Down in a rabbit hole
I heard you fell into a rabbit hole
Covered yourself up in snow
Baby, tell me where’d you go
For days and days
Did they make you stay up all night?
Did they paint your face that pasty white?
You’re thirsty but your appetite
Is chased away
Bright Eyes
As I wake up the next day, I’m terrified at the thought of leaving my bunk. I have super-duper paranoia that everyone heard our antics last night. I’m struggling to work out which is worse: get up and shower, be über professional and simply act as if nothing happened; or, hide forever in shame. My hangover is asking for the latter but the new me is battling to get up. I lift my heavy limbs out of my bunk and skulk downstairs quietly to use the bathroom. Vic is in the lounge getting her bags ready to go in the venue. I say hi and she smiles at me, and says she’ll see me in there. So far so good, I guess.
There’s someone in the toilet so I make a coffee as I’m waiting, and try and suss out whether Martin, Toby, and Richard are giving anything away. I’m stumped. So, I decide to just act as if nothing happened. I don’t really have any choice. What am I going to do, bring it up over coffee now or even a little later at breakfast in catering? Oh hey guys, sure you heard us knockin’ boots last night and just thought we’d all have a laugh about it! Please.
Dave comes out of the toilet and gives me a knowing look. Fuck. He tells me the bathroom is all mine and I can’t work out if he knows, or if he just thinks I’m dying for the loo. Seriously, is this how it’s going to be all day? I suspect everyone of hearing but not saying anything to me, but then if they do know, then these boys are worse than a sewing circle and will be gossiping all day. Argh, this is hell! Was it worth it? Oh, dear. What on earth have I done?
There’s nothing to do but just get on with it, so I’m going to get dressed and head into the venue with my gear for the day. Today, we are in Paris. I pull on a black vest, baggy boyfriend jeans, a hoodie, and my trainers. I scrub my face, scrape my long hair back into a high ponytail and hurriedly apply makeup. I’m not overly-girly, but there is no way I could face the world without my war paint, not today. I probably still look like shit, but at least I’ve made an effort so I don’t feel like shit, too. Well, not as much, anyway. I’ll shower after I’ve done my work setting up the stand.
I don’t want to go and hang out in catering today. I just want to do my job, look like I’m on it, and avoid everyone as much as possible. I really want to confide in Vic, but I feel like now that she’s the boss so to speak, I really don’t want to, just in case she heard and is ready to give me a bollocking. Or worse, is so disappointed in my behaviour that she might just not even bring it up at all and I’ll never know. Have I somehow possibly alienated myself from my mate who gave me the job? Maybe it’s all in my head. Whatever the case, I’m just too scared to find out right now. Maybe I’m still drunk. Maybe I should just get on with everyone for now and worry about my next move later. Jesus. I’m such a moronic plank sometimes.
I walk into the venue and am soon having the usual fun with the French. Immediately, my antics of the night before are the furthest thing from my mind. And, I fleetingly and selfishly hope that the same goes for everyone else, as they have much more technical things pertinent to the show to achieve today — after all, that is the real reason we’re all here. The local Venue Manager is your stereotypical Parisian. He’s managing to speak English to Vic and Martin, who is acting as our Stage Manager, too. But, as soon as I have a question for him, he can’t understand a word I’m saying. Ugh.
I always make an effort to speak basic French, which is the best I can do, when I’m in working in countries where it’s spoken. So, I start to speak to him in his own language, and lo and behold he still can’t seem to grasp what I’m asking. Even if I am saying the English equivalent of, “My name is Kelly, I sell the merchandise. Please, may I have a table?” you would think he’d be able to grasp what I’m doing there, my role, and what I am trying to communicate.
I find myself following him through a maze of staircases and passageways all through the back of the theatre, and finally around the side to the front. I am seriously having difficulty keeping up, as he appears to be intentionally trying to lose me. I somehow manage to keep up with my Parisian Linford and follow him into the foyer at the front of the building, where he then grunts at me and legs it off through another door. Obviously I need to find someone else to speak to.
