by Dillon Khan
‘I’ve placed two big fans on either side of the stage to blow some cool air into the crowd as the manager tells me this place gets really hot,’ said Alison.
‘Don’t they have any air-con?’ asked Max.
‘Apparently it broke last week.’
‘We’re trying to give the punters The Beat experience, not a sauna experience. You want kids passing out? Surely it’s a health and safety issue,’ he said.
‘It’ll be fine. Besides, won’t it look cool to shoot them all hot and sweaty?’ she suggested.
‘Thanks for the directing tips, Alison, but I think we can handle that,’ he snapped back.
‘Just a suggestion, Max,’ she said. ‘I’ve done plenty of parties without air-con – trust me, they love a sweat-pit. Anyway, I have to finalize some things with the security team, so I’ll see you later tonight.’ She walked off with her assistant in tow.
Max rolled his eyes, thinking she’d cut corners again to keep her costs low and her profits high.
Back at the hotel after a quick pizza, we had some downtime to ourselves, which allowed me to play Nirvana’s Nevermind really loudly as I shaved and got changed for the night ahead. By nine thirty p.m. we were sat in a taxi en route to the club. I was dressed up like I was ready for a date, thanks to Max’s PR friends and the free designer label clothes. Now that I was on the team, he ensured I dressed like it. The rest of the team were bizarrely downbeat. They were dressed like they were off strawberry picking rather than heading to the coolest party in the country.
C’mon, it’s a Beat party, I thought to myself. Clearly my first time was more exciting than their umpteenth time. I got a text from Sophia wishing me luck. Luck? I didn’t need luck for this. I was ready to have fun; how hard could it be?
We arrived outside the club to see things had changed significantly. Each Beat party had a theme and tonight’s was the Eighties. The queue of excited kids in outfits from big shoulder-padded dresses to Adidas break-dancing tracksuits stretched fifty metres down the street and round the corner. Scantily dressed PR girls from the club were handing out free lollipops as street performers kept the crowd entertained as they slowly ploughed into the club.
We all headed inside to the crew room where Max gave out the filming orders for the night while sipping on a JD and Coke and scoffing all the purple Quality Streets.
‘Hopefully we’ll be done by two a.m. Any questions?’ Max asked, rubbing his hands together, clearly ready to go.
Milly shook her head. I had loads but I stayed silent, worried I’d ask something stupid. Then all of a sudden the three of them started ripping open bags and setting up the equipment. It was impressive to watch them in action, like a Transformer turning from a kettle into an awesome kick-ass robot. By the end of it they looked like commandos, locked and loaded with cameras, lights and mics instead of semi-automatics and batteries and spare tapes instead of ammo. Meanwhile I’d spent the same two minutes and fifty-four seconds trying to open the legs of the tripod, turning it over several times like it was a Rubik’s Cube, looking for the opening latch.
Back outside, Milly pointed the camera at the queue as Max said, ‘Lights.’ In response I pressed the ‘on’ button of the powerful light in my hands and what was a dimly lit side street became flooded with light that bounced off the graffiti-covered brick walls. We filmed the mass of people in the queue as it snaked to the front of the club. Kids were waving, jumping up and down, blowing kisses and one or two girls flashed their boobs.
‘Your mum will be proud,’ Max teased them, but their eagerness to make their mark on camera overtook their dignity.
Even out on the street we could hear the music from inside the club, the warm-up DJ mixing and cutting, adding to the exhilaration of the crowd. The energy and anticipation was infectious and I felt the excitement rush around inside me.
We headed back to the crew room to ready ourselves to film the secret guest PA. It added to the mystery of the party and it was the luck of the draw if your city got Destiny’s Child or Sweet Female Attitude.
Max was huddled in a corner with PJ, who had arrived to present for the night, discussing the talent on show. The club was now packed to capacity and we fought our way through the throngs of people. Stuey and Milly headed for the middle of the dance floor while Max and I took up our position on the stage. He handed me the camera and the burden of filming made it feel like a keg of beer. I looked down at the girls at the front of the stage. The sight of someone holding a Beat camera was enough to make them give out a little scream.
