“Dad! I think I can see that bloke’s, er . . . bum.”

“What? Where? Oh, him . . . oh, that’s fine. That’s normal.” I’m transfixed by a staggeringly hairy bottom, rising like a hirsute moon over the back of a pair of grubby denims. The bum’s owner, Vinny, is bent double, wiring up a microphone in the center of Blackwell Live’s rather impressive stage.

“He’s a roadie,” announces Dad, biting into a veggie burger. Not Dad’s usual breakfast fare, but the lady setting up the burger van, one of the many culinary delicacies selling at Blackwell Live, offered him a free sample.

“What do you mean, ‘a roadie’?” I ask.

“That’s what Vinny is. He works on the road with rock bands, you see, setting their gear up and dismantling it all again and—”

“Wearing jeans that show his bum crack?” I giggle.

“Unfortunately, yes, it goes with the territory.” Dad smiles. “Hey, but don’t knock them. These lads your uncle Charlie brought with him are like gold dust, Ronnie. Best in the business.”

I can see that.

They’ve never stopped slaving away since the second they arrived on the Blackwell Live festival site. True to his word last Sunday, Dad called in a few favors from my uncle Charlie, who works with rock and pop bands; and, lured by an offer of free pub grub and limitless lager, Charlie rounded up a small team of rather jaded, equally hairy guys who could lend us a hand for Blackwell Live.

“Dad, what does Uncle Charlie actually do for a living?” I ask, squinting in the morning sun.

“He’s a tour manager; on the road with rock bands,” Dad explains, as if that makes things any clearer. Dad sees my bemused look. “Okay, well, when a band goes on tour, Charlie’s the bloke who makes sure they get to where they’re meant to be, and sorts out their money . . . and makes sure they’re in bed in time to look pretty the next day. All that important stuff that no one wants to do.” Dad nods at Charlie, who’s in deep conversation with Claudette.

“So, he’s like the band’s dad?!”

“Yeah, I suppose he is.” Dad chuckles. “But I bet they give him less trouble.”

“Cheers, Dad,” I groan.

“Hey, Ronno, it’s a bit of luck, though, eh? That these lads had a few days going spare? They’re on their way down south to another gig, y’know? I told ’em your gig was for charity. A kiddies’ charity. That’s it, isn’t it?” says Dad, wiping onions and ketchup off his face.

“Yeah, sort of,” I reply.

Charlie’s arrival was more than “a bit of luck,” it was a god-send: Blackwell Live’s road crew comprised of three roadies, Vinny, Blu and Pip, as well as three enormous, burly, bald-headed security guys with awesomely wide necks and biceps the size of my thighs. One of our security blokes, who boasted an eagle tattoo on his neck, went by the nickname of Masher. I didn’t press Charlie for a reason why. It was just great knowing that McGraw now had to quit his yakking about Blackwell Live getting out of hand.

“Anyway, Charlie owes me,” concludes Dad, watching as a multicolored Blackwell Live banner is hoisted above the stage by two Year 7 girls. “I’ve bailed that rogue out of trouble enough times over the years.” Dad adds, burping majestically, “Hey, fantastic burger, by the way, Ron! You wanna try one?”

Tempting, but I couldn’t eat a thing.

Today is the big day! It’s July twelfth! Today is Blackwell Live!

I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or vomit.

It’s 10:00 A.M. Surreally enough, in under three hours our opening act, Christy Sullivan, will take to the stage. The lovely Christy is backstage already, pacing back and forth in an expensive Italian silk shirt in navy, snakeskin jeans and dark sunglasses; he’s chatting nervously to his, in my opinion, even better-looking older brother, Seamus.

“Er, are you sure you need me today, Ronnie?” Christy says, his voice faltering. “I mean, I’m not bothered if you wanna cancel me. I know I’m not much of a singer and all that . . .” Christy’s face is as white as chalk.

“Oi! You’re not getting out of this that easy, Christy Sullivan.” I smile reassuringly. “Besides, then there would be a riot.”

Christy attempts a smile, but a worried frown battles through. Seamus rolls his eyes at me.

I make a mental note to have Masher keep a close eye on him—we can’t have our opening act absconding over the back fence. Saying that, I’m not much calmer. I barely slept a wink last night and I certainly can’t face breakfast. I must be functioning right now on pure nervous energy.

The LBD were here on Blackwell’s playing fields until almost 10:00 P.M. last night, taking delivery of one rather magnificent all-weather stage, two huge powerful speakers, and a modest refreshments marquee and dance tent. That was very exciting!

All paid for in full too!

Ha, stick that in your pipe and smoke it, so-called Cyril from Castles in the Sky.

It took hours of hammering, carrying and hoisting by the Castles crew, but as darkness fell, we had a proper festival site with a real PA system, just like you see on MTV!

“Pah, who needs Astlebury? This is much better!” announced Fleur, which made the roadies laugh out loud.

“Hey, you’re not wrong, kiddo,” chirped up Uncle Charlie. “Small music festivals are always better, there’s a better vibe,” he drawled.

That made us all smile.

Well, for a short while anyhow. Charlie then continued to tell the LBD an exceedingly long-winded story about his first Astlebury Festival experience back in 1978. “Back when the festival was only fifty people and a few goats” and “it was all about the music then” and “not the big corporate event that rock festivals are these days blah blah blah. . . .” But by this time the LBD’s minds were on other matters at hand, such as getting back to Fleur’s to make backstage passes. Yes, you heard that right. Backstage passes! Apparently we needed them.

“Look, girls, there’s no point having a backstage VIP area and Masher and the lads guarding it if we don’t know who’s meant to be inside or outside of it!” Uncle Charlie had warned us. “Especially if you’re expecting trouble with that . . . wossis name? Christy Sullivan? That’s ’im. Christy Sullivan’s fans. Oooh, they’re the worst offenders at festivals, those young teenage girls. They’ll spend their whole day either screaming their lungs out, giving me a migraine, or plotting to get backstage and manhandle the talent. Bane of my life . . . ,” Charlie moaned.

So with that peril in mind, the LBD were up till well after 1:00 A.M. last night, cutting and pasting Access All Area passes for bandmembers, friends and crew; and with their glittery, laminated finish and candy-striped ties, very chic they are too! Poor Fleur has been delegated the task of dishing the passes out, a job I do not envy. Every Blackwell kid wants to go backstage and rub shoulders with the bands, and every band had a posse of mates they want to take backstage with them. It’s a nightmare working out who to say no to! Fleur’s phone never stopped buzzing on Friday, the worst offenders being the EZ Life Syndicate, who by 11:00 P.M. last night had demanded THIRTY AAA passes for “the Syndicate” and “their entourage”! Bless Christy Sullivan, he only wanted three passes: for his mum, dad and granny. Awww. He’s so sweet, you could eat him, isn’t he?

