Sun Don't Shine

As you probably all know us United Kingdom dwellers, the sensible ones anyway, are staying put for the summer. Our currency is worth about the same as the Deutschmark was in 1920, we're also terrified of catching swineflu or any other "Johnny Foreigner disease" and we've got to stay home to keep an eye on those sneaky money-grubbing politicians of ours. Turn our backs for one minute and the bastards'll have off with the crown jewels or summat. We're prepared to do without sunshine to make sure they stay nailed down for Italian schoochildren to queue up and look at.

Still, I made my mind up that I was staying put after hitting Heathrow the other week. *

"Oh," I hear you cry like just about everyone else I've talked to about this, "Terminal 5 is OK now. Quite space-agey and remarkably efficient."

No, can I stop you just there. Let's just take a moment and think of the service we expect when we go into anywhere else when we meet an operative. Say...a shop. What usually happens is, you say hello, they say hello back. A smile may even be forthcoming. Certainly minimal use of the words "please" and "thank you" will be witnessed. It happens that way because that's what human beings like a certain amount of polite social interaction equivalent to the situation. It oils the wheels of day to day business, and stops us from wanting to bash each other with big pointed sticks.

Everywhere you look in Heathrow there are signs, "Any abuse to our staff will not be tolerated". There's more blurb about prosecution etc, but I didn't take a photo of any sign in case I got wrestled to the ground and koshed. Something gives me the impression airport security operatives wake up every day hoping they'll get an opportunity to use their shiny anti-personnel devices. But no, no one should be verbally (or otherwise) abusing operatives of any kind. That's only fair. But in my hand, I have a chicken, and in the other I have an egg, and I'm thinking to myself, "Who let in the chicken?", and more traditionally, "What came first? Chicken or Egg?"

Heathrow staff are on the whole, incredibly rude. They practically invite abuse. Especially in the security areas. Now airport security is AN IMPORTANT AND SERIOUS THING, but it seems to be that with every person you meet along the way, the rudeness builds accumulating to tolerance bursting levels in the average traveler. If Jesus Christ were to be trying to catch a flight from Heathrow to Jerusalem (Easyjet for sure. He likes to be with "the people"...) even he'd end up taking a paddy somewhere along the line. He may even use his own name in vain.

Anyway let's just cut to the chase here, the story is I was frisked rather too roughly for someone whose only crime was that she didn't take her shoes off whilst going through airport security. Sorry if that's an anti-climax for some of you. You know who you are.

Now I've had a look back in the news archives and I am certain the hands that violated my lady parts were also the same ones that violated Diana Ross's lady parts. Now if THAT isn't a tenuous claim to fame, then I don't know what is.

Reason for Diana's frisking: She set off a metal detector (I can only assume she must have been wearing the dress she wore for the "Chain Reaction" video- she's never gonna get through a metal detector with that)

Reason for Misssy's frisking: She read a sign that said "You MAY be asked to remove your shoes". Then when she approached two male operatives who were chatting about football she asked "Have I to remove my shoes, operative?". The men looked through her and carried on chatting without response. Misssy does not remove shoes. Female frisker snaps on the leather gloves and eyes up her next victim.

And now, I give the floor to Diana, as she says it best:

"I have been through all the airports of the world and have never been subjected to such an intrusive search.I am a huggy person, I don't mind being touched, but not in this way - it was far too personal."

Ok, I am not a huggy person. In that respect, as indeed in some others, Diana and I differ. She has been hugged, no doubt, by Michael Jackson. I would never allow that.

Ms Ross continues:

"It was scary, I was scared, I'm worried about my children and I want to go home."

I hear you, Pet, but I was not worried about my children, just my ability to conceive any more.

Effectively a small woman of Hispanic origin repeatedly and roughly checked my every crevice over my clothes because I cheeked her. "Those shoes should be off!" she barked. "I did ask your colleagues, they ignored me. I assumed I was fine." (That was me cheeking her. That's all it takes to get some repeated, extended and rough frisking in front of an airport queue.)

