Portia MacIntosh - How Not To Be Starstruck

‘To summarise,’ he starts, sounding more serious than I have ever heard him sound in his life, ‘I’ve knocked up some girl, about seven months ago apparently. She’s having twins – fucking twins, Nicole. It’s going to come out sooner or later, she’s saying she’ll go to the press. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

‘First of all, calm down. I don’t want to be rude, but are you certain it was you who...knocked her up?’ I ask, using his words. ‘You’ve been, erm, seeing a few girls this past year and not the most committed kind...’ I trail off, hoping he’ll catch my drift. My point is that he’s shagged a lot of random girls. Random girls who have probably shagged a lot of random guys too.

‘The timing is right,’ he says before a long pause. ‘And there’s a video.’

‘A video? Bloody hell, Dylan, when those kids ask you where they came from, you’re going to be able to give them one hell of an answer.’

He laughs, but he sound worried sick. I guess this was bound to happen sooner or later. I love Dylan to bits, but he really puts it about and he drinks a lot, which we all know is a recipe for disaster. I think he’s been really lucky to not have this happen on a weekly basis. Even so, I feel sorry for him.

‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.

‘I’ve got a meeting with a guy this afternoon, some publicity crisis specialist who’s going to work it all out for me, I’ve just got to keep quiet about it until then.’

‘Good luck, babe. Try not to worry, OK?’ I know it’s easier said than done, but what do you say to a friend who has accidentally knocked up a girl he hardly knows? And with a video souvenir too. Hallmark certainly don’t make a card for it.

All around me glamorous, rich and famous folks’ lives are going down the pan and at the same time mine is getting better and better. It’s true what they say, money and fame don’t make you happy. When I think about the scandal with Plastic Rap and their young fans, and now Dylan and his pregnant one-night stand, it makes me really glad that I’m not famous. I do stupid things all the time, but luckily no one cares enough for a newspaper to want to write about it.

I try to put myself in Dylan’s shoes, but I just cannot imagine how it would feel to have everyone knowing every little detail about you, for your parents to see the details of your sex life on the front page of a newspaper along with the rest of the world – your dentist, the people you went to school with, the guy who serves you in Starbucks. Some of the things I’ve read about Dylan, true or otherwise, have been so embarrassing, I just can’t imagine the entire country knowing the dirty little details of my life and me feeling comfortable carrying on as if nothing were any different. That’s why I’m glad I became a journalist – no one cares what we do.

Chapter Seven

The Name’s Wilde, Nicole Wilde

I was about fourteen when I went to see my first proper concert and it was mesmerising. I think that’s when my love of the music biz started – I was just so fascinated by all of it.

I remember not long after that, I was hanging around outside the arena in Sheffield with my friends. We would turn up at 10 a.m. and wait for the bands to arrive, just hoping to catch a glimpse. That time in particular we were standing at the temporary metal fence in the huge, empty car park when the bus pulled in. I just stared in amazement as it drove past us. It seemed huge – like the band were travelling around in a hotel on wheels. It’s funny, I’ve been on so many since then that these days they all seem so small to me – tour buses that is, not bands.

Peeping through the fence, I watched them unload the bus. After the roadies had done all the heavy lifting, the doors would open and out strolled the important-looking people like managers and publicists. Then my favourite bit, the band would step off the bus, usually surrounded by girlfriends and friends. I wanted to be one of those people, following them around like a puppy, being the envy of every girl standing around in the car park. Well look at me now, I’m living the dream. Well, almost. Let’s just say things aren’t exactly the way I imagined them to be. I thought it was going to be pure glamour, but the reality of it is rather different. OK, so the five-star hotels are pretty glam, but even the most beautiful hotel room can seem like a shithole when you add a gang of lads who invite thirty of their closest friends for an impromptu party. Without entertainment planned, people will make their own fun and that is when things get messy. There’s nothing glamorous about a luxury bath when it’s nearly full to the top with beer, vomit, piss, fag ends and anything else that happens to be within reach.

I like to think I’m rock and roll, but I remember seeing a huge flat-screen TV taken down off the wall and being promptly thrown off the balcony and into the river that our formerly beautiful room overlooked. The band thought this was hilarious – it was no skin off their noses because their record label would foot the bill – but I’d kill to have a TV like that at my place, it was such a waste.

When I find myself alone in a hotel room I’ll order room service, throw on a fluffy dressing gown and see what the movie channels have to offer. The only things I have ever thrown off a balcony, well technically spat off a balcony, were orange Revels – abominable.

Don’t get me wrong though, I am a party animal. Put me in a hotel room with a bunch of drunk band boys and a few friends and things will always get messy. I’ve thrown up in a bath or two in my time, but that will not be happening on this tour, I’m not going to be able to seduce Luke with vomit.

At the moment I am hurriedly packing my bags so that I don’t miss my train to Manchester. That’s where I’ll be meeting up with Luke’s band, Two For The Road, and joining them on the last week of their tour.

Packing for tour requires two bags. I have a small bag to take to gigs with me – big enough for my phone, purse, camera and make-up – and a huge bag that could rival a suitcase for space. Inside this bag I have successfully crammed enough items of clothing to at least create the illusion that I am wearing a different outfit every day of the tour, my vital grooming items like my hairbrush and the super-important things like my phone charger. I lift it up before I squash in the last few items, just to see if it’s too heavy to carry and it almost certainly is, but I’ll manage.

As I frantically cram the last few things into the two bags, I mentally tick them off my list of things to take with me. Of course, the problem with a mental list is that you have to actually remember the things on it and you can guarantee I will always forget something.

Guess what? I’m running really late. It’s nearly 7 p.m. by the time I am making the short journey from my flat to the train station. I probably should have checked the train times, but I know there is one every half an hour so it should be fine. I really am so disorganised, but I think I secretly enjoy the drama. A few taps on my phone would tell me what time the train is due and what time it arrives in Manchester, but that would be way too easy, and if I start messing around with my phone then I’ll definitely miss my train.

After buying my ticket I check the departures board and learn that not only is my train due to depart in three minutes, but that it is departing from platform sixteen. Just brilliant.

I knew that I’d be running late, so I decided to get ready for the gig before I left home. The downside of this is that I’m freezing in my little dress but on the plus side it will save me loads of time when I get there, and at least I’m wearing my cosy Ugg boots. My pretty shoes are in my bag, I’ll make the swap when I get there.