Of course, even with the AAA passes made, I still had my hair to dye from dark brown to “Auburn Gloss,” my nails to French manicure and my festival outfit to choose! Every combination of every garment I own was tried, assessed and discarded, creating a towering clothes mountain of skirts, denims and tops, then eventually, at 4:00 A.M. this morning, I settled for the outfit I’m wearing now: my hippest deep-indigo-colored hipster jeans, a minxish midriff-exposing baby-pink T-shirt and . . . wait for it . . . a hot-pink lacy thong that Fleur bought me last Christmas, arranged so you can see a glimpse of it from the back of my jeans! Obviously, I’ve spent the whole morning turned away from Dad so he doesn’t see the thong and burst a main artery.

“Sure I can’t get you anything to eat, Ronnie?” asks my dad, placing his arm around my shoulder as Ainsley and Candy from Death Knell stagger past backstage, carrying flutes, synths, steel drums and bags of costumes. “You’ve not had a bite yet,” Dad worries.

“I’ll have a large coffee, please, Dad,” I say. “As strong as you like.”

It’s going to be a long day.

By 11:00 A.M., backstage is really hotting up: Fleur Swan is flitting about with an armful of Access All Area passes, her tiny pert posterior clad in perilously miniscule black velvet hot pants. Obviously, Fleur looks a zillion dollars and certainly has the eye of Killa Blow from the EZ Life Syndicate, who never misses a chance to cup her waist with his arm or direct a joke in her direction, making her dissolve into fits of giggles.

“You’re terrible, Killa! Leave me alone,” squeals Fleur unconvincingly until they spot our compere Paddy Swan, clad in a pinstripe suit, looking ever so slightly like a simmering psychopath.

“Errr, morning, Mr. Swan, lovely to see you.” Killa winces, removing his hands from Paddy’s daughter, then continues to beg Fleur for more Access All Area passes so more of his “crew” can “show him some love” backstage. And as each face arrives, Claudette Cassiera, looking blithe and beautiful in close-fitting black jeans and an aqua-blue crop top with Top Bird across the front, plus funky handlebar bunches in her hair, ticks them off on her bright red clipboard, warning everybody to listen out for an important announcement at 11:30 A.M.

“If you want to know what time you’re going on stage and in what order, do yourself a favor and be here,” Claude warns, turning to me with a quizzical look. “Ronnie,” she whispers as Guttersnipe’s Benny and Tara report in for duty, “have you any idea which band your uncle Charlie’s roadies and security usually work for?”

“Funny you should ask,” I reply, helping pin a rose into Tara’s crimped white-blond hair. “They’re very tight-lipped about it, aren’t they? I can’t get a straight answer. That roadie Pip keeps changing the subject, and as for Vinny—”

“Vinny says he can’t remember!” Claude adds.

“And Uncle Charlie just said ‘no comment’ when I asked.” I laugh. “Hey, it must be someone reeeeally embarrassing, eh? They’re too ashamed to admit it.”

“Must be,” agrees Claude. “But never mind, they’re being absolute stars anyway. Masher is doing a brilliant job on the main entrance gate. There’s hundreds of kids here already waiting for us to open and not one of them has got past him!”

“Er, that might be something to do with the fact he looks like a bulldozer in a bomber jacket,” I venture. “He’s got SATAN SLAVE tattooed on his left hand, have you seen that?”

“Exactly,” Claude chirps. “He’s the perfect security guard.”

She has a very hard streak, that girl.

As Claude prepares to speak to the group, I scan the backstage area: There’s the whole extended EZ Life Syndicate, Killa Blow with his breathtaking defined cheekbones wearing an ostentatious bright white padded jacket-trousers combo and more gold than Queen Elizabeth II on a state occasion. Killa is flanked by pretty Chasterton chicks with high ponytails and large silver hoop earrings and lads wearing designer sportswear, Burberry caps and expensive shoes. Close by, Aaron, Naz and Danny from Lost Messiah are messing about, dressed in ripped combats and sleeveless vests emblazoned with gold dragons and prints of ninja warriors. Very sexy. Naz is plastering liquid hand soap into his hair, trying to form a perfect Mohawk, while beside him, Catwalk’s Abigail and Leeza are making a big display of brushing their toned bodies with strawberry-scented talcum powder.

“Our outfits are so tight, we have to use talc to slide them on easier!” shrills Abigail, showing off her black rubber catsuit. It appears the whole of Catwalk will be coordinated today in identical ultra-close-fitting Lycra and rubber items. Derren and Zane (who are both extra orange-skinned today) are pouring their taut limbs into rubber trousers and ripped black Lycra vests. If you ask me, they look like some sort of lame intergalactic fighting force.

“Remember, Leeza, I’m wearing the most expensive suit!” pipes up the irritating tones of Panama Goodyear, who is drawing a perfect plum lip line around her pouting mouth. “So don’t even think about putting it on,” she snaps.

Leeza looks embarrassed, then mutters: “Okay, Panama,” opting for a less impressive catsuit.

And I should have guessed what was coming next. I mean, you can’t have one without the other, can you?

“Yoo-hoo, Jimi!” squeals Panama as Lost Messiah’s lead singer eventually makes his appearance, winking at Claudette and nodding a nervous hello to me while Panama crawls all over him like the Ebola virus.

“I was worried about you, darling!” she simpers, trying to kiss his face.

“Oh, give it a rest, Panama,” says Jimi, gently trying to push her off with more than a flicker of discomfort.

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Panama giggles. “I just want to kiss my boyfriend, is that so wrong?” she asks, groping his chest and slobbering on his face.

“Gerroffff,” Jimi says, pushing her makeup-laden face away from his pristine white T-shirt.

Sigh.

I wish with all my soul that Jimi wasn’t so unbelievably hot: It wouldn’t feel like someone was kicking me up the bum with a pointy shoe every time I see him with that evil witch.

“Ooh, things don’t look too rosy over in Camp Panama and Jimi, do they?” whispers Fleur, arching an eyebrow. “What was that Ainsley said about giving them a week?”

But I know she’s just being kind.

“Don’t,” I groan.

“So, hello, everyone!” shouts Claudette, climbing up onto a chair to be seen. “Can I have a bit of order now?! Yes, that means you too, Lost Messiah, shut up!”