Not content with the fact that no Weapons of Mass Destruction were dislodged from my uterus, she proceeded to wave her little wand over my head. "And you should have taken your hair-clip off!" she growled in a manner that suggested she might rip it unopened wrenching the hair from my skull at any point. I say nothing.

Barry Sheene: Had trouble at airports, no doubt.

She then finds a beep in the middle of my back. I have this sudden empathy for multi motor-bike race crash survivor and man held together by pins, Barry Sheen. This woman is clearly about to tell me that I should have also removed my bra. Evidently the clip at the back could be mistaken for a timing mechanism on a remote explosive device.


Anyway, this isn't a story. Because this is the kind of treatment we've come to accept in the name of National Security at Heathrow. No other airport I've ever been in comes close. But you're about to tell me otherwise, right?



* In all fairness I didn't. I said "I am never booking a trip that ever has to go through Heathrow, I will take my chances in Schipol."

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Testing times

Keanu Reeves

Don't panic, no dialogue in this post is relayed by him.

Realism is my middle name.

I have written before about how my job can bring out strange emotions in people. Appear somewhere with a camera and folk have a tendency to act like complete jerks. In my last post about my strange job over a year ago, I talked about the usual kind of nonsense comment I and my colleagues are subjected to from punters in the mildly irritating world of corporate video.


I said this:

There are common phrases that people I come across during my job say to me like it’s the first time I’ve ever heard them. Problem is, these people are paying you, so you can’t respond to them like they are annoying drunks that accost you in a nightclub.You must chuckle as if it is indeed the first time you have ever heard the following laughsome nuggets:


"Hey Misssy, I’m not doing my interview 'til I’ve seen my trailer! Hehehehehe!

"Hey Misssy, when’s my shower scene? Hehehehehehe!”

(Shouted to the bloke you're filming by a workmate), “Hoi Jim, you’ll be getting your Equity card next! Hehehehehe!” (Much laughter from both parties)

(Shouted to the bloke you're filming by a workmate), “Hoi Jim, you need a touch more makeup mate!” (Much laughter from both parties)


“Hey Misssy, does your wee dog bite?” (gesturing to the furry windshield for the mic)

What I didn’t blog about was the annoyance and paranoia that you are sometimes subjected to as a camera crew when you appear at a worksite of any description. I wish I could say it were rare but sadly it isn’t. Very often the folk who’ve commissioned you to do a programme in their worksite neglect to tell the workforce that you will be filming them. Or worse, they have told them and they’ve all run away. A mixture of the two happened in Canada.

However, in the shoot in question worse happened, and me and my cameraman were subjected to something that I’ve only experienced a couple of times in my increasingly long and drawn out career as a corporate video director; aggression, paranoia, hostility and Parental Advisory language.


The Paranoia

We’re there for three whole days. We’re filming drills and safety notices and safety inductions. It’s dull. Yet I could match every Canadian celebrity who the world thinks is American with the following types of approaches from the gossip bound crew:

“Hey, we hear you guys are from the news, whatya filming us for?” (And I'm matching that with Jim Carrey, native of Newmarket, Ontario)

“Hey, are you guys from the Discovery Channel?” (And I'm matching that with Mike Myers, native of Scarborough, Ontario)

“Hey, I don’t want filmed for the fucking news..” (And matching that one with Neil Young, native of Ontario)

“So I hear you guys are with the Discovery Channel” (What are you guys, bloody migrating wildebeest?) (Matching that one with Keanu Reeves, native of Toronto. Yeah, really you thought he was Hawaiian. He's not. No really.)

Those kind of comments were often said to us directly but more frequently we overheard whispers of "news crews..." "Discovery channel"..."Documentary crew"....as people cleared a room or site that we entered. I haven’t been able to watch the Discovery Channel since, in case I see any documentaries on people lifting supply containers onto ships. Life's just too bloody short.