I turned to Max. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked with a big gulp.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘How else will you learn?’
I started to feel panicked and edgy. ‘But what if I fuck it up?’
‘You worry too much, kid. You won’t fuck it up. The camera’s been set up, just stop holding it like Shakin’ Stevens on speed.’
‘What?’
‘Tuck your arms into your body to get a steadier shot,’ he huffed as I didn’t get the reference.
‘Oh,’ I said, immediately embarrassed. I wished the front-row girls weren’t paying so much attention now as I got a paint-by-numbers lesson on the side of the stage.
All of a sudden the DJ stopped Sonique’s ‘It Feels So Good’ and the crowd reacted in screams of anticipation. Moments later the lights on the stage were turned up and out came PJ to introduce the night. Once the crowd were worked up into a frenzy, Sisqó bounced on with his gyrating dancers in support. Everyone immediately went wild as he sang the ‘Thong Song’. A girl at the front managed to take off her underwear and throw it on stage. It wasn’t a thong but a pair of pants with cute teddy bears on it. Wrong on so many levels, I thought. It took the dress code of ‘dress to undress’ to a new level.
Panic nearly set in when Sisqó threw one of his sweaty towels into the crowd and the girls in the third row spent the next two minutes fighting over who had dibs on it: the girl whose face it landed on, or the girl who leapt on her from behind nearly snapping her neck back? I never understood why people would fight over a towel an artist had thrown into the crowd. You want their germ-infested piece of raggedy cloth? What were you going to do with it – take it home and frame it?
Sisqó kissed the crowd goodbye and was ushered out of the back door into his people carrier where our cameras soon followed to film an interview with him and PJ. As we packed up to follow Sisqó, the DJ continued the musical orgasm with Moloko’s ‘Sing It Back’, this time accompanied by a bongo drummer, to keep the girls in the mood. Right on cue, The Beat dancers jumped on to the stage to become the dance conductors for the night. Scantily dressed and in the best shape of their lives, they free-styled, switching from dance to hip-hop moves, wowing the audience.
Soon we were back in the crew room and taking in a few drinks and much-needed energy-giving chocolates. I was shocked at how knackered I was. It was much better than standing around on a shop floor waiting to sell trainers all day, but it was hard work and I couldn’t honestly say I’d had fun yet. There was a lot to do and stay focused on. The night was going by in a blur.
Moments later Alison walked in with Isabel, who had been watching everything from the top floor with the marketing girls. Max introduced her to Stuey and Milly, who hadn’t met her before but instantly liked her. How did she do it? As I ate some chocolate I smiled and asked, ‘So, you ready?’
‘Yes, especially as the girls have been plying me with alcohol.’
‘Might be the best thing. This crowd isn’t exactly sober.’
‘What if I slur? Stay close by,’ she said, laughing and grabbing my arm for support.
‘Don’t worry –’
‘Right!’ Max cut me off as he came back from the drinks table clutching a plastic cup filled to the brim with JD and Coke. ‘Let’s find the weird and wonderful.’
Isabel smiled and it was time to get started.
We ful
filled Max’s request for weird immediately, finding lesbian vampires and a guy who decided to break up with his girlfriend on TV.
‘I’m sure you’re watching this at home, Lorraine. This is Diane.’ (Kisses her.) ‘I know you’ve been cheating on me with that muppet David from school. Well, guess what? Two can play that game.’ (Continues kissing Diane, with more tongue.)
The vox-pops deteriorated like the polar ice caps as the night went on, prompting Max to wrap things up at two a.m. Everyone headed back to the crew room for a quick break and an opportunity to get some party action in. But not for me. I had to go and practise filming people dancing with my next teacher, Stuey.
‘OK, Rudeboy,’ he instructed. ‘You need shots of pretty faces smiling to camera and remember, no bugly people make it on to The Beat. I need people dirty dancing up close, panty shots are a bonus as are bouncing breasts. Oh, and try to get some buff men – gotta keep it balanced for the girls. Safe?’ he asked, switching to street terminology.