“Sorry, Claude,” shouts Naz, his hair now jutting skyward like a bass-playing cockatiel.

“Okay now, I’ve gathered you all here to tell you today’s running order and . . . er, hang on a second. Liam, are you okay?”

Claude breaks off, spying Liam Gelding copiously vomiting into a nearby bin.

“Stage fright.” Benny Stark winks, patting Liam’s back.

“Well, can he hurl quietly, please? I’m trying to speak here,” continues Claude. “Now, our gates open in under thirty minutes’ time, at noon. As you all have probably seen, we’ve got the bellringers positioned at the front gate, so that’s one act safely accounted for. Now, I want the first stage act, which we all know is Christy Sullivan, ready to go on at one o’clock. Christy, are you with us?”

“Sort of,” says Christy regretfully.

“Good. Then, at quarter to two, I need Guttersnipe ready to rock. Tara, Benny, Liam, are you fine with that?”

“No bother, man.” Benny nods.

Splagghhhhhh goes the sound of Liam’s breakfast splattering on the side of the bin.

“Has he got hollow legs?” asks Claude. “That’s a lot of vomit.”

“He’ll be okay,” assures Tara. “Once he gets it all up.”

Panama wrinkles her nose in Guttersnipe’s direction. “Uggh, how vile,” she mutters.

“So that takes us up to two-thirty, when I want Death Knell on stage. Then, after that, at three-fifteen, I need EZ Life Syndicate ready to rumble. Now, EZ Life, there’s only room for twelve of you on the stage, so decide now who’s performing and who’s gonna be left at the side holding the coats. If all thirty of you—or however many of you there are now—jump up and down on stage together, I have it on good authority from Pip and Vinny, our roadies, that the stage could collapse like a souf flé. We do not, repeat, do NOT want that, do we?”

“No, Claude,” mutters EZ Life as a huge debate explodes about who is and isn’t performing today.

“But I wrote that first song!” moans one lad with a red bandana wrapped around his head. “I should go on for verse two at least.”

“You only joined EZ Life two days ago!” one girl is yelling across to a tall black lad, apparently called Dane, with intricate mini-dreadlocks all over his head.

“Yeah, but I drove the van here!” Dane argues back. “And if I don’t get to rap, I’m driving it home again without you lot in it!”

“He’s got a point there,” announces Killa, clearly imagining the entire EZ Life Syndicate on the Number Thirty-nine bus back home to the Carlyle Estate.

“Okay, that’s decided, then: Dane is rapping on all the songs,” announces Killa, causing much uproar.

“Oh, and EZ Life, remember, I need you off stage, no ifs, no buts, by four P.M.,” says Claude. “Because next up is Lost Messiah. If there’s any problems at all with either band, just shout up now. Oh, and good luck!”

Of course, sadly, we all know what that means.

I know. Fleur knows. Claude obviously knows.

And Panama Goodyear and her goblins certainly know too, if their expressions of boundless glee are any indication.

I hate to even say it, but it’s the irrefutable truth: Catwalk is Blackwell Live’s starring act.

Panama didn’t meet our gaze or even murmur a word; however, we all know Catwalk are certain victory is theirs. Bullying and nastiness has won the day. It’s simply less hassle to just give Catwalk their own way. And what is more, it’s what the crowd really really wants.

That sucks.

“And after this,” Claude continues, unfazed, “the refreshments tent will keep serving drinks until nine-thirty P.M., where Johnny Martlew from Year Thirteen will be spinning, er . . .” Claude reads from a piece of paper, “An eclectic mix of rare grooves and party anthems.”

“So, anything he feels like, then?” shouts Tara.

“Er, yeah.” Claude laughs. “And I’ll be there too, so buy me a drink!”

As Claude leaps down from her chair, Fleur and I whisk her aside for a private chat.

“Claude, are you sure we’ve done the right thing here?” I say, feeling more than a little sad.

“Yeah, Claude. It just doesn’t feel right,” whispers Fleur. “I always thought that we’d have the last laugh with Catwalk, but we’ve made them the stars of our show! Okay, I know we had no choice, but still . . .”

“I know,” says Claude. “But let’s face it, the whole of Blackwell School have bought tickets to see an unforgettable show, haven’t they?”

“S’pose,” we both mumble.

“And they all want to see Catwalk, don’t they?” Claude asks.

“Yeah, s’pose,” Fleur admits begrudgingly.

“Well, let’s be gracious about it, then. We have to give the ticket buyers what they want, haven’t we?” Claude says calmly. “And to be frank, we’ve got bigger priorities to deal with now anyhow. It’s time to open the gates!”

liftoff

“Mayday! Mayday! Operation Eagle Has Landed is GO!!!!” shouts Masher into his walkie-talkie as Blackwell’s gates fling open and the first ticket holders pour in. I sneak onto the stage to watch the first arrivals.

“Chrrrrrrrrrrrisssssssttttyyy Sullivan, I love you!” squeals one girl, accompanied by two dozen or so assorted Year 8 lovelies, clutching roses and teddies, running as fast as their legs will carry them toward the main stage. Predictably, the first hundred bodies all seem to be Christy’s loyal fans. WE LUV U CHRISTY XXX reads one banner, already being waved aloft proudly by a blond girl. SHOW US YOUR BUM, CHRISTY! YOU MAJOR HOT-TIE!!! XXX invites another.

“Told ya,” says Uncle Charlie, who has appeared beside me. “That’s where the trouble lies. Teenage girls . . . mark my words, I’d rather supervise football hooligans, far less scary,” he remarks, observing Gonzo, one of our security men, splitting up a squabble involving a gaggle of girls who are trying to climb over the front barrier, closest to the stage.

“But I’ve been in line since eight o’clock this morning! I should get the best view!” squeals one girl, elbowing another young lassie who for some mysterious reason has felt-tipped CHR and ISTY on her right and left cheeks. (Yeah, like that’s going to improve her chances of snogging him.)

Meanwhile, up at the front gates, I watch as a steady flow of girls and boys hand their tickets to Masher and flood into the field: kids with facial piercings, shaved heads and gothic jewelry, kids with chic designer labels on show and patterns shaved into their eyebrows, kids with jeans worn so baggy, the bum section droops by the back of their knees. I can barely recognize some familiar faces without their school uniforms; in their “civilian clothes,” people take on whole new guises. It’s especially fantastic to see audition rejects like Chester Walton, Shop and Constance Harvey have swallowed their pride and bought tickets; I can even see Matthew Brown, happily without Mr. Jingles, his talking bear, standing in the ever-growing queue for hot dogs and burgers. And in the middle of the thousand or so festival goers already present, meandering gingerly through the crowd, observing the field like a social experiment, is Mr. McGraw, our headmaster, and his laugh-a-minute wife, Myrtle.