Here’s what I would like to have said in response to these comments: “Why the blue blazes would any news channel or a documentary team or ANYONE be on this pile ‘o’ junk filming you dullards? Why? What are you up to that ANYONE would be interested in? What’s that you say? Nothing?...No, nothing, you’re dull, you’re guys hitting things with spanners and welding stuff, what’s to watch? Some of you can barely speak coherent sentences and touch your nose with your finger never mind be of international concern or interest. Now can I just film you taking the stairs safely or wearing the correct protective equipment, yes? Thank you.”

What I did actually say: “No, we’re not. We’re making your safety induction video. Now can I just film you taking the stairs safely or wearing the correct protective equipment. Thank you.”

I didn't get where I am today by being honest with people.


Hostility

Misssy: Hi, we’re here to film your safety induction video. Can I just ask if we could round up some guys to pretend to have a safety meeting so we can film it?

Person: Nah, I’m too busy.

****
Misssy: Hi, we’re here to film your safety induction video. Can I just ask if we could round up some guys to pretend to have a safety meeting so we can film it?

Person: Yeah go and see person X. She’ll sort it out. I’m too busy.

****

Misssy: Hi, we’re here to film your safety induction video. Can I just ask if we could round up some guys to pretend to have a safety meeting so we can film it?

Person X: What? Why is this my job? Who said this was my job? I don’t have any time for this? No. No way. Why do you even need to film that stuff. I’m way too busy.

****

Misssy: Hi, we’re here to film your safety induction video. Can I just ask if we could round up some guys to pretend to have a safety meeting so we can film it?

Person Y: Come back tomorrow.

Missy: We leave tomorrow.

Person: Then I’m too busy.

****

Misssy: Hi, we’re here to film your safety induction video. Can I just film you two guys sitting here in the smoking lounge. We need the footage.

Person A : Why the fuck do you need that?

Missy (whispers to cameraman): Record, dammit, record!

Person B: (As camera rolls, to Person B) Dude, why the fuck are they filming us?

Person A: I don’t fucking know.

Person B: I hear they’re from the fucking Discovery Channel.

Person A: Maybe they are making a programme about our migratory patterns.

Person B: Fucked if I know....

****

All of the above happened. ...repeatedly. OK a little artistic license with the last one, but they did say everything other than “migratory patterns” on tape, so I’ve proof. Apologies for the swearing. I did warn you with the Parental Advisory bit at the front. And as my son says, "It doesn't count if you're quoting."


Aggression (and Mild Peril)

I finally get some people who’ve been coerced into appearing in our shots. They also just happen to be the people who will use the DVD we are producing most. I know!

Misssy: So... I just need one of you guys to be in shot.

Person X: Well, it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me, I can tell ya that! (Slamming stuff shut and hurumphing about like a two year old)

Misssy: I actually don’t mind who it is. Can you decide which one of you it’ll be and just do your job as you would normally and we’ll record you doing it? It won’t take long and then we’ll leave you alone.

Person X: It ain’t about time! I don’t care how long it takes! It ain’t about time!

Misssy: Listen, I don’t care why none of you will help us. All I know is that if I don’t film you guys you won’t have a safety DVD and you won’t be able to legally operate. Now, it won’t take more than five minutes.

Person Y: It ain’t about that. It ain’t about time!

Misssy: Listen, I don’t CARE what it’s about. I just need the shot, OK?


Person Y: Hey there, don’t you..don’t you get testy!

Misssy: (speechless)


Now, that conversation actually happened. Two things to point out. Before this happened, we got thrown out of their office whilst they went mental about having to be filmed. Then their boss told them to get on with it. Then we came back in and tried to be pleasant as we realised we were 3 miles from shore and couldn’t leave so had to get on with it.

