortable, Sean continued in an effort to snap Chris out of his trance.
'The whole concert hung by a thread and all for what? A selfish snapshot, Chris.'
'Luckily the band carried on and saved the day by playing a medley of his greatest hits. So please do be vigilant for photographic equipment at all times, it's your biggest enemy,' Chris said as Sean chalked the letters 'NME' on the blackboard behind him.
God only knows how they must be coping with all these camera phones today. Perhaps the inevitable tsunami of camera phones has caused Sean and Chris to leave the business altogether. Who knows?
'Now, when the public are entering the arena, men search the men and the women search the women. I know there's probably a few of you who'd like it the other way round, but hey, hands off.' Then they both laughed. It was a bit of humour that they'd obviously banked on in the past but it fell on deaf ears that day and the tumbleweed that blew through the room was excruciating.
Sean quickly tried to pick things up. 'But seriously. . . when the public enters the arena always ask them politely to open their handbags and for God's sake never, I repeat never, put your own hands inside. Isn't that right, Chris?'
'That's correct, Sean. Always get the public to search their own bags because for all you know there could be a hypodermic needle or anything in there.'
I thought, Jesus, that's cheery. All I wanted to do was watch some free concerts and now there's a risk of HIV.
'What we're asking for is 110 per cent, eight days a week, twenty-four/seven. It's not an easy job by any stretch of the imagination but it'll probably be the most rewarding job you'll ever have. Isn't that right, Chris?'
'Sean's right and I know if we work together we can build a great future. Now, has anybody got any questions?' said Chris.
At that point the child catcher by the side of me stuck his hand up in the air.
'Yes, my friend,' said Chris.
'Can we frisk children?'
My darkest fears were confirmed.
The next stage of the training saw us being taken into the actual arena itself for the first time. I'm sure I would have been impressed had it not been seven o'clock on a Sunday morning and my birthday to boot. Nevertheless, it was a colossal structure and I'd never seen anything like it in my life.
'This place is gonna rock,' I said to the steward next to me.
'Do you reckon? We open next Saturday with Torvill and Dean.'
'Maybe not straight away then,' I said.
We'd been called so early because we were about to take part in a huge evacuation drill with the emergency services . . . oh, and several hundred construction workers who were desperately trying to complete the building around us.
Each steward was placed at the bottom of a stairwell or fire exit, then we had to usher a pretend crowd out to safety through the fire exits. For added authenticity the management played a CD of Dire Straits Live over the PA system, while Sean and Chris shouted encouragement to us through megaphones.
'Quickly, Kay, help that woman, she's got a baby, help the baby.'
'Where? What baby?' I shouted, looking round.
'Row H, seat 12 . . . and don't climb over the seats,' shouted Sean.
They were taking it all a bit too seriously for my liking.
'Hurry up,' he shouted. 'Those people are burning to death.'
Five hours it took. My arms were knackered from gesturing to a pretend public. We had to do it over and over again. I was sick to death of hearing 'Money for Nothing'.
Halfway through the evacuation drill Mike Gunner IV walked down my stairwell with some other execs in suits. He stopped for a breather at the bottom and said to me, 'So, son, is everything A-OK?'
'No,' I said, 'not really, it's Sunday morning, it's my birthday and I've just let a coach full of pensioners burn to death in Row Q.'
Mike Gunner IV just grinned at me with his gold teeth, said, 'That's swell, kid,' and walked off.
I was missing Little House on the Prairie and wanted to go home.
A week later it was the official opening night with Torvill and Dean. Suited and booted, all the stewards arrived early to pick up their name badges. I was gutted because for some reason they didn't have one for me. I had to take the last badge left in the box, which was 'Mohammed'. So for the first night and from then on I was known as Mohammed Kay.
All three hundred of us made our way up to the concourse for a final debriefing with Sean and Chris.
'OK. Tonight's the night, people. You should all know what to do. Those stewards on the doors, don't forget to ask the public to open their own handbags and show you what's inside. Sean?'
'Thanks, Chris, and don't forget to keep an eye out for the sworn enemy of every steward, which is . . . Mohammed?'
Why did he have to pick on me? Unenthusiastically I mumbled, 'Flash Photography.'
'That's correct. And last but not least, don't forget to have fun tonight. Isn't that right, Sean?'
'Affirmative, Chris. Enjoy yourself and remember: you're never fully dressed without a smile.'
I couldn't believe he just quoted a song from Annie.
'You've hit the nail on the head, Sean, and whatever you do, don't be frightened of building up a relationship with Joe Public. We're not the bad guys ... or gals.' They both laughed but it quickly tailed off into silence again.
