With Rod presumably warming up for his set by gargling broken glass, the chances of meeting with my mum’s favourite were frankly looking slim. I’d rung up a huge mobile bill and stressed myself out for nothing. With a heavy heart – and a resolution to erase ‘Maggie May’ from my iPod – I hung up my microphone for the day and headed over to the legendary Healing Fields, which were seemingly at least a mile away from the razzmatazz of the main stage. Determined to forget about work, I sat back with a ‘special’ chocolate brownie purchased from a stall nearby run by someone who frankly looked like a witch (albeit a nice witch), and basked in the final glow of the sun. Seemingly from nowhere, a girl about my age came up to me and offered to tattoo my hand with henna (feeling spontaneous, I accepted, obviously). A few feet in front of us, a group of women, all dressed in long white flowing robes, gathered in a circle and started to sing some sort of ancient madrigal about flowers and honey. As the luscious chocolate started working its magic, this song began to sound like The Greatest Thing I’d Ever Heard. Quite suddenly – and for the first time – I felt what the real Glastonbury was all about. Far away from the feisty crowds and the fast food and Rod Stewart and – crucially – reporting, I was finally relaxing into the true, love-filled, ancient spirit of the festival.
Back in London the next day the tattoo looked awful, of course, and my boss was highly annoyed that I had no interview with Rod for her to run. But that one moment away from the madness, away from the pressure, away from the aching legs and missed deadlines of being a showbiz journalist at a festival, was definitely worth it.
Some other favourite festival moments? Coldplay’s first Glastonbury turn in 1999, when they were still just four nerdy university students who loved indie music, was a fabulous statement of intent. Jay-Z’s Glastonbury headlining nine years later was a much-needed injection of American swagger into the West Country cow fields. And while I might not have been old enough to see the legendary turn by Nirvana at Reading in 1992, every time I’ve seen former member Dave Grohl headline a festival with the Foo Fighters it’s been pure energy, passion and sweat. (Dave gives great interview.)
Of course, there are always musos who’ve been to a lot more festivals than I have, and each will relish describing to me – a mere reporter – a favourite that was supposedly ‘the greatest gig ever’ (‘What?! You didn’t see Amy Winehouse perform with a bunch of Indonesian nose flautists on the Save the Rainforest stage at 3 a.m. on Sunday morning back in 2007? And you call yourself a music fan?!’). Expert I may not be, but I still appreciate a good quality gig. I’m sure many of the bearded boys at Glastonbury were none too pleased when Beyoncé brought some pop bling to the farm in 2011 but personally, I couldn’t get enough, though. Showbiz for me has always had talent and glamour going hand-in-hand.
Maybe that’s another reason why working the festivals wasn’t exactly a career highlight: wading through a muddy field at midnight when you haven’t washed for 48 hours, you haven’t eaten anything except a dodgy burger from a food van and you’ve got a deadline looming, can never be described as glamorous. The backstage press area where reporters lurk might boast proper toilets (I certainly don’t care about the ‘festival’ experience when it comes to sanitation – I will defend my right to a toilet that actually flushes), but even home comforts can’t get you an interview with Rod Stewart any more easily.
Working premieres as a journalist can be fun simply because of the buzz. You can almost taste the expectation in the air, as you stand behind the rope, all your colleagues squashed up against each other (it helps to get on with other showbiz journos for precisely this reason), each of you excitedly uncertain as to what the next couple of hours will hold. In London there’s a premiere roughly every week. The majority don’t get the kind of blanket national press coverage that publicists dream of. But when they work, they really work, for both the film companies and the attendees. Liz Hurley turning up to the premiere of Four Weddings and a Funeral in a dress held together by safety pins made her name. Borat arriving at his premiere in a cart pulled by Kazakhstani peasant women guaranteed Sacha Baron Cohen a million column inches. And, while Julia Roberts forgetting to shave under her arms for the premiere of Notting Hill might not have been a planned publicity stunt, it got that movie more attention than the PR company could have dreamt of. Somewhere, some film producer is still counting his money and silently thanking a dippy LA maid for forgetting to pack Julia’s razor. So, while many premieres come and go uneventfully, some change the face of showbiz. Who will turn up? What will they be wearing? Will the star of the movie stop and talk or not? With a well-known TV presenter usually hosting the night’s events from a stage in Leicester Square and whipping the audience into a frenzy with promises of imminent arrivals, it’s impossible not to feed off the energy of the night. Fans scream. Paparazzi flashes light up the night. Familiar reporters line the carpet with their cameramen, all hoping to get the best interview of the night. The red carpet has a magical pull. But as a journalist, there’s also a downside; once the curtains go up, we have to go straight back to work. When the final celebrity has arrived, the final flashbulb has popped, the final interview wound up, it’s back to the office we go to write up the night’s events. The guests? Oh, they’re in the cinema having a great time watching the film and thinking about how many free drinks and nibbles they can neck at the party afterwards. But me, I’m quickly shoved back into the real world; working late with only my computer screen and mug of cold tea for company, and listening back to the endless soundbites, trying to sniff out a sexy story from it all. As a showbiz reporter you get close to an extremely opulent and glamorous world – but never quite close enough. Which is why, when my first proper invite to a premiere arrived, I went a bit over the top …
I couldn’t believe it. I had been working as a journalist for just over a year, and was well versed in the art of standing behind barriers on red carpets, waiting in the freezing cold for Celebrity X to turn up and possibly say a few words into my microphone. But now I finally had in my hands what I’d always dreamt of: a proper invite to a premiere. I looked at it again; even the gold lettering embossed on the thick cardboard was enough to get the butterflies in my stomach flapping like crazy. In just seven days I wouldn’t be like all my colleagues, crammed into what’s charmingly called the ‘press pen’ for hours. Oh no. I would be leaving my recording gear happily at home. My time as a voyeur would be over. I would be on the other side, glamorously swishing up the red carpet and mingling with the VIPs: a proper guest at a film premiere and party.
I had to start preparing. The bank of snappers gathered on their ladders might want to take my picture as I arrived; I had to look my best. I studiously practised posing in front of my bedroom mirror before I went to bed each night, drifting off to sleep with the imagined sound of a hundred camera shutters chiming melodically in my head.
Why was I invited? Errrr … That never really crossed my mind, to be honest. I’d had a couple of articles published in the magazine by this point, and I must have thought that I was making a name for myself. This was most likely a reward from a thoughtful film company for a complimentary story. In truth, the whole thing had made me a little ditzy. I wasn’t used to special treatment. Suddenly, uncharacteristically, all I cared about was being thought of as ‘someone’ for the night – the mysterious girl on the red carpet that gets the crowds whispering …
‘Who is she?’
‘I’ve no idea. But if she’s got an invite, she must be famous.’
‘True. Over here strange lady! Over here! Sign my autograph book and let me have a photo taken with you!’
Vacuous, I know. But what can I say? I’ve never been fame-hungry, but I have always been fascinated by unlikely celebrities; people like Chantelle Houghton, the girl-next-door that posed as a star and ended up winning Celebrity Big Brother. During