I took a deep breath and plunged into the crowd, following Stuey’s notes to the tee while being pushed, shoved, groped and trampled on, and beer regularly dropped down the back of my T-shirt. I made it back on stage in time to film the podium dancers throwing a hundred Beat T-shirts to the revellers. It was mayhem as kids scuffled and played tug-of-war for a £3 ‘Made in China’ T-shirt, just because there was a Beat logo on it.
The lights came on and three hundred of the faithful who had stayed to the bitter end waited to get their pictures and autographs with PJ. I could see Max smoking weed with Stuey and Milly at the back of the stage while the two back-up DJs were in the crowd looking for the quarter-to-three girls – any half-decent-looking girls who were left and fancied coming back to the hotel for an ‘afterparty’.
I escaped to the crew room and sat squeezing my aching calf muscles, not having had a drop of alcohol, or even a sip of water for the last few hours. I was truly shattered and the fun part had officially escaped me. My clothes were wet and stank of beer and sweat, while my feet ached in what was a pair of crispy clean trainers five hours ago. They’d been trampled on hundred of times, and a few pointy heels had hit the mark and managed to stub me on the big toes. Lesson learnt: come as a strawberry picker next time. I felt strange – I was completely exhausted yet on a high and still smiling.
Back at the hotel the equipment was dropped into my room so I could pack it away properly while everyone headed to PJ’s room to continue the party.
‘Jay, can I help?’ asked Isabel as bags were dumped in a heap.
‘Oh that –’
‘… won’t be necessary,’ said Max, interrupting. ‘You’ve done your work for the night, this is ours now.’ He placed his hand just above her butt and whisked her off, with a wink to me and a sparkle in his eyes. It was exactly the same look the wolf had before he gulped down two of the three little piggies.
Bastard, I thought, looking at the mess of tangled wires.
I packed everything up as quickly as I could, but by the time I had finished everyone was sleeping or ‘entertaining’. Mainly the latter.
Back in my room I attempted to sleep but instead lay awake to the sound of buzzing in my ears, a memento of the loud music in the club. It wasn’t the only noise I had to contend with, as the sound of doors opening and closing reverberated in the walls, followed swiftly by people giggling, talking and running through corridors.
I wanted to call Sophia and tell her about the night but it was six a.m. Instead I lay in the dark reflecting on the party, images flashing through my head. It had all the ingredients of a normal party – a club with music, a DJ, lots of people. Yet why was the sum of the parts so much more? It was another experience that left me buzzing with excitement at my new job. A stark contrast to where I’d been a few months ago: careerless, depressed and steadily going nowhere. It occurred to me that if there was one person who would have enjoyed the last twenty-four hours, it was Manchester United fan and party animal Pritz. I smiled to myself: finally I had something for him to be jealous of.
14
Aicha
I had been so busy at work I hadn’t done any laundry, not even the dirty clothes from the Middlesbrough party last week. So today’s visit to the laundrette round the corner from the flat was urgent; I needed clean socks and boxer shorts in preparation for Hugh and Oli’s notorious ‘Pimps and Hookers’ party. The two came as a pair, like socks, and their annual jaunt had become an unofficial Beat-wide staff party.
Sanctuary can be found in many different places. A quiet park, a place of worship, a hedonistic club, on the toilet. Me, I found it in the laundrette. They had been a part of my life from day dot. As a child I recalled Mum lighting up a fag and reading a magazine while I played with my Optimus Prime, who had fifty minutes of a full wash to get from base camp at machine fifteen across various points of ambush to dryer number one, a.k.a. enemy base camp for Skeletor. I did homework and wrote my best essays for school and university with the whizz and hum of washing machines and dryers in the background.
