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Chippenham Ballfest Dateline: May 13, 2000 By Jinty Rowley Friday didn’t have the best of starts, I had to work the morning before I could catch a train to Chippenham, and, if work can kibosh a body – it does. An hour before I was due to leave, in walks Ed with a question: “Did you get that report collated ready to express to Randy? It has to go today.” Gazing blankly at him I asked: “What report?” “The report you left on your desk last night before you went home.” I gazed around my desk. No report in view. I shuffled through the piles of invoices and projections I’d been working on. The figures had to be crunched before I could leave, I’d almost finished them – just a matter of £10,000 to be forced. Ed pounced on a stack of photocopies: “What’s this,” he asked holding aloft a two inch pile. “Search me?” I answered and returned to my numbers. “This is it – Andy wants it out to Randy today. Grace has already requested a carrier for this afternoon.” I realize that Andy and Randy sound like a late night comedy duo but they are Managing Director and VP Canada respectively – and they are clearly used to getting their own way in all work related matters. I reached over and took the papers. “Ed, this will take for ages and I’m leaving at lunchtime. I can’t miss that train – I’m meeting a Swede in Bristol and then going on to Chippenham.” “Well,” says Ed, “I’m sure Sven or Olaff will wait for you to arrive later.” “Get a grip, Ed. I’m going to see Michael Ball, and, the Swede is called Elisabet.” “Not your hot date then?” He sniggered, “And how hot is Michael Ball? I’m sure he’ll wait for you to turn up. Would he dare start without you?” Ed has heard me on the phone sorting out copier-repair men; he has formed an exaggerated opinion of my aggressive personality. I thumbed through the papers. “Where do we keep the dividers?” “What do you want mathematical instruments for,” came his puzzling reply. I know – search me too. I was to p*ssed to question this enigmatic reply; all I wanted was a set of 10 part coloured dividers. Sod’s law, none in the stationery cabinet. “What dingbat is responsible for keeping this stationery cupboard supplied,” I demanded scorn oozing from every word. Ed grinned: “You.” Oh well, I did ask. I ran out to W H Smith’s to get some. As I’d walked into work that morning I’d noticed that all the men I passed stared at me. Must be my denims and my tartan boots, I’d thought. And, sure enough, on my way to the stationer’s I could see them all still staring. Wow, girl, you’re sure looking good today. I then caught site of myself in Marks and Spencer’s window. It being a hot morning I’d not bothered wearing my denim jacket but had tied it round my waist, with my jeans I wore a white T-shirt – I like the classic look. Unfortunately. the t-shirt was made of very thin cotton. Through the material, very clearly, with every step I took my bust visibly bounced above the brief cups of my bra. I was horrified. For 45 years I was slim and still am not able to visualize and cope with the fat that seems to adhere to my body even though I live on fresh air and hot water - oh, along with chocolate, cake, biscuits, ice cream, French fries, Chianti. But, I’m sure my weight has nothing to do with any of these goodies. As usual, I’m digressing. But the sight of my boobs bouncing for every Tom, Dick and Harry, to ogle was too much for me to bear. I’m not gonna let Michael Ball see my bust like this. Have stupid can one woman be? We all know that Michael’s weight is apt to yo-yo, and we all know that one woman’s bust is not going to be noticed in a concert crowd. But I wasted precious time, and even more precious money, dashing into the department store to get another. I ran into Red or Dead first but they didn’t have anything above a size 8 – in my dreams. I eventually got back to work complete with decent t-shirt and dividers. I grabbed the report and began to collate – whether or not Randy will ever be able to understand my indexing method is another matter. I just threw the dividers in any likely place and labeled them in such a scribbly script that Randy will never know if they are labeled correctly or not. Of course, during all this time I was frantically trying to balance the budget compliance report – what dingbat ever put me in charge of that? Dashing into Ed’s office I shouted, “I don’t care if I’m sacked. I’m not going to get this packed in time and I’m leaving in two minutes. Randy might be hunkier, chunkier, and have a sexier accent than Michael, but