by Dillon Khan
Luckily we found an understanding promoter in Benedict ‘Benny’ Paradis, who schmoozed us over coffee, showing us a reel on his laptop of all the parties he’d put on around Europe for celebrities and royalty alike. In his smooth French accent, he painted a picture of ‘an event’ with thousands of revellers, A-list artists, superstar DJs, female dancers in bunny outfits and chill-out areas with food, drink, shisha and every other little detail he could think of.
Eventually we pulled ourselves away from Benny’s tractor-beam charm and the offer of a ‘boys’ night out’, and headed through the Belgian and Dutch countryside to Eindhoven. The only problem was that somewhere along the way we took a wrong turn and ended up in the south instead of central Holland.
Everyone was getting slightly tetchy now as hunger pangs began to set in. As Max put the pedal to the metal, PJ became the in-car DJ, choosing which CDs were played on the car stereo, eventually getting sacked when he put on ‘7 Seconds’ by Neneh Cherry and Youssou N’Dour for the sixth time in a row. Meanwhile, Stuey’s bowels gave way and he began letting off lethal farts in the back. I pinched my nose and looked out of the window, bored, as I texted Sophia with travel updates.
Having hurtled down endless miles of tarmac, the fuel light eventually came on. We pulled up at the nearest petrol station, which doubled up with a McDonald’s, and got out for a long stretch. It was late afternoon and the place was busy with school kids. We all stood silently in the queue, having exhausted all conversation. Suddenly, without warning, the mood of the place changed, from noisy and bustling to one of subdued conversations and darting looks. Had we jumped the queue? Then slowly some of the kids walked straight up to PJ, who was texting at the far end of the restaurant.
‘Esscuush me, are you PJ from da Beat?’ asked the Dutch equivalent of Britney in her school uniform.
PJ looked back at her, equally shocked. We were in what looked like a little village in the middle of the countryside and PJ had been spotted. We were used to it walking through the streets of London, but a McDonald’s on the outskirts of Liège?
‘Yeah, I’m PJ,’ he said.
The girl instantly let out a shriek that spread infectiously to her friends, and led to the entire restaurant going up a notch in volume. Suddenly girls and boys were coming from all corners of the restaurant and shoving school exercise books, receipts, napkins, big brown McDonald’s bags, their own arms and anything else they could get at PJ to sign.
The McDonald’s manager saw the stampede and came over to usher the kids away. He led PJ to an unopened till and began taking his order, which we jumped in and added to. We sat down and tried to appreciate the VIP treatment, even if it was only McDonald’s. Still, six trays came out with an assortment of burgers, chips, drinks and desserts. There was enough to feed a small army. We stuffed our faces as PJ continued signing autographs.
‘Right, it’s time to head out of this meet-and-greet,’ said Max, finishing his food.
Stuey slapped his belly in contentment. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Tall and golden all over?’ teased Max.
‘Yes yes, Rrrrrude-a-boy,’ replied Stuey.
There was one thing missing that McDonald’s just could not provide, a desire they couldn’t satisfy on a hot day like this. Cold beer. It was just what was needed to get us ready for the journey ahead and in a boisterous mood for the England game.
Before we left, the manager asked PJ to take some pictures with him and the staff on the Polaroid camera he had in his office. PJ signed one of the first pictures that developed and handed it to the manager. As he stood there looking at it, confusion spread across his face. Max picked up on it instantly.
‘He thought PJ was someone else,’ he said under his breath, still smiling.
I looked back at the manager as he tried to make sense of PJ’s scribbled autograph.
Stuey started to snigger and had to look at the floor so as not to burst out laughing.
We eventually dragged PJ out of McDonald’s on a high. Yes, he got emails from all over the world but to actually meet fans outside the UK had clearly got to him. Max navigated the route as we walked through the narrow streets in search of a bar while Stuey tried to deflate PJ’s bubble.
‘PJ, they were fifteen years old.’
‘Yeah, but it goes to show how powerful our show is,’ said PJ, still amazed.