“Having a good time, Mr. McGraw?” shouts one lad.

“Hmm, we’ll see, shall we?” replies McGraw glumly, spotting a group of Year 9 girls who are already stripped down to bikini tops in the glorious lunchtime sunshine. “This place is like a nudist colony,” he mutters to his wife. Nearby, enterprising Year 13 girls are doing hot business selling aromatherapy massages and henna tattoos, while at a little stall adjacent to them, Blackwell’s resident psychic, Candice from Year 9, is selling “Spiritual Readings from the Other Side” for £5 a time.

“This is tantamount to witchcraft!” mutters Myrtle McGraw. “I’m not sure the Reverend Peacock would approve.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” assures McGraw. “Here are the Blackwell bellringers ready to give their recital, now this is more like it.”

And he’s sort of correct, I suppose. Indeed it is George, Jemima, et al, from the bellringing team; Claude has placed them nearest the main gate, figuring the atrocious noise will hurry people through the gates toward the main stage more efficiently; however, I feel McGraw is going to be less than pleased with the selection of pop music we’ve convinced George’s team to learn and play.

“Saints preserve us! What’s wrong with ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’?!” moans Myrtle as the bellringers clang and ding-dong through a selection of R-and-B and nu-metal classics.

“What about ‘Land of Hope and Glory’?” shouts McGraw, as if his entire world is collapsing.

I could people-watch all day, just taking in the developing scene proudly as seas of faces, kids from both Blackwell and Chasterton, plus a generous sprinkling of mums and dads, fill the festival site.

Not my mum, though.

I left a few messages with her and even asked Dad to call her, but she never gave a proper yes or no whether she’d come.

“It might be a bit difficult,” Mum said, whatever that means. But I’ve not got time to think about that now, Claude and Fleur have appeared by my side, and Vinny is giving us the thumbs-up. The equipment is sound-checked and ready to go.

“Come on, Dad!” Fleur yells to Paddy, who seems to be giving Christy Sullivan a stern pep talk by the side of the stage. “It’s time for you to kick things off!”

“Pull yourself together, boy,” Paddy is saying to Christy. “They love you out there . . . and you haven’t even sung a note yet!” Paddy assures. Then he marches onto the stage to a rapturous applause from the first ten rows of near-hysterical girls.

“Hello, Blackwell Live!” begins Paddy. “Welcome! And I’d like to start today by thanking you all for—”

“CHRRRRIIISSSTTTTTY!!!!! AAAAAGGGGH!” erupts the front row.

“Er, for coming along and supporting today. We’ve got a lot of great—”

SCREEEEEEEEEEAM! goes the crowd.

“Ahem, great music in store for you today, so I hope that—”

“I LOVE YOU, CHRISTY! MARRY ME!!” pleads one girl, drowning Paddy out completely. “GET YOUR PECS OUT FOR

THE GIRLS!!”

All the front row begin cackling like drains.

“Oh, forget it,” grunts Paddy, admitting defeat. “Here, without any further ado, is Christy Sullivan!”

“HURRRAY! WOOOO-HOOOO!!!”

Well, from where I’m standing it doesn’t look like Christy is going anywhere. He’s rooted to the ground, opening and closing his mouth, shaking like a trifle on top of a tumble dryer. Eventually, as Christy’s brother Seamus, playing the synthesizer, is forced to play the opening bars of the track for a second time, Claude and I grab Christy by the collar of his navy silk shirt and literally hurl him onto the stage!

YYYYYYYEEEEESSS!! leaps the hearts of a hundred Christy Sullivan fanatics. One tiny girl who has had a picture of Christy made into a T-shirt promptly begins to sob gently. Bizarre.

“Er, hello,” begins Christy meekly, picking up his microphone. “It’s great to see you all today, and this is my first song that I wrote myself, called ‘Back to Square One.’ ”

Initially Christy’s voice is shaky, but within a few verses, he loosens up and begins to enjoy himself, especially when he realizes that nobody can hear a note he’s singing anyhow. The screaming is drowning him out. In fact, as long as our man Sullivan wiggles his bum in the right places and occasionally pops open another button on his shirt, revealing a further inch of his sumptuous chest, Christy’s fans are happy as happy can be. At one point during Christy’s second track, Vinny and Pip run on stage and hand Christy another microphone.

“That mike’s broken!” Vinny shouts. “It’s been dead for the last three verses! Did you not realize?!”

“No!” Christy blushes. “I can’t hear anything for those girls!”

“Pah. And he’s not even that good-looking,” tuts Uncle Charlie, watching the drama, which is quite ironic, as Charlie himself has a face like a dropped pie. In fact, when Dad used to say Charlie “lived on the road,” I always took it to mean he literally lived in the gutter, as he almost looks like a tramp. “I can’t understand it me’self,” Charlie says, shaking his head.

I retreat backstage, where there’s now well over two hundred people crowded together, all with much-coveted AAA passes tied around their necks. Frankie and Warren from Wicked FM are interviewing Claude while Fleur is doing her best to appear in all the Look Live TV footage of the gig by dancing suggestively near the cameraman in hot pants the size of a tea bag.

Suddenly Mrs. Guinevere appears from nowhere with a huge smile on her face. “Excellent! This is just excellent. I’m so pleased with you girls,” she says. “It’s just like I imagined it would be!” Then she gives me a big warm hug, which feels surprisingly un-weird, considering she’s a teacher.

“Oi, Ronnie!” shout Naz and Aaron, who are standing close by. “Nice one!”

“Cheers.” I blush.

“Better go and meet your fans.” Mrs. Guinevere giggles.

“You did it. It’s unbelievable!” Aaron smiles, wrapping his arms around my waist, planting a big kiss on my forehead. Then Naz grabs me and does the same, sort of swinging me around by my hips as he smooches the top of my hair. I could get quite used to this.

“Hello, Ron,” says Jimi, appearing beside them. “It’s going really well, isn’t it?” he begins.

“Yeah, it is. Thank you,” I say, trying to sound normal. In fact, “normal” at this moment would be a great look to pull off. Because if I’ve only imagined that Jimi had fancied me, then I can’t really have a problem with him having another girlfriend, can I? In fact, I must be imagining now that Jimi is acting a bit weird and awkward around me again. Because there was never anything between us in the first place, was there? So why would he be? I mean, why?