Michael is over here and Randy’s in Toronto.” (Do Canadians know what ‘randy’ means?) “So Ed,” I continued, holding my hands out like balancing scales. Randy in Toronto? Or Michael in Chippenham? No contest.” Unlike most men, Ed knows when he’s beaten and held out a hand. “I’ll parcel the damn thing and get it ready to Express. You go get your man.” (He was confusing me with Randy – it’s the Canadian Mounties who always get their man. I wonder what I’ll look like in a red jacket and riding britches – and I bet I’ll look cute in that brimmed hat.) I ran down to the station. I was early and there was a train on the platform going direct to Gloucester. I dashed down. I wasn’t sure which platform I wanted but spotted a likely train with British Rail men standing alongside it. “Is this the Gloucester train?” Now what kind of answer would you expect from a Rail man? Something like – That’s the one you need, Madam. Did I get that? Did I hell. The man who answered me was young, good looking, on the small side for my taste – and not half chunky enough. But, what the hell – any port in a storm. “God,” he exclaimed at the top of his voice and in very camp accents, “you look trendy. I do love your boots.” That was not the expected answer. I opened my mouth to ask again but he got in first. “You really are trendy.” He shook his head in admiration, “Those boots are….” I finished his sentence, “DM’s and, yes, they’re great.” I glanced at his feet, “Better than yours.” I had the feeling that he might have thought them too trendy for an aging one such as I, and that he was surprised to see a wrinkly in so-so trendy stuff. They aren’t trendy – he must have just led a very sheltered life. At this point I began to say that my job let me dress down on a Friday, (well, I’ve decided that from now on it will) but he jumped in too quickly: “The job, I know,” he said “you’re a photographer and have to dress like this.” Don’t men jump to stupid conclusions on the flimsiest of evidence? (Sorry, Jay – not you.) I was carrying my camera case because I was going to see Michael Ball – simple as that. “Yep, that’s right ,” I lied. Arguing with him would have taken time I couldn’t spare. “Is this this Gloucester train?” “Sure is” I jumped on the train and settled in my seat. Course then I started to kick myself. He was cute looking in kinda small sorta way, I should have made the most of the opportunity. I could have asked him how he stripped and did he want to have a camera test. I am sooooooooo slow. The train journey was just like any other journey. I sat gazing out of the window as the English countryside rushed passed courtesy of Midland Rail or some such. My, we must have reached as much as thirty miles an hour on straight stretches, such speed, such efficiency. I whiled away the time wishing I could stop the train whenever anything even remotely photogenic came into view. But, oh, the beauty of the yellow rape fields – leaves me breathless every year, they’re like a blanket of sunshine draped between green hedges and rivers. Who would be anywhere but England now that May is here? Of course, the best part of the journey was listening to my Walkman. Having had mine stolen I couldn’t bear to be without music and had to spend half my wages on a new one. I tell you – ‘shallow and selfish’ are my middle names. And to whom was I listening? Nope. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The Blessed Brian! I just sooooooooo love his voice and the Now that I Know What I Want CD. Naturally, I felt no need to listen to a Michael CD – I was going to hear him in person later. Susan had traveled by an earlier train – she and Ros wanted to be there to queue for pole (poll?) position at the Neeld Hall – and, guess what, hoping to see Michael going in and out. I, on the other hand, was to meet Elisabet from Sweden at Bristol Temple Mead Station. Susan was to have given me photograph so that I could identify her easily, but I had had to go to work before eight that morning and Susan wasn’t in evidence. So, there I was, standing at the station entrance looking for a Swede. Susan had described me to Elisabet as a tall redhead, and to Susan I am tall. But would I be tall to a Swede – we all know that they are all six foot, blonde gods and goddesses. I was there by five and for the next twenty minutes scrutinized every six foot blonde that passed me. I always scrutinize every six foot blonde man as a matter of course but I’m not used to staring at women in the same way. In the whole of the twenty minutes only two tall blondes had