‘Mate, it’s Europe, not some village in the backwaters of Mongolia,’ said Stuey.
‘Look, don’t hate on us because your show isn’t having this kind of impact,’ PJ sniped back.
‘Except my show beats yours regularly in the ratings. Men lie, women lie, figures don’t,’ said Stuey, laughing.
We were all talking over one another now, getting louder and louder, not realizing we had ended up in a square full of pubs, when suddenly we came to an abrupt stop.
We’d found the watering hole in the desert we’d been so desperate for but it seemed that lions were already drinking from it. German football-fan lions, to be precise. They’d been drinking all day and were waiting to go to their game against Romania, ten miles down the road at the stadium in Liège. They all turned to stare at us, but unlike McDonald’s this time we felt real unease. The Germans continued drinking and talking but their eyes were fixed on us.
Max didn’t care; he just wanted a cold beer. PJ was worried about his presenter’s face being hurt, whereas I was worried because I wanted to live to see my next birthday. And Stuey, well, he was suddenly aware that he was wearing a 1966 England shirt in a square full of German football fans. 1966: the year England controversially beat the Germans in the World Cup final. It was like waving a red rag to a bull. We walked into the first pub we saw and ordered a quick round. It was the most uncomfortable and least pleasurable drink I’d ever had.
The German fans outside in the square were waving flags while the ones inside started to sing to the tune of ‘The Animals Went in Two By Two’. Not knowing a word of German my mind hysterically translated: ‘There’s some English fans in this pub, yes there are, there are / There’s some English tossers in this pub, yes there are, there are / Are we going to kick their heads in? Yes we are, we are …’
More fans were coming in from other pubs to see what the commotion was. Our exit had been cut off and we were behind enemy lines. Max was finally appreciating the seriousness of the situation we’d walked into and his earlier bravado was now replaced with an expression of worry. We all looked at one another trying to stay calm but realized we were well and truly screwed.
Max slowly began to walk to the back of the pub towards the toilets. We didn’t question it but just quietly followed him into the gents. I walked as close to Stuey as possible to try to hide his shirt.
‘What the hell are we going to do?’ said PJ with a sense of urgency.
‘I don’t know, let me think,’ Max replied.
‘Stuey, do you rate your shirt as highly as you rate your show?’ PJ asked sarcastically.
It wasn’t Stuey’s fault he was wearing an England shirt but he kept quiet.
‘Why don’t I go back out and speak to the landlord?’ said Max, throwing out the only suggestion he could think of.
‘Yeah, because he’s really going to know what to do,’ said Stuey, breaking his silence. ‘I’m a Jew in a ’66 England shirt surrounded by Nazis. Do you really think I’m going to risk going back out there?’
They started arguing among themselves when I noticed something.
‘Look, a window!’ I shouted, pointing above the cubicles.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Max snapped.
‘Well, do you have a better suggestion?’ I said.
Everyone looked at one another before Max climbed up and led the way. Scrambling unceremoniously through the window and landing in an alleyway at the back of the building, we scooted around like rats until we somehow managed to find our way back to the McDonald’s and j
ump into the car.
Everyone was silent for the next twenty minutes until a fart from Stuey broke the silence.
‘Is that you shitting yourself, pooey Stuey?’ said Max. ‘Oh no, that was earlier on in the pub.’
‘Oh sure, blame the only patriotic fucker in this car for wearing his three lions with pride. If any one of us has balls, it’s me! Faced down a whole pub of Germans,’ he said in a cocky tone.
‘You’re lucky we got out of there before they got their hands on you and your red blouse!’ said PJ.
‘It would have been fans of your show that would have got to you first. They watch you in Germany too, you know,’ said Stuey, bitching back.
The touchy silence that followed was finally broken by Max. ‘“Look, a window!”,’ he boomed, trying to mock me in a Superman voice.
I looked at him through the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t even start on me,’ I replied forcefully. ‘I just saved your fucking lives.’