Second thing. The urge to laugh at the word “testy” was strong in me, and I managed to stifle it. You’ve no idea how hard that was. For one it sounds exactly the same as “teste” and I have a childish sense of humour. For another the guy who said “Hey there, don’t you get testy!” was consumed with rage yet said something so Ned Flanders that he may as well have been yellow with a cookie duster moustache. And the third thing is, I had to put up with insanely unprofessional levels of rage but as soon as I started to mildly assert myself I was likened to a bollock. There’s no justice in this world of ours.

That word “testy” might have been the words of a raging Ned Flanders-alike, but man, it was the Canadian equivalent of a Sicilian insulting someone’s Mama. He said “testy” and by God he meant “testy”!



Sometimes I bloody love my job. Not this time, though, not this time.




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We're gonna need a bigger boat

I realise that many people who read the Misssy M Misssives are in far flung parts of the world and come from diverse walks of life. Hello all diverse international lovelies sitting at home wherever you are with your Scots English dictionary at the ready. Conversely I realise that many others are from my local area of Aberdeen. "Fit like?" The folk of Aberdeen are, in the main, oil folks. If they aren't oil folks they are farming folks. And if they are not farm folks, they are fish folks. And if they are none of these things they are related to oil, fish or farm folks in some way, or know some socially at the very least. Oil folks, fish folks and farm folks are hard, and all of those camps will think me a jessie for the tale I am about to tell. So I turn to my other readers to defend me when I come across like a total big girl's blouse.

I am in Canada for work, and it's not going well.

I don't really want to go into the whys and wherefores but my journey to Canada took twenty three hours, when it shoud have take seven. Our arranged arrival time on the vessel we were filming on should have been 12.45pm. Instead it was 12 midnight. I know those sums don't add up. But this is called dramatic effect. And there's time differences involved so the laws of time and space are irrelevant.

We arrive in Halifax aiport and no-one is there to meet us. We are so knackered that me and my cameraman, once a wisecracking duo a few hours ago, are now only speaking to each other in monosyllabic grunts and limp-wristed hand gestures.

Instead of being collected at the airport, which I've got to tell you would have been nice at this juncture, we are informed by phone to take a taxi to an empty car park. Think the opening scene of The Usual Suspects, where Kaiser Soze kills Gabriel Byrne at the port in the middle of the night.

"Are you sure you've to be dropped off in an empty carpark at midnight in the pouring rain? That doesn't seem terribly safe," says our middle aged taxi driver.

My thoughts exactly, my friend.

"Apparently we've to find a Portakabin,"I say.

"I'm gonna hang around and make sure you guys find it before I drive off, okay" This guy is the reverse-Travis Bickle. I think I love him.

Sure enough we find a Portakabin at the edge of an unlit quayside carpark. It is "dingin doon". My hair is plastered to my face, occasionally it is whipped by strong winds to lash my ruddy, rain-battered, puffy, jet-lagged face. There is probably mascara running down my cheeks that I applied what would have been yesterday. I am awake all of a sudden.

This is my cameraman's first trip "offshore". He is mentally phoning the Job Centre.

This being our first trip away with one another, my cameraman and I have recently had that "What's your favourite film" type conversation. Jaws has been mentioned. We may have even acted out the scene where Captain Quint and Richard Dreyfus compare scars. "Fairwell and adieu, you fair Spanish ladies...." We will soon regret this.

Once in the Portakabin a guy that definately is a Lord of the Rings fan signs us in and asks us to put on lifejackets. I think of that last scene in LOTRs where all the dead characters go to Hobbit Heaven in a boat. I think that guy was thinking the same, but only cos he's constantly running the trilogy in his head on a loop.

A little boat arrives and our very own Captain Quint takes our stuff onboard. The rain has reached Biblical proportions. I am Captain Brodie. Suddenly I don't like the water so much. I don't know if we're supposed to, as the boat is mostly open, but we cram ourselves into the tiny bridgey control area where Quint and his pal, Salty Joe, are stashed. Quint says some stuff but we don't understand a word as it's in Seadog.

He is probably saying "Get out of my bridgey control area, mongrels."