God, I wish I could turn my head off sometimes. I wish the back of my neck had a Jimi Steele ON/OFF switch I could flick off when he’s around so I wouldn’t act like a crazed loon. I’d be using it right now.

“Looking forward to your turn?” I ask.

“Bit scared,” says Jimi. “Don’t tell the boys, though.” He nods toward Aaron and Naz, who are chatting up two of the EZ Life girls. “If one of us starts freaking out, we all will.”

We both giggle, then we just look at each other.

There’s a little silence.

“Well, good luck,” I say.

“Cheers, Ronnie,” Jimi says a little sadly, looking at the floor, his long eyelashes batting against sun-burnished cheeks. “I’ll come and have a chat with you later at the disco, eh?”

“Yeah,” I say, “sure thing!” And then I wander off to find Fleur.

Of course Panama will never allow that, and he didn’t mean it anyway; but it was a kind thing to say.

As Christy crashes off stage, sweaty and exhausted, and is immediately wrapped in a blanket and given a cup of hot sweet tea by his mum and granny, Claudette is rounding up Guttersnipe to replace him on stage.

“We’re already running late,” shouts Claude. “It’s two o’clock! Christy played fifteen minutes more than he was meant to!”

Christy tries to apologize, but Mrs. Sullivan butts in: “Well, it’s not my son’s fault if he had to do four encores, is it?” she announces proudly. “The crowd wouldn’t stop screaming!”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll shut them up,” remarks Tara, pulling her black bass guitar’s strap over her neck and strutting toward the stage as confidently as her tight black pencil skirt will allow, Benny Stark tagging behind her.

“Come on, Liam,” Claudette is whispering. “You can do this. You know you can. You’re a really good guitarist. Just do it.”

“But people don’t think that, do they?” Liam is whispering back, clearly in the grips of extreme last-minute nerves. “People will just laugh. They just think I’m some kind of joke. I am a joke,” he adds quietly.

“Well, I don’t think you are,” says Claude, grabbing his hand. “You’re not a joke to me, Liam.” Claude notices me standing close by. “Er, or to Ronnie. Or to Fleur. We take you very seriously.”

“Thanks, Claude,” says Liam.

And then he’s gone, up the little set of stairs onto the stage, where Christy Sullivan’s fans have since dispersed in search of drinks to soothe their raw throats, leaving a less screechy, music-appreciative crowd.

“This one’s called ‘Promise,’ ” begins Liam, picking up his guitar, earning a small cheer from the audience. Claude watches him proudly, singing along with the first verse quietly to herself.

“Excellent, I’ve found you,” begins Dad, brandishing a carton of Singapore noodles and a yellow plastic fork. “And now, my child, it is time for Veronica’s lunch.”

“Dad, I can’t eat a—” I begin to resist.

“Woman cannot live on music alone,” interrupts Dad. “That’s the old proverb, isn’t it?”

“Hmmm, not really,” I say as Dad wafts the tempting carton under my nostrils.

“Well, I’ve not seen you eat a morsel now for twenty-four hours. So I’m putting my foot down,” Dad argues, being as stern as he possibly gets.

“Oh, I suppose I could try a forkful.” I smile, grabbing the noodles with both hands, as admittedly they do smell fantastic, then flouncing off to the rear of the backstage area to grab a well-needed seat for ten minutes.

“My fatherly work is done,” announces my satisfied dad, heading back toward the beer tent.

So I’m sitting slurping my noodles, watching Death Knell change into their stage costumes with mild amusement. Not only are Ainsley Hammond and all the Death Knell boys wearing white laboratory coats smeared with (I hope) fake blood plus doctor’s stethoscopes, Candy and the rest of the girls are clad in tasteless secondhand white wedding dresses with lashings of black lipstick. Yessirree, Death Knell really are going overboard on the freaky look today. They look outrageously mad. Behind Death Knell, Leeza and Derren from Catwalk are having a last-minute rehearsal.

“And a one, two, three, four, spin! Turn! Flutter your hands! Sashay!” shrieks Derren as Leeza prances around, pouting and spinning.

“Perfect, darling!” announces Derren. “Just perfect!”

Schluuuurrrrrrp I go loudly, my face drenched in soy sauce, pausing to pick a chunk of chicken from my back teeth.

“Mmm, what fetching table manners.” Derren winces, throwing a snotty look in my direction. For some strange reason, I see this and just . . . well, I flip out, somewhat.

“Oh, bite me, tangerine face!” I yell to Derren, standing up and taking my noodles elsewhere.

Oh, how I wish I’d got a picture of that moment.

Derren is uniquely lost for words, while Leeza, well, she almost collapses with shock that someone has answered them back. It feels great! Even if, bravely, I’m running away as rapidly as my hooves can carry me, I feel utterly jubilant; I’m barely looking where I’m going as I dart through the backstage crowd, half-expecting to be lynched by the evil Lycra-clad duo.

And that’s when I spot a face weaving through the VIP area I find strangely familiar. Like a long-lost friend, but not quite, standing directly before me, seeming vaguely adrift and vulnerable. I stare for about a minute at the boy, who’s aged around nineteen or twenty, wearing a bottle-green baseball cap pulled right down, displaying only the smallest tuft of his sandy hair.

Is it one of Fleur’s brother’s mates? No, that’s not it.

Does he drink in the Fantastic Voyage? Nuh-huh.

I’m too scared to say hello now, as I don’t want one of those embarrassing moments when I have to ’fess up I’ve forgotten his name, so I end up just staring even more, checking out his gray T-shirt and slightly flared pale-blue jeans, his strong jawline and perfect white teeth. I even recognize the distinctive way he walks. This is freaky. I feel like I’ve met him at least a thousand times before. But not here. Definitely in a different place. This makes no sense. Eventually he catches me staring and makes tracks toward me.

“Hey, I’m, er, looking for Charlie. Have you seen him?” says the familiar voice.

“Uncle Charlie?” I begin, my cheeks slightly flushing. “Er, I mean Charlie, yeah, he’s about. Somewhere . . .”

“Uncle Charlie?” repeats the lad, smiling. “That’s too funny. I suppose he’s my uncle too, really. He certainly acts like it . . .” He chuckles. “So, you’ve seen him around here lately? I sorta need to tell him I’ve showed up. He’ll be, shall we say, surprised.”

“Look, do I know you from somewhere?” I begin, deciding to come clean.

But at that moment, Uncle Charlie appears like a furry tornado, whispering as loudly as a man can without actually shouting, dragging both me and the mystery guest into a corner for a private discussion.

“OH, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE?!” Charlie exclaims, poking the lad’s chest. “What are YOU doing here? We agreed you’d lay low for the day.”