‘Yeah, whatever, cub scout, you shat it the most,’ said Max.
I knew that being the most junior member meant that they would now all gang up on me and stop biting into each other.
‘Look, a car!’ said Stuey, taking the piss.
‘Er, hello, you girls didn’t exactly have any bright ideas,’ I said.
‘Look, another car!’ followed PJ.
‘Oh sure, says the man worried about his pretty face.’
The more I protested, the more they continued.
‘Look, I’m about to piss myself,’ said Max, laughing his arse off as he drove down the motorway towards Eindhoven. We were hideously late.
This way of talking would now be attributed to me for the foreseeable future. I tried fighting back but it was like going against your older brothers. You’d never win, but you just hoped you could get some good shots off before you eventually got pummelled. Before I’d have stayed quiet but now I found a new voice coming from within and a thicker skin to take their verbal jabs. I’d need it in bundles if I was to survive this industry.
As we ran to the turnstiles, the steward who checked our tickets looked surprised to see people coming into the stadium as there were already trickles of people starting to walk out. We were determined to see something having come this far but the full-time whistle went before we’d even made it to our seats. Everyone looked pissed off and dejected and as hoards of people began to shuffle past us we looked up at the scoreboard and felt our misery compounded. England had been beaten by Portugal 3–2.
The drive back was sullen and it was approaching one a.m. when we got to the outskirts of Amsterdam. Hunger pangs got the better of us and Max stopped at the only place that looked open.
The manager tried explaining the kitchen was closed but Max and PJ begged him to serve us. Perversely it was only when Stuey stepped up from behind us that the moustachioed manager froze, looked at the three lions on his shirt and then offered us whatever he had left in the kitchen.
We lay with our heads on the table waiting, nearly falling asleep, when two trays were brought out from the kitchen. On them was the weirdest thing I had seen on a plate – the tongue of some poor creature covered in gravy and sandwiched between a bun.
‘I can’t, I just can’t,’ whispered Stuey, looking traumatized.
‘We have to, we’ve made such a fuss. At least let’s try it,’ said Max, with his fork hovering above the plate, not sure where to start.
PJ just dived in and began eating. He wasn’t even taking time to chew, swallowing mouthfuls straight down. Stuey ate the gravy-soaked bread and left the tongue while Max ate half of his and then realized what he was doing and stopped. I chopped mine up, separated it, mashed it down and made it look like I had attempted to eat it, but really I was too scared to even try.
We jumped back in the car and headed for our hotel. Trudging through the foyer, we took the lift to our floor and said goodbye to one another, slapping and clasping hands while simultaneously hugging like we were rappers.
We’d barely separated by a few footsteps when Max whispered back to us, ‘What goes on tour, boys, eh?’
PJ and Stuey replied back, equally fed up, ‘Yeah, what goes on tour.’
Max wasn’t using the phrase in its usual debauched context, but it had an equal if not better use considering the day we’d had. This was one trip we wouldn’t be boasting about to anyone.
19
Paid in Full
Lonyo’s ‘Summer of Love’ played on the speakers of the pub as kids who’d finished their A-level exams jostled in the line to be served. The bar was also full of people from The Beat’s other departments who I’d seen in the building and smiled at, but didn’t yet know. We were all here to salute birds leaving the nest. It had come as a shock to us all, but Hugh was joining a production company that was making a show for Channel 4 called Big Brother, while Oli was leaving to work in advertising, wanting to push his creative skills.
Why would you want to leave The Beat? I thought as I stood waiting to be served. Suddenly my phone began to ring. I looked down and saw Sophia’s name on the screen.
‘Hello!’ I shouted over the noise.
‘Hi, babe,’ she said faintly. ‘What are you doing? You on a shoot?’
‘It’s really noisy in here, I can barely hear you!’ I said with the phone pressed hard to one ear and my finger in the other.
‘… see you … where are you? … exams finished … back for while now … hardly seen you.’