walked into the station – both with companions to die for. I knew that Elisabet would be alone, at one point I hoped that maybe one of the blondes was she and that she’d brought a man along to keep me company. (Well, I can dream – even though I’m off men. Apart from Jay.) Just before five thirty a tall slim red head walked passed. I just knew that, life being as it is, this would be Elisabet. I was right. We’d missed the train I’d intended to catch so we waited for the next one – some half hour later than the earlier. We sat on the train. “I’ll ring Ros and tell her that I found you and that we are now on our way,” I said to Elisabet.” But nothing is easy. I dialed. Nothing. I dialed again. Nothing. I looked at the number. There was a digit missing. So, nothing daunted I tried dialing the number adding a new number each time. I spoke to a couple of nice sounding people but they weren’t Ros., had I been less busy I might have stopped and chatted tot hem. Luckily, Elsabet had a note of Ros’ home phone number. I rang it, spoke to Craig, and got the correct mobile number. “Hi, Ros, it’s Jinty.” “Oh, where are you. Are you nearly here?” “Nope. Still in the station.” “OH YOU SHOULD BE HERE. MICHAEL CAME OUT AND HUGGED US AND WE ALL TOOK PHOTOGRAPHS AND CHATTED.” Ros sounded on the verge of hysteria but carried on telling me all about it. She and Susan were so thrilled – you’d have thought that they’d kissed Brian Kennedy or some such exciting person. (Sorry – I’m joking, got a sick sense of humour.) As Ros was regaling me with their experience with Michael I was relaying the conversation to Elisabet and a carriage full of travelers. “And guess what?” Ros asked. “He and Con have just strolled up to town just like ordinary people.” ???????? I eventually rang off then thought of something I should have asked. I rang back. “Ros, you know you owe me a photograph – you won mine on the Ballpoint site. Did you ask Michael for one for me? Did you even him I was coming and could he send one to front of house?” Ros sounded breathless. “I’m running after Michael,” she said. “They’ve come back from town and are going in the back way so we are running round to meet them.” I could hear her stiletto heels clacking on the pavement. I thought she was going to have a heart attack. “I’m nearly there,” she shouted. “Ros,” I said, “when you get there hand him the phone and I’ll ask for my own damn photo.” “OK,” she said. AND THEN HUNG UP. I turned to Elisabet and said, “She’s talking to Michael Ball AND SHE’S HUNG UP ON ME.” At this point the railway carriage erupted in laughter. They thought the whole thing a great joke, and Elisabet and I two la-la ladies. We talked quietly and nonchalantly to each other for the rest of the journey. Finally, we arrived in Chippenham. We began to walk towards where we thought the town would be, but being unsure of our bearings we turned back to take a taxi. Chippenham is a weird place! I said to the taxi-driver, “The Neeld Hall, please.” Have you ever known a taxi-driver turn down a fare? Well, this one did. “Oh, you can walk that. Just go down that road, turn left, walk up the hill and you’re there.” So saying he turned his back on us and walked away. Now, I get lost at the drop of a hat. We got to the bottom of the road. “Did he say left or right, Elisabet?” We chose left. We walked along but couldn’t see anything that might be the hall. An elderly man sat on a bench. “Excuse me, but do you know where the Neeld Hall is?” He pointed up the hill. “Just there. Where all those daft women are.” He’d got us sussed quickly. Of course, naturally, Susan and Ros were full of Michael. I was full of trying to make Ros feel guilty for winning MY PHOTOGRAPH. That woman has no shame – she steals my photograph from under my nose and just laughs at me. To make matters worse she began to rub my humiliation in. “Nadia will bring my photograph. I e-mailed her to say I was coming. And Michael has said he’ll sign it.” By now I was pig sick and fed up because THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MINE! But vengeance was mine. Once upstairs I went to get a drink (and it wasn’t water) and while I was standing waiting to be served someone tapped me on my shoulder, I turned. “This is for you.” A woman I’d never seen before passed me a brown envelope. Now you know how much stick I get from Michael fans (not all of it undeserved) so I opened the envelope very gingerly, half expecting something awful to jump out and bite me. Guess what I pulled out. Photographs of Michael. “You said on the site that you