“Pggghhhh, but I was soooo bored,” moans the lad. “I’ve been in the hotel for two days. I’d watched all the movies and ate all the room service toasted sandwiches I could face. . . . I want to meet some real people, Charlie!”

“Well, that’s a good job, Mr. Saunders. Because there’s nearly two thousand of them out there. Is that real enough for you?” Charlie snaps, pulling his walkie-talkie from his pocket and barking into it. “Masher. MASHER! Gonzo! Calling all security!” bellows Charlie into his walkie-talkie. “Do you read me? We have an incident in the backstage area. Repeat: an incident. Spike has decided to make a little impromptu appearance. Repeat: Spike Saunders is in the area! Are you receiving this? Over.”

Every milliliter of blood seems to drain from my body. I feel like I’m going to faint. The mystery guest just gazes at his shoes, clearly quite ashamed of the fuss.

“Sorry if I’m causing a fuss, er, Ronnie, is it?” the boy begins, rearranging his baseball cap.

“WHAT??? ARE YOU!? Er, I MEAN . . . ARE YOU HIM!!! Like, really him?! REALLY SPIKE SAUNDERS!! THE REAL ONE!! OH MY GOD! I can’t believe it??!! You’re Spike Saunders!” I splutter and pant, gazing at a face I see every day in magazines and on TV.

“ ’Fraid so,” says Spike, then he grins.

I have GOT to pull myself together: It’s either that, or simply die of shock directly here on the spot. And that’s not cool.

“But, er, how? And why? Yes, why? Why would this happen? And why are you . . .? And, can I just tell you, Spike, that I loovved your last CD and I play it all the time. Especially when my mum left last week . . . I played ‘Merry Go Round’ continuously for about an hour,” I begin to twitter, realizing that this is now so far away from cool that cool is actually in a distant galaxy.

So I shut up.

“Cheers,” says Spike. “That’s nice to hear.”

“Right!” announces Charlie, scratching his head. “Ronnie, I’m dead sorry, lovey, I should have been straight with you, but this one ’ere always causes a bleeding all-out riot, so we kept schtum.” Charlie takes a deep breath. “For my sins, Ronnie: I am Spike Saunders’ tour manager.”

“SPIKE SAUNDERS!!!” I shriek. Charlie quickly shoves his hand over my mouth.

“Shhhhh,” Charlie says. “Likewise, Vinny, Pip and Masher, et cetera, are Spike’s road crew. We’re on our way down to Astlebury, where Spike’s playing next weekend.”

“I know! I know! You’re headlining the main stage next Saturday night!” I say. “My dad won’t let me go . . .”

Okay, I have now officially hit rock bottom on the cool stakes. It might be time to show him my period-knickers. It can only improve things.

“Anyway, we had a few days off before some warm-up gigs next week,” Charlie continues. “So us lads decided to help you girls out.”

“But I wasn’t allowed to leave the hotel,” moans Spike, who is a lot smaller and thinner than he is on TV but totally gorgeous nevertheless.

“No, you weren’t, bozo, because it’s not safe for you. Too many teenage girls wanting to rip your trousers off. You, my sunshine, are too expensive an asset for me to get damaged.”

“Well, I’m here now,” says Spike, slightly sulkily.

“Indeed you are,” replies Charlie, even more sulkily.

“Can’t I stay? Please?” pleads Spike. “I’ll keep a low profile. No one will know. I just wanna watch a few bands. I’ll stay with my mate Ronnie ’ere, I’ll say I’m her long-lost cousin from down south.”

“Oh, go on, Uncle Charlie,” I say. “Let him stay!”

“Go on, Uncle Charlie!” giggles the one, the only, the legendary number-one pop superstar Spike Saunders, who just—did you notice that?—called me HIS MATE!

“You kill me, Spike Saunders. You’ll have me in an early grave,” moans Charlie, delving into his pocket and pulling out a pair of extra-dark sunglasses.

“Okay, you can stay till after the last act. But put these glasses on, and keep ’em on! And if anyone asks either of you, it’s not Spike Saunders, it just looks like Spike Saunders. Got it?”

“Hurray!” we both cheer.

“And while you’re here. . . . How did you get into the VIP past Masher with no AAA pass?” quizzes Charlie.

“Easy.” Spike shrugs, not realizing what he’s starting. “Through that gap in the fence over there. Loads of people are doing it!”

Charlie pulls out the walkie-talkie again.

“MASHER, get your bum around here this minute!”

Cross my heart, I do, for about twenty seconds, intend to keep Spike Saunders’ appearance at Blackwell Live a secret. But precisely then, Fleur, Claude and Masher appear, desperate to find out what the emergency is. Of course, they find “the emergency” standing beside me, grinning his famous devilish grin.

And to give Spike ultimate credit, he handles meeting the LBD extremely well. Even when Fleur gives him a really tight bear hug and gently sobs onto his shoulder: “Spike! I really love you. No, really. Okay, I bet lots of other girls say that, but I really feel like I know you. And I do love you! I think we’ve got so much in common! I’ve got all your CDs and I’ve got a Wall of Spike in my bedroom. I’m not weird, though. You think I’m weird, don’t you?” Then she asked him to sign the T-bar in the back of her thong.

Yes, Fleur lost her mind. Big time.

I’m soooo relieved. Fleur has managed to make me look, by comparison, virtually normal.

“Spike, will you go on stage and sing a song from the To Hell and Back CD?” Claude chances, her eyes as wide as table-spoons.

“No, he won’t,” snaps Charlie. “In fact, he’s going back to the hotel right now if we don’t all stick with the original plan. Remember: Spike Saunders is NOT here. This is on a strictly need-to-know basis, no one else needs to know but you.”

Spike puts on his extra-dark glasses and pulls down his baseball cap. “Am I allowed to watch some bands now?” he says as we slip incognito out of the VIP tent and into the festival crowd, just as the EZ Life Syndicate are bringing the house down, making two thousand people wave their arms in the air from left to right, cheering “Wooo-hoo” at exactly the same time.

“EZ LIFE SYNDICATE. MAKE SUM NOIZZZE!” shouts Killa Blow as the crowd goes berserk.

“Pretty impressive stuff, girls!” says Spike as we weave our way unnoticed through the festival mayhem. “I used to mess about at school all the time and cause trouble when I was your age. Not do stuff like this.” He chuckles, clearly a little non plussed.

“So do we . . . er, usually,” claims Fleur, realizing how totally unfeasible that sounds like now. “Honestly!”

Spike laughs out loud.