I couldn’t make out her sentences. ‘Listen, babe, I’ll call you right back. I can’t hear you through the noise … Mate, can I get a round in please?’ I asked as the barman pointed at me among the throng.
With drinks in hand, I barged my way back through the people waiting to be served, packed tight like the floor at a Michael Jackson concert. I got back to the intern crew who were gasping for a drink in the corner. They grabbed at the glasses and bottles of beer that I had jammed together tightly in the clasp of my hands. After collectively moaning about our low pay and trying to outdo each other for the prize of poorest intern, Tola provided us with some office gossip.
‘I was speaking to someone in Finance earlier, and they said there’s going to be some cutbacks in the company.’
‘Is that why Hugh and Oli are leaving?’ I asked. ‘Have they been pushed?’
‘Nah, I know for a fact they’re jumping,’ said James III confidently.
Excited at the possible opportunity, Cara jumped into the conversation. ‘So that leaves space for us lot to step up and fill some shoes.’
‘Not sure about that,’ said Tola grimly. ‘Apparently departments are having budgets not just frozen but cut. No budgets, no shows.’
‘So are people losing their jobs?’ asked Sam, clearly concerned now.
‘I think so. There’s panic in the company. Haven’t you noticed? Lots of meetings behind closed doors with HR apparently.’
‘But we’re safe, right? We’ve only got a short contract,’ I said.
‘No one’s safe, Jay,’ she replied bluntly.
I looked at everyone’s faces: they were frozen at the prospect of losing their jobs.
Then Tola added something that made everyone’s ears twitch. ‘But apparently there will definitely be one permanent position for one of us interns. We’re going to be cheaper than anyone else, I guess.’
The momentary silence was broken by Cara, who was the first to put her cards on the table. ‘Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I haven’t come all the way across the world to go back home just yet.’
‘Well, I’m sure everyone wants it,’ Sam reasoned.
Sonya stayed quiet as usual. She looked worried.
‘Ah, who cares?’ said James III, swigging his beer.
Surely he’s kidding, I thought to myself. I couldn’t tell. I care. Maybe he’d been told he had it. Suddenly we were all like poker players around a table playing for h
igh stakes.
‘All right, you lot,’ came a voice from outside the group. Hugh broke the weird vibe that had descended on our corner. ‘What are you all talking about?’ he asked.
‘Holidays,’ I said, reacting quickest. ‘Where you going this year?’
‘I have no plans till Big Brother’s finished. We go on till September,’ he said, letting out a big sigh. ‘What about you lot?’
None of the interns took the floor. We looked round at each other, as if taking a holiday was going to be a sign of weakness.
‘I can’t, there’s too much to do,’ said Tola.
And so it went from all of us. Was it true or was the new rumour exerting some influence? Max had already baulked at me when talk of holidays had come up inadvertently.
‘Well, make sure you take them. It’s only TV! Life will go on.’ Hugh grinned round at us all.
‘Yeah, but we can’t leave our producers alone,’ Sam pointed out.
‘Don’t be guilted into it; that’s what all employers want. Make sure you take ’em or lose ’em,’ said Hugh.
I wasn’t sure if there was sound reasoning to his way of thinking, considering what Tola had just told us, or if the Karl Marx in him was right.
‘Do you want to know the secret to surviving in this or any other place?’ Hugh offered. ‘Don’t get caught up in the Matrix.’
Sophia was ringing my mobile again but it was still too loud to talk and I was distracted by the thought of my hard work spiralling down the toilet pan before my eyes. I’d phone her as soon as I finished my drink.
‘So why are you leaving?’ asked Tola.
‘Time to get paid,’ he said, laughing and rubbing his fingers together. ‘To be fair, I’ve been here a while now and you lot are making me feel old.’
James III grinned. ‘That’s right, you started in TV when it was in black and white.’
‘Very funny, big man. Before I leave I’ll make sure you get to log The Beat’s archive library for the last few months of your internship,’ said Hugh, stealing the last laugh.