'Here's a tip for you. If you see any little children coming into the arena tonight, why not show them the magic thumb trick?' said Chris, and then simultaneously they both demonstrated the trick. You must have seen it. You tuck your thumb under your finger, then you lean it up against the thumb on your opposite hand and by manoeuvring it back and forth it appears as if you're pulling your thumb on and off.
'I guarantee you, the kids might not remember who they came to see tonight,' said Sean, 'but they'll remember that thumb trick for the rest of their lives.'
And so shall I, dear reader.
Over the next few months I learned how to buck the system. It was relatively easy because the arena was so big and there were so many members of staff you practically went unnoticed – well, as much as a white steward called Mohammed could possibly go unnoticed. One trick was to walk around the arena looking serious as if you were on some life-or-death mission. If you walked quickly enough the other supervisors and management would leave you alone to roam anywhere you liked. In my case it was always near to the stage so I could watch the show. After all, that was the reason I became a steward.
Another tactic I devised was relieving stewards (and I obviously don't mean that in the biblical sense). I'd find them in a prime position overlooking the stage, at the bottom of a stairwell or a fire exit, and walking over to them, I'd say, 'I've been told to relieve you, you can go on your break.' They'd gladly bugger off for ten minutes leaving me to enjoy the show.
And I managed to watch some absolute corkers during my time at the arena: Pulp, the Eagles, Eric Clapton, Wet Wet Wet, Simply Red (well, they couldn't all be winners). I remember enjoying Simply Red that much at the time that I failed to notice St John's Ambulance rushing past me with a lady on a stretcher who'd collapsed. I got a bollocking for that off Sean and Chris because I don't know if you are aware of this but one of the golden rules of being a steward is that when you're working in the auditorium you're not supposed to enjoy yourself.
'That's the audience's job,' said Sean. 'Your job is to keep them safe while they're doing it. Chris?' (Sorry, force of habit.) When you're a steward you're just supposed to watch the audience. You're not supposed to clap your hands, you're not supposed to tap your feet and you're certainly not supposed to dance. But all that was about to change when Take That came to town.
Their live show in 1995 was without a doubt the best show I ever worked on. They did ten nights in total at the arena and I worked nine of them (I would have done the tenth but I was best man at a wedding). Now I'd never really liked Take That before I saw them live. To me they were just one of many teenage boy bands that had totally passed me by. But after working on nine nights of that tour I was completely hooked.
They blew me away when they opened (every night) with 'Relight My Fire'. The lights went down, the lads came on and the audience went berserk. The hairs would go up on the back of my neck the screams were that loud. They were that deafening Sean and Chris issued all the stewards with earplugs. I fell in love with the show, I got to know it inside out and I absolutely adored it. So much so that when the shows were over I found I had withdrawal symptoms and had to buy two of their live videos just to get my fix.
Without a doubt the best part of the show was when they ended the night with their last song, 'Never Forget'. The whole audience used to raise their hands up in the air and do a slow overarm clap when they got to the chorus. A bit similar to Queen in the video to 'Radio Ga-Ga'. It was quite emotional. I was determined to get to the front of the stage on the last night just to see the audience in all their glory.
That last night I went on a mission to relieve every steward on the aisle leading directly to the front of the stage. And I managed to get to the front just in time for 'Never Forget'. The view was truly breathtaking as I stood with my back to the stage watching thousands of people waving their hands in the air. I'm getting tingles just remembering the moment. I also got a verbal warning for joining in. But I couldn't help it, it would have been a sin not to.
I still find it incredible to think that ten years later I was stood on a stage in the same arena watching crowds waving their hands at the end of my show. That's got to be the biggest 'unbelievable' of them all.
The funny thing, is I never officially left my job at the arena and have since been told by the management that I'm still on the books. So you never know, if things go tits up you may find yourself being escorted to your seat one day by a steward called Mohammed who looks remarkably like me.
Chapter Fifteen
Nobody Puts Peter in a Corner
Things weren't really working out for me over in Liverpool on the combined honours degree. To say I'd bitten off more than I could chew would be an understatement. I was struggling, desperately so, and considered it divine retribution for lying about my qualifications in the first place.
What was it? Why couldn't I settle? I think part of it was all the written work that was required of me. All those essays and dissertations, they really did my head in. I couldn't see the point in reading something and regurgitating it back onto paper in five thousand words. I've always loathed written work. In fact this book is probably the most writing I've ever done in my entire life.
In my Information Technology lectures I pushed my lecturer, Mr Tibbs, to the verge of a nervous breakdown, due to the fact that I was computer illiterate and kept flicking mine off at the wall every time I spelt a word wrong. Well, it's what my parents did every time something electrical went on the blink at home. 'Flick it off and count to ten' seemed to be the golden rule in our house. As a result I spent most of my IT time re-booting my computer, whilst counting aloud with my fingers crossed.