“Well, we caused some trouble earlier on today, anyway,” illustrates Fleur. “You both missed what happened when Death Knell performed! Myrtle McGraw, the headmaster’s missus, had a bit of an episode.”

“What happened?” I gasp.

“Oh, you tell the tale, Fleur,” says Claude.

“Well, it all began when Ainsley came on stage with that fake blood on his laboratory coat, which, fair enough, was total grimness, but you know what Death Knell are like—”

“It was fake blood, though,” I persist, “from a joke shop. I saw the bottle.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you did. I did too. But Myrtle didn’t. So they were halfway through that track of theirs called, er, what sitcalled? ‘The Coffin Song,’ that’s it, and all hell broke loose. Pardon the pun.”

“Tell us more,” says Spike, riveted by Fleur, who always tells a good yarn.

“Well, Death Knell brought on this box with a sheet pulled over it. And Ainsley pulls off the sheet during the chorus and it was . . . it was actually a coffin!”

“A real coffin? How?” I splutter.

“Don’t ask me how. They’ve kept it hidden from all of us all day. I had no idea they had it, Claude didn’t either. Well, when Myrtle McGraw saw it and realized Ainsley was going to get in the coffin and lie down, she went bananas. Ooh, you could have sold her for ninety pence a kilo, she went ballistic!”

“Did she try to stop the gig?”

“Well, she did her best. ‘SATAN IS AMONGST US!’ That’s what she was shouting! ‘Stop this Satanic show!’ She was causing a right scene. I mean, come on, it was only flipping Ainsley Hammond with some joke-shop blood and a coffin loaned from the local amateur dramatics society’s production of Dracula. Lighten up, for Pete’s sake.”

Spike is laughing so hard, tears are streaming down his face.

“I’m so glad I came today. You lot have cheered me right up.” He chuckles.

“So, is she still here?” I ask, looking around.

“Oh, no, their son Marmaduke had to come in his car and pick her up. She was still grumbling about Satan as they stuffed her into the backseat.”

“I can’t believe I missed it,” I complain.

“Well, kiddo, them’s the breaks,” says Fleur, still jealous that I had Spike all to myself for well over half an hour.

“So, who’s on next?” Spike asks as we wander nearer the front of the stage, where hundreds of skatey boys and baggy jeaned girls with messy hooded tops and scuffed trainers are gathered. I can’t believe no one has so much as double-checked who our new friend is. I’m hoping people might think it’s my new boyfriend and it gets back to Jimi. Before I can answer Spike, I can hear the unmistakable voice of Paddy and the not-so-soft lilt of Mrs. Guinevere breaking over on the loudspeaker.

“Give me that microphone. I’m the announcer. Yes, me. I announce the bands. No one said we were taking turns!” argues Paddy, sounding very annoyed.

“Oh, grow up, I’m doing this one, give me that thing here,” Mrs. Guinevere insists. With a deft pull, she commandeers the mike.

“Hello, Blackwell Live!” she begins. “It gives me wonderful pride to announce another very talented band. This is Lost Messiah!” But before Guinevere even finishes announcing their name, an explosion of sound rips through the humid summer air, and Aaron, Naz, Danny and Jimi are belting out “Golden Gob” as loud as our PA system will tolerate before melting.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeahhhhhh!” is Jimi’s opening line.

“Wahhhhhooooooooo” is his next.

He’s not big on lyrics, really, is Jimi Steele. Still, something about him beguiles you to watch him every second he’s before you.

“Excellent frontman,” says Spike, nudging me. “He’s a talented guitarist too. Should go far, these lads. Well, the lead singer will, anyway.”

“Jimi Steele,” I sigh.

“Good name for a rock star,” says Spike Saunders. “Not as good as mine, though.” My expression must speak volumes, because Spike is quickly poking my shoulder.

“Ooh, hello, I think someone is a bit hot for Lost Messiah’s lead singer. You fancy him, you do.” Spike sniggers as my face goes crimson.

“She does, but I don’t,” butts in Fleur, clearly thinking she’s in with a chance. Oh, dear. “And I’m single too!”

“This one’s called ‘Stupid Things,’ ” says Jimi before the Lost Messiah crash into another teeth-shakingly loud number. “And believe me, I’ve done a few of them in my time.” He must be talking about one of his many skateboard accidents, although it seems like a weird thing to write a song about. At the front of the stage Gonzo is trying to dissuade some Year 8 lads from crowd-surfing.

“Right, I’ve got to go and check on our extra-special headlining act,” announces Claude, vanishing into the cheering crowd. Spike raises an eyebrow.

“Catwalk,” I explain, exhaling deeply. “Flipping Catwalk.”

“Catwalk,” sighs Fleur, and then we both stand in mournful silence.

“I can’t wait! I’m having a great time,” says Spike genuinely.

“Neither can we,” we lie.

leaving the best till last

After what seems like an overly long time since our last act, a thick cloud of dry ice pumps onto the Blackwell Live stage, filling the late-afternoon air with billowing, atmospheric white clouds. The stage is filled with fluffy whiteness, like rolling mist. Catwalk’s rather lame intro music is building momentum: A drum machine flutters on top of repetitive synth chords.

“It’s time for a Catwalk Nation,” repeats a voice pretentiously again and again. Unmistakably, it is Panama’s. The entire crowd leaps to attention expectantly, pushing forward to enjoy the headline act, some kids climbing onto each other’s shoulders, cheering and beating the sky with their hands in time with the drums. And as the smoke begins to clear and more cymbals crash, I can just detect five silhouettes posing moodily together center stage. Clad in black Lycra tops, rubber catsuits and trousers, each with a silver microphone headset clipped around their faces and far too much makeup, Catwalk stand dead still with their arms and legs held in strange robotic poses, waiting for their cue to begin. The crowd are actually going berserk as the snare drum grows more frantic, then suddenly a loud crash rips through the speakers.

And they’re off!

Leeza and Abigail first, cartwheeling down the center of the stage and then back again, followed by Derren and Zane walking on their hands, then launching into perfect backflips. Finally Panama steals center stage, pirouetting a hundred times perfectly, smiling like an android from ear to ear.

“Hello, Blackwell Live,” she shrills. “Thanks for coming to see me! This is your favorite and mine, it’s ‘Running to Your Love’!!!”

“Woo-hoo!” screams the crowd.

“Oooh, baby!” mimes Panama.
“I’m floating in the sky!
Like a big love pie!
You make me feel real high!
Oh, my Oh, my
Tra la la la!”