I decide to go to catering and get some lunch. Robin is in there as well, so I chat to him by the buffet table.
“Hey you, er, how are you this morning?” I grumble.
“I’m good, Bee, how are you doing? I’m having a little trouble with the locals but nothing new there.”
“I know, the venue manager is a complete tosspot. I saw him chatting to people in English and he just grunts at me!”
“Oh, he speaks English. Very well. He knows a few choice words as well. But, we’ve got his number.” He smiles a little, and my stomach twists.
“Well I reckon if he is the one who has to come and get the merch fee off me later, he will suddenly remember it then too! Tit!”
I ask Robin if anyone has said anything about last night and he just dismisses it. He reckons we have nothing to worry about. I want to believe him, so I just sit down with the others and have something to eat.
As we’re having lunch, Dave asks Robin if his French fancy that he apparently met last time here is coming to the gig. Cue a sharp look from me to gauge his reaction. Robin glares at Dave with a look that says, “Shut the fuck up, dickhead!” and tells him that he hasn’t contacted her, so has no idea.
I’m feeling really uncomfortable now, and am worried that I’m one in a long line of shags Robin has had on tour, and that everyone is going to lump me in the same pile as them. Oh, Jesus, what a bad idea this was! But when you’re touring so much, the people you meet on the road are your social life, your family and your friends. It’s the equivalent of a campus; a local nightclub or perhaps a weird polygamist community might be more apt, I guess, although it’s never in the open.
I eat quickly and head back to sort out the stand and figure out where the merch is going to go. I need some help in order to find out where I get to set up the merchandise. It’s imperative I get the best spot that works for the band and for me to sell in, and quite often you have to put your foot down and battle for it. They will try and put you by the door where people only come in and go out and have no other reason to go during the gig. They will try and give you a one-metre square. They will put you under the stairs, which is no good — you miss all of the passing trade, browsers, and are subject to people being hurried in or out by friends. Sales suffer dramatically. Quite often they don’t care, but if you’re bringing in a few euros a head (per person in the venue), you’re talking about several grand and it’s not really to be sniffed at. That cash can keep tight-budget tours afloat, if it’s factored in.
I might need to discuss security measures for the out (when thousands pile out at once after the show has finished), especially when it gets very busy. Sometimes people see you’re on your own and try to steal things because they know you can’t chase them, as you can hardly abandon the rest of the customers and your stock. I need to know whom to pay the hall fee to, double-check what it is, etc. I’m going struggle to ask all this and understand the answers in French. Especially when it appears that the person who’s supposed to be the most helpful contact has no interest in helping me at all.
I head back to the Production office to speak to Vic and the French Promoter’s Rep. They both tell me I need to speak to the chap who would’ve put the Scarlet Pimpernel to shame, and I just hang my head. Sometimes, the reps are really helpful, so I try him one more time – but alas, he’s dismissive and tells me I need to speak to the Venue Manager. He’s obviously so engaged in the football news he has up on his laptop that he’s far too busy to help me himself. I don’t want to bother Vic, so I decide to try and find some other help before I go back and play hardball with the rep. It shouldn’t be this difficult!
I opt to find some of the local crew who are generally more than happy to help a ‘mademoiselle dans la merde’. I head outside and there are a few young men who, although they definitely don’t speak great English, make up for it by understanding my terrible French and being ever so accommodating.
“Excusez moi, s’il vous plait? Parlez-vouz anglais? Quelqu’un parles anglais? Je m’appelle Bee.” I say. “Je voudrais trois table ce après-midi for the t-shirts. Erm, pouvez-vouz m’aider s’il vous plait?”
‘Ah, oui, oui, Bee?’ they say in unison and all put out their cigarettes and troop inside to help me. Brilliant! This is more like it. Just got to smile and try, smile and try. That’s all you can really ever do.
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