hadn’t got any.” I was still blank. There was a slip of paper with the pics. With the compliments of the Ballpoint Team. She was Nadia. Hugs all round again. I’ve always been tactile but never half as much as since meeting so many great MB fans. We really are like one huge family. THANK YOU, NADIA. And tongue out to Ros, Nadia hadn’t received her mail so didn’t bring her piccy. YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAH. I won’t say anything about the lack of responsible and sensible organization that was the order of the evening. We were all made to go into the bar – whether we wanted a drink or not. Those who had been queuing for some time were angry because the later comers would be nearer the stairs and the door so would be able to get the best seats in the hall. Everything was on a first come, first served basis, and none of the chairs were numbered. Now, I can understand some of the fans becoming frustrated, but I can’t understand the way in which a small number of fans spoke to the ushers. They were completely and inexcusable rude. The ushers, some of whom were quite young (under twenty) had to stand there and listen to these ignorant women complaining in a very ill-bred way about the poor organization. The ushers were in no way responsible and shouldn’t have had to stand and listen to these ignorant fans. Most of us were ashamed to be in the same company as them. In fact, several like me, once we were allowed downstairs apologized to these young men and tried to explain that the majority of us were not as these women. Goodness knows what Michael would have thought had he heard them. We were lucky, Ros, Susan, Elisabet and I were on the third row from the front, along with a few fans that we’d met whilst waiting to go in. There are so many nice fans that I so enjoy coming into contact with new ones. Val, who sat next to me, was a lovely, friendly woman who kept making me laugh. The show eventually started. The MC came on and apologized for the delay but explained that they’d had technical problems and that the youngsters would have to carry on with no music backing tracks – with just a couple of young musicians to play for them. THESE YOUNGSTERS were magic. Under the most difficult and unexpected of situations they got up there and did the business. Several were visibly extremely nervous but they carried on like the troopers they will eventually become – I know several adult performers who would have refused to go in such trying circumstances. They were great and deserved every bit of the calls and applause we gave them. What they didn’t deserve was the sniggers of some of the Michael Ball fans who were sat somewhere behind me. Michael would have been so ashamed of them. Next to come on was a soul/blues bland called Tail feather. Wow! I am in love. Tall, slim (OK I know I like chunky but I’m a cook), with a face and voice to die for. And could he do things with that mike stand? I am in luuuuuurv. His fellow vocalist was a woman with a cracking voice, they both had us jumping in the aisles and ‘boogying on down’. I am in love. Wow. (OK, so I’m shallow and fickle.) Eventually we went to the front. I shouldered my way passed Ros and Susan – I wanted to get near enough to get a gooooooooood photograph of Mr. Tall Slim and Sexy. Ow, ow, ow. Then they came to an end having sung their hearts and souls out for us. And who did Mr. Tall Slim and Sexy introduce? None other than Michael who bounded on stage all ready to party with us. And did he party. Wow. Mr. Tall Slim and Sexy who? Michael had put weight on again and looked pretty gorgeous. But I wasn’t that interested in how he looked. I was just so amazed by his electric energy and his obvious enjoyment of the evening. Bless him. He can sing. I know that others will tell everyone what he wore, which songs he sang and in what order. I’d never been so close to him and was just so amazed by his performance vitality – I could hear him singing and even sang along but the voice was so amazing that he could have sang a dictionary and I would have listened. And doesn’t he make such obvious eye contact with everyone at the front? He even stands still for a brief moment to allow photographs to be taken. Unfortunately, I had my zoom lens and being right at his feet I found it difficult to find a good position, but I did my best. Con O’Neal came on stage and sang the Blues Brothers Medley with MB – I think. At one point MB joined the two soul singers to back Con – I think. Mr. Tall Slim and Sexy seemed to be gob smacked by Michael’s stage presence