Leeza and Abigail sashay past her as she sings. Derren and Zane are doing some bizarre tap dance, whirling their arms around as Panama reaches the chorus.

“Oooh, baby, baby—I’m running to your love!
Wanna give my heart a big shove!
You fit me like a glove.
Cos I’m running to your love!”

“I had no idea Panama was such an intellectual,” remarks Fleur sarcastically. “That chorus is really quite profound.”

Spike is giggling and cheering, clearly having the time of his life. “Are these, like, your mates?” he asks.

“No,” we both reply, in stereo.

And I’m about to explain to Spike Saunders the entire sorry tale, about how Catwalk menaced us into headlining Blackwell Live, and all about their nasty threats, and about Panama ensnaring Jimi and life being totally unfair . . . but then, as Panama begins her second chorus, something very very wonderful occurs.

“I’m ru-ru-ru-ru-ru-ru-ru-” stutters Panama, waving her hands frantically at Vinny, the roadie.

Oh my God! Catwalk’s backing tape seems to have jammed!

“Love lo-lo-lo-lo-looooove,” stutters the tape, before correcting itself and running normally once more.

Perhaps the crowd hasn’t noticed? Catwalk’s dance routine has certainly been thrown well out of sync, but they seem to catch themselves up.

“Did you hear that?” One girl chuckles. “Panama’s voice was totally out of time with her lips.”

“It’s just a tape! They’re miming!” I hear people whispering as Catwalk try to shimmy on regardlessly.

“Wanna gi-gi-gi-gi-gi-gi-gi-gi!” stutters Panama’s voice. The tape is stuck again. This time for much longer! Panama’s face is beginning to turn violet.

“Gi-gi-gi-gi-gi!” it stutters as Vinny bangs the side of the sound deck, trying to rectify the problem. Brilliantly, this just stops the tape altogether with a loud screech. Then it winds backward!

“Evolllllll ruoy ot gninnur!” garbles the tape before grinding again to a halt.

“You’re miming!” screams one lad. “It’s just a backing tape!”

“Sing us a proper song!” shouts another.

Vinny is frantically pushing buttons and fiddling with wires. The tape bursts to life again.

“Running to your love!!” sings Panama’s taped voice.

“Keep going! Just keep dancing. The show must go on,” Panama snarls at the rest of Catwalk. But by this point Abigail has legged it off stage and Derren is frozen to the spot with his head in his hands; Zane attempts to save the show with one nifty double front somersault, but nerves get the better of him and he lands on his bum with a mighty crash.

Ther-dunch! is the sound of his bum colliding with the floor.

And then the backing tape stops again, this time for good. Not even lovely Mr. Ball, our science teacher, who helpfully runs forward with a Swiss penknife, offering to work some boffinlike magic on the fuses, can help Catwalk now. Vinny is just sitting with his head in his hands, trying to suppress fits of giggles.

I’d like to say here that sidesplitting laughter and jeers immediately rip through the field, but instead there’s a deathly stunned silence. Complete dumbfoundment. Everybody is simply staring forward at the emptying stage, mouths ajar. A crisp bag blows by. In the distance a church bell tolls. Still, no one speaks. Eventually, after what seemed like an age, a singular clap is heard at the very back of the field.

“Thank you very much,” shouts Panama, sadly realizing it was the woman from the burger van slapping the last dregs of tomato ketchup from one of her bottles. On this note Panama makes a bid for escape too, running past what is most definitely Claudette Cassiera, smiling serenely on the side of the stage. It’s almost, just almost, as if Claude has had something to do with this whole catastrophe.

“I find it very difficult to imagine you’d be involved in anything like this, Claudette Cassiera,” I can imagine McGraw’s voice saying. “Very difficult indeed.”

Throughout the festival site, people are now openly hooting and jeering.

“Encore!” kids are yelling. “More!”

“Put the tape back on! Mime us another song!” chants one particularly rowdy section of the crowd.

“Oh, that’s just too bad,” Spike says sympathetically. “The poor things. They started so well too,” he adds. “I’ve died on stage before. It’s no fun at all.”

Okay, yeah, we could correct Spike and tell him why this is the most wonderful end to Blackwell Live ever, but instead Fleur spies a golden opportunity.

“Well, er, you could smooth things over by singing a few songs, couldn’t you?” Fleur suggests.

Spike looks at her, then raises an eyebrow. He’s clearly thinking about it. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, would it?” Spike says, removing his sunglasses, exposing his beautiful, instantly recognizable face to the crowd. A few girls standing right beside us gasp, nudging each other frantically.

“Spike Saunders. Spike Saunders! Oh my God!” they shout, informing everyone in earshot. The whisper beings to spread rapidly, growing louder and louder until everyone within fifty meters is pointing and shouting, “Spike! It’s Spike Saunders! Look, over there!”

One girl simply faints, right there on the spot before us.

“I mean, seeing as I’m here, eh?” says Spike. “If nobody minds, that is.”

From where I’m standing, I can see Uncle Charlie clutching his brow and shouting hoarsely into a walkie-talkie at the side of the stage. His face is practically burgundy, the poor bloke.

As a non-negotiable riot erupts around us, Spike runs as fast as he can through the crowd, mounting Blackwell Live’s main stage and grabbing a nearby acoustic guitar.

“Hello, Blackwell,” he begins. “I’m Spike Saunders.”

“Wooooo-hoo!” screams the bewildered crowd en masse.

“Er, thanks for letting me hijack the festival,” Spike says, strumming the guitar a little. “You know, I don’t like to turn up uninvited to places, but hey, you seemed like a friendly bunch.”

“AAAAARGH!!” screeches a thousand girls.

“Sing us a song!” screams one young lass.

“Er, okay,” says Spike. I think he might actually be a bit nervous. He looks at the crowd in a puzzled way. “You know, it’s been a long time since it’s been just me and a guitar, I’m kind of not sure what to play for you,” he teases.

“ ‘Merry Go Round’!” screams some rather noisy fans near the front barrier. “We want ‘Merry Go Round’!”

“Ah, ‘Merry Go Round,’ no problem at all!” Spike shouts, and the audience erupts as he plays the very familiar opening bars.

“Ooh, hang on,” Spike says just before he begins the first verse. “This one is for my mate Ronnie. She likes this one, she does.”

And as I turned around to grab Fleur’s hand and yell, “That’s me! He means me!” I saw something very wonderful indeed.

Making her way through the crowds, brandishing a large veggie burger smothered in onions and ketchup in one hand, stepped the one and only Mrs. Magda Ripperton.

My mum had shown up!

And at that very second, I was so happy, I thought my head was going to explode.