I did keepie-uppies with a rolled-up ball of socks as I listened to Kelis’s debut album. Max had seen me fiddling with a chewed-up tape on my first week and kindly upgraded me from cassette to CD with a hook-up from his friend at Sony PR. Barely a few songs in and I was pressing pause as I got a call from Sophia, who was at home packing to go back to university for her summer term. I was sad that it felt like she was leaving so soon. After laughing about being down to my last old, torn pair of boxer shorts the conversation changed for the worst when I mentioned the theme of tonight’s party. It was met with a stony silence.
‘You didn’t tell me about it,’ she said eventually.
‘I’m a hundred per cent sure I did,’ I said, checking my memory banks.
‘No, you didn’t,’ she persisted, clearly trying not to sound pissed off.
Within seconds we were back and forth, trying to convince the other they were wrong, with both of us digging in our heels like a tug of war.
‘Anyway, I thought you were going back today,’ I said, trying to find an end to the fight.
‘Only because I was getting a lift with Simon,’ she said.
‘Simon?’ I asked awkwardly.
‘The guy in my class … lives in Watford?’
‘No, you didn’t tell me he was taking you, but, see, I’m not flipping out.’ Actually I was, but I was determined not to show it. I’d met Simon once during Sophia’s Freshers’ Week and it was enough for me to not like the vibe from him. He always seemed to be around her, and not in a best-gay-friend way.
‘I’m not flipping out,’ she said.
‘Yes you are. So why don’t you come with me? It’s not a big deal, it’s just some party.’
‘I can’t, you’re telling me too late.’ She exhaled with frustration.
‘But you can finish packing tomorrow and go up on the train.’
‘I can’t say no to Simon now,’ she said, like I’d suggested something ridiculous.
‘Why not? I’m sure he’ll understand.’ I was slightly peeved he was a bigger consideration than I was as she continued to find reasons not to come. Softening up, I added, ‘Look, babe, just come. It’s not a big deal. I don’t have a costume either.’
‘It’s not so bad for guys, girls have to make an effort,’ she reasoned.
‘Look, how about we don’t dress up but just go in normal clothes?’
‘Your friends from work can’t see me in normal clothes. I remember how underdressed I felt in front of them at Puffy’s party,’ she said, seemingly astounded I’d even suggested it.
‘Yes you can, and you weren’t,’ I said. ‘Besides, I’d prefer you didn’t make a lasting impression in a hooker’s outfit anyway.’
‘Well, it’s too late,’ she said stubbornly.
My ‘OK’ was met with another moment of silence. Then she asked, ‘Are you gonna go?’
I paused,
not expecting the question. The old man at the other end of the laundrette peered across at me momentarily before returning to staring at his spinning clothes. I spoke a bit quieter, ‘Well, yeah, I have to.’
‘You have to?’ she said sarcastically.
‘I told all my friends I’d be there –’
‘With all the girls dressed as hookers.’
I felt my voice rising again. ‘A minute ago you were contemplating going dressed as one.’
She ignored me. ‘There’s going to be scantily dressed, drunk women all around.’
‘Listen, I’m going to hang out with my mates, nothing else.’
‘And so you won’t be drinking and flirting?’
‘When you go out, do you drink and flirt?’ I retorted.
Her voice raised in return, ‘Answer the question.’
‘You answer mine,’ I said, in full combat mode.
Silence descended again at the end of what felt like the tenth round. We both paused to get our energy back and thoughts in order. No one was backing down on this one. Then suddenly I heard a click on my washing machine as the power light turned off.
‘Listen, my machine’s finished and I gotta throw them in the dryer. Can I call you back in a few minutes?’
Sophia put the phone down without saying goodbye. I used the sanctuary of the laundrette to get my head straight as I pulled the wet clothes out of the machine and threw them into a broken washing basket. I tried to rewind and slow down the conversation in my head to see where it had gone wrong, adamant Sophia was overreacting.
Maybe I should back down. Maybe I shouldn’t go, I thought.
What? Why not? Because she’s being insecure? said *NSYNC’s Justin Timberlake.
Well, if it would make her uncomfortable …
So, doesn’t she trust you? he said, taking the Socratic approach to debating.