In my head he's saying this; "Here's to swimmin' with bow legged wimmin!"

I might even say "Aye Aye Capt'n!" as I am delirious by this point.

Captain Quint and Salty Joe carry on making the boat work and eventually after a journey during which me and my companion exchange the whisper, "They look like cold blooded killers...", we suddenly stop in the water and are shouted at a something we don't understand in seaman's language.

We grab our kit and go out onto the deck hoping that the shouted something wasn't "Shark attack!" It is not. In front of us is a massive jack-up rig, jacked up very high indeed. One question pops into our heads, "How do we get up there?" One answer swings back down on the end of a wire. The answer is a Billy Pugh.

A Billy Pugh is a Personnel Transport System, but that's being too kind. You know the bit at the end of Mousetrap (the boardgame, not the long running West End murder mystery play) where the mouse gets caught in a domed cage? Well a Billy Pugh looks like that but has a bottom to it. For those with deep interest (or suspicion that I'm making this stuff up) you can see what I mean by going to www.BillyPugh.com where a man who sounds like, and may even be, Bill Clinton tells you how safe they are in a very unconvincing way. There is NOTHING safe about a Billy Pugh. I realise I'm opening myself up to litigation with that comment. Note I will counter sue for Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Let's just drop it, shall we, lads?

We get in to the Billy Pugh (which may or may not be named after someone called Billy Pugh) through vertical slits in the net that surrounds it. I notice briefly that there are closing straps that I imagine are designed to secure the gaping holes in the net so that we don't fall out to our watery deaths. As soon as I notice these unclosed straps, we are abruptly hoisted into mid air with absolutely no warning. I grab onto something and hope to God it's attached to the Billy Pugh and is not my poor cameraman who is now mentally applying to be a trolley-jockey at Walmart.

I am not afraid of heights, however I am afraid of falling from one through a gaping hole in a flimsy net that is all there is between me and the Atlantic. The wind is up, my hair and clothes are soaked by horizontal rain (I don't have a rainjacket, I am an idiot. But neither does my companion, so he's one too), I look like crap, the Atlantic smells like crap, so I reckon no-one will notice if I actually crap myself. If I do it in time I can kick it out the bottom of my trousers into the Altlantic through the gaping hole.

I do not crap myself. And if I did I wouldn't admit it here. All I can think of is, "My Mum would have a fit if she saw me in this."

By the time we land on the vessel, I am laughing like a demented loon. I sign myself in the visitors log as "Mary Queen of Scots" and go down to my cabin for a wee cry.

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Canada: Veni, Vidi, Forgot My Coat

Canadian things Misssy loves, No1: Mikey J

So I went to Canada last week, but I also kind of didn’t. Such is my job, I often go places but don’t really, usually because I am having to film something irritatingly utilitarian like a refinery or a chemical processing plant, or in this case a sea going vessel that also turns into an oil rig like some kind of very dull Transformer.


However, because all this video crapola has to be done thoroughly yet squeezed into such a short timescale as possible to save the operating companies spending more money than is strictly necessary, I rarely get to see anything outside these portals of Hell. In all, I think I spent ninety minutes on actual Canadian soil (I’m not counting airports; I spent considerably longer in them). Don't get me wrong, dear Canadian readers, those ninety minutes were lovely and involved some really nice (and welcome) alcohol, and I enjoyed checking out your fine moustachioed men, so no complaints there. In fact, I'd go as far to say I'd like to spend even longer than ninety minutes with you all next time. How about that?

Sadly, in this particular case I was forced to actually live onboard the tedious Transformer with no means of escape and was unable to go on the dry land of Halifax even once, which I was reliably informed by just about everybody that I met onboard, was “Really worth a visit”. Oh hahaha, everyone. Thanks for that. Yeah, I’d love to visit Halifax, if you lot would ever let me off your stupid boat, ya mongrels.

See how pissed off I am; I even broke into Australian there.