and Ros has a photograph showing this. I want that one. I forgot to mention that Con pulled his shirt open to the waist as he was singing – we all looked at Michael. Would he follow suit? Nope – kept his buttons firmly buttoned. I heard his fans all sigh with disappointment. Not me. I believe he has a hairy chest. Maybe if he waxed. The rest of the show passed in party mood. I was as gob smacked as Mr. Tall Slim and Sexy so can’t describe the minutiae of the moments. Ros and I were so near Michael that we had keep dodging spit and sweat (definitely a brolly night, Cheryl) but we didn’t even mind when we felt it land on our hair. Hair washes. It was magic. I am sorry if I have ever been snitty about Michael’s showmanship – he was in party mood and we partied along with him. I’m sorry I can’t describe the evening better. Magic. Fun. Feeling of closeness to Michael and all his fans (well, not the ignorant ones). Electric energy. Laughter. I saw tears in some eyes. Too soon Michael was leaving the stage. We knew he would be back – he hadn’t sang LCE. We stamped out feet to warn him not to be too long away. He came back. Of course, all he had to accompany him was the blues band. The trumpet started the first notes. Then came Michael. We just went. I stood with my arms round Ros’ neck both of us singing and swaying, Ros held Susan’s hand with one of hers, and my two with the other. Susan was holding Elisabet’s and another fans. We were so emotional so filled with love for each other and for Michael. Michael looked at Ros and I and smiled. Ros thinks it was because we looked so sweet and cute and loving. I don’t know – maybe he smiled because we looked like a pair of dykes or a couple of sad old tarts. I don’t suppose he remembers the moment – he clocks so many fans. If I thought he’d remember I’d write and ask him. We didn’t want the song ever to end, but the moment came, he had a look of expectant triumph in his eyes as if saying: “I don’t need the band for this note – I’m gonna hit it with ease, I’m hot, I’m gooooood.” And, as we held our collected breath he sailed up and into that note – heaven came visiting for a time. Love changed us all. But all good things end and we left the hall to have a quick drink upstairs before heading for home. Con came up and walked over to us, “Sorry,” he said, “Michael’s had to go.” He turned to walk away. “That’s OK ,” we told him. “We weren’t waiting for Michael we knew he’d done a runner.” And we started to talk to Con. He seemed so surprised that we wanted to talk to him. What a nice unassuming man he is. He told us about his recent films (directing and writing), we laughed and chatted for quite a while. We also spent quite a time chatting and laughing with Ballpoint, they have some very amusing stories to tell especially about parties during last year’s tour. These women have no shame so I’m not repeating what was said. They are so shameless that I don’t think we could bring blackmail into it – they’d just say: “Publish and be damned.” But, thank you Nadia for the photographs. The one with his hand in the air is going to have handcuffs drawn on and given pride of place on my notice board – next to Brian and Luciano. I’ll have to be careful – I might fall under Michael’s spell like the rest of you. And, then where would I be? As we reached the car park I realized that I’d left my camera case in the hall, my camera was still hung round my neck. So we drove back to and I dashed in to collect it. “We’ve already found it. We know where to send it because the ticket was named.” “That’s OK,” I said, “I’ll take it now.” “It’s locked in that office, we might not be able to get at it,” “Well, I need it, it’s got a film in that I don’t want to lose,” I replied. “I know,” the chap answered, “Michael Ball photographs.” “No,” I told him, “The Michael ones are still my camera and I need the film from the case so maybe you can ask someone to unlock the door.” As I said that someone opened the door from the inside (locked, my foot) and brought out the case. “Thanks a lot,” I said sweetly, “I really appreciate getting it because I’m going back home to Nottingham first thing in the morning.” So saying, I turned and walked towards the door. “Rich bitch,” someone said quite quietly. I couldn’t believe that someone had called me that. I don’t even know what prompted it. I stopped in my tracks and turned round. They were all watching me. I grinned and laughed and walked out to the car. What a strange end to such a magic evening. Jinty
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