So yes, it was a great shame that all I could ever see of Halifax was a misty cityscape barely visible from the edge of the vessel through the fog and my salty tears about a couple of briny miles away. Before the trip, nobody told me the vessel wasn’t in port. We wrongly assumed that it might even have had a gangway allowing me and my crew to be able to get it off it and into a bar with ease once our daily work was done. Funny that no-one thought to mention that. Hmmm. Funny that no-one thought to question our human rights when the client told us that we didn’t need to book a hotel (which they would have been paying for) as there was “comfortable accommodation onboard”. Oh it just happens to be a mile or so into the middle of some big bit of water called the Atlantic. With no means of escape. And no telly. And fairly shit food.

In actual fact, I seem to distinctly remember our fifty-something client telling us weeks ago how great a place Halifax was and what a great old time we would have. Great restaurants, great bars, great people, he said. I actually remember him distinctly saying something about "There's always a party going on in Halifax". At the time I thought, "Hmmm, check you and your mid-life crisis" but now I'm thinking "How evil are you, chum?" He said the words "good time", "great laugh" and used the word "party" as an actual verb at one point, yet all the time he sat there knowing that in fact he was going to imprison us in his watery metal fortress that didn’t even have TV. Evil, pure evil.

So this is just an intro, as my trip is notable for three things and as such warrants three further separate posts. So using the teasing techniques so often employed in crappy TV shows like Britain’s Got Talent and X Factor and just about every non BBC documentary that ever gets made these days, I’m going to tell you the best bits upfront so that you’ll hang on this week and read them all in full.

Anyway, doctor, here’s what thinly veiled rants disguised as treats you can expect from the Misssives couch this week:

1. I make two Canadians angry and they mildly insult me. It’s the closest I think Canada’s ever come to a declaration of war. It may have even made the television news. I don’t know if it did, because where I was they didn’t have telly. I may have mentioned that already.

2. I am hoisted 100ft into the air in the dark and the rain above choppy seawater and all I can think is “Thank God my Mum can’t see this” (with pics, possibly)

3. Once again I fail to get through Heathrow without avoiding the light of touch frisking official who upset Diana Ross that time, and subsequently developing an aneurism.

All will be covered in detail, unless I get hit by a truck, which given my luck this week is entirely possible.




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Excuse Me, I'm Not With the Band (reprise)

Off to Canada for work this week so there will be no new Misssives. So like when play at Wimbledon gets cancelled and they put an old episode of Dad's Army on to fill TV schedule space, I've picked one of my own favourite posts from around 2 years ago to put up for the entertainment of those who never read it (which I imagine will be most of you). See you next week.

Excuse Me, I'm Not With the Band

My husband, Meeester is in a band. In fact he’s been in two bands since I met him.

I hooked up with him 16 years ago despite the fact that he is a musician. I never ever wanted anyone ever to label me as a groupie.

When Meeester was in his first band in his twenties, they toured all over the place. They went from Boston to Belarus, from Norway to Paris to Vienna. A wonderful time was had by all. I never went with them, for, unlike Anita Pallenberg, I am NOT with the band.

I went on one trip and vowed never to go again.

So, for all of you wannabe groupies, take heed, for this is the grim reality what being a groupie consists of.

The Journey
You will drive hundreds of miles in a van that only goes up to 50mph if the wind is in the right direction. You will empty your entire bank account into the pockets of motorway service station owners along the way. You would have brought sandwiches but how rock and Roll is a lunch box? Answer: Not very.

The van may also break down at various intervals. You will be expected not to whine on these occasions.

The Arrival
You arrive at the venue and will wait outside whilst band find the bloke they need to speak to before setting up. This guy is always called Dave (or Donny, if you’re in the Western Isles). He is always not there yet.

Alone for the first time, you will have to chat to the drummer’s girlfriend, who is different from the last girl you saw him with and different from the girl you will see him with next.

You think, “I’d better chat to her, but I don’t want to invest too much as she’ll be history come this time next month. She’s nice, but I will try not to get too attached”

The Get-In
You will grudgingly help with the load in. Never do heavy lifting, just take a token amount of cables in, that’s your lot.

Never ever carry a bloke’s guitar for him. Nothing says, “I’m with the band” like a lassie carrying her man’s axe. Meeester made me do this on Saturday at a festival because he had too much else to carry and I was not happy at breaking this fundamental rule of mine. This is the first time in 15 years that I have done it. Rest assured, I did whine about it.

And I’ve seen it happen so many times before. See girlfriend carry man’s guitar, man has no respect for girlfriend. She’s on her way out. Only people who play guitars should carry guitars. I carry my handbag and myself only. I feel jinxed now.

The Sound-Check
Shut UP! How annoying! Do anything else than hang around for the sound-check. Go for a walk, go for a pint, go run at a wobbly spear. Just distance your ear drums from “Bang! Bang! Bang!” “ Tchoo Thcoo Tcchoo! One-Tcchooo!”

Sound-checks will also take forever. Don’t plan on seeing your man any time soon. More chat with the soon to be ex-girlfriend of the drummer will be the order of the day.

The Cuisine
You will be forced to eat a crappy take-away. Few bands have their own chef, you know, and catering tents are only at festivals.

For the common and garden touring band and their entourage, it’s chips or a kebab or nothing. And if it’s in the Highlands of Scotland you better hope you arrive in town before seven o’clock or everything will be closed and you will all be fighting over a Pot Noodle that someone bought earlier from the last open petrol station, 150 miles away.

The Gig
If you're lucky, you will get to watch your man’s band play for 40 mins on stage . However, even this is fraught with anxiety as you spot other women drooling over your boyfriend at the front of the stage. These girls are legion and want desparately to live the groupie dream. These girls have not read blogs like this; they have read the many salacious memoirs of Pamela Des Barres or Pearl Lowe and want a piece of the groupie action.


The Earning Your Keep.
This is not a euphemism for groupie like sexual attention. You will be expected to help out and sadly this doesn’t mean being asked up on stage to duet with your loved one, Sonny and Cher style.

You may be asked to sell band merchandise (or hand out flyers, see this for more). This will involve stopping folk from nicking stuff, haggling with you or fending off drunken advances from cretins.

Worst of all, you may be sat outside in the cold corridor, unable to even see the band at all. You will have traveled hundreds of miles to sit in a corridor with condensation running down the walls and sell five t-shirts and a couple of CDs. Rock and Roll!

The After Gig Party
After the gig the band will want to relax, have a few drinks and wind down. You will still be selling merchandise.

If you’re lucky your man may come and offer you a drink from the rider. You will be disappointed when the rider doesn’t have any chilled Chardonnay. You will force down a warm can of McEwan’s Export instead and instantly need the loo and be unable to go because you can’t leave the merchandise.

When you finally pack up and join the band you will find a much younger woman hitting on your man. You will approach and be ignored by her. Your man may even introduce you as his girlfriend to her and she will still ignore you and carry on trying to bed him. At one point, either of you are going to have to find an unlocked cupboard and kick her into it and lock it behind her to get rid of her. Either that or the bass player will snap her up mid-punt, keeping everyone happy.

But make no mistake, these women will stop at nothing and you must be very secure in your relationship to be able to tolerate it and not want to go all Yoko Ono on their asses.

The Accommodation
Invariably you will discover the accommodation for the band has enough beds for band members only. Or worse, is one room only. Or worse, doesn’t exist and you all have to sleep in the van or at some random’s house.

Wannabe groupies may think hanging out with the band will mean wild sex with your chosen bloke in a series of luxurious hotel rooms. Sorry, that is rarely the case. There is nothing sexy about being squashed in a nylon sofa in a single sleeping bag with your snoring boyfriend whilst listening to the drummer and his new girlfriend getting it on 1 metre away from you.

The next day
Drive hundreds of miles to do it all again.

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