The Beautiful South
I once managed to get, along with a group of friends, Access All Areas passes to a Beautiful South gig. That's not the embarrassing bit - they're awesome live.

The aftershow party was even better - a fairly small room with tables surrounded with dustbins full of ice and cans of Red Stripe, all completely free. Already a bit merry, we decided to get our fill of the goodies by drinking as much as we possibly could. There were lots of predictable jokes... "I'll get this round in lads", "This one's on me" etc. etc. Not exactly comedy gold, but we were young, and a bit skint, and it was FREE BEER, dammit.

J, the only one of our group wise to the ways of gigging and backstage parties, wobbles off to get another round of cans, and returns looking slightly puzzled, staring at my access all areas pass (it was a fabric sticker you had to stick to your clothes).

"My pass looks different to yours," he slurs.

I look at mine. Nothing strange there. I look at his. His has a scribble over it. I look closer. It's been signed. By Paul Heaton.

"How did you manage that?" I probably shouted at him. We were, at this stage, at an advanced stage of refreshment.

"He's just over there..." he motions, and I see Paul Heaton mingling through the crowd.

"RIGHT." I slap my hand on the table, and stride confidently towards him, most likely in a slight zigzag, taking out a couple of chairs with me.

I walk up to him. He's talking to a friend, so not to be so rude as to interupt, I just stand a bit too close to him, stare at him, and when he and a friend share a joke and laugh, I laugh too. Loudly.

He turns to me. Oh good, I've got his attention. "GreatgigPaul, you'refuckinggreat" I say, shoving my hand in to his, and from the bemused look on his face, begin to think this might not have been such a good introduction. "Sorry to interupt, I just wanted you to sign my pass..." I continue, a little more careful to appear so completely pissed now.

He breaks into a big grin. "Sure, have you got a pen?".

"No, haven't you?!" I reply incredulously. He's just signed J's pass. What an idiot.

There is a silence that seems to last an hour. He clears his throat. "Erm... no."

I stand there, frozen on the spot, OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT. I've basically gone up to the most important man in the room, barged into his conversation, shouted at him, and only just realised it's probably social etiquette to find a pen before demanding an autograph.

Oh, and I'm on the verge of collapse through drinking so much, and he's a reformed alcoholic.

More awkward silence. He's waiting for me to do something. I don't know what to do. He laughs, pats me on the shoulder, and says, "I'll go and find one."

He disappears off, comes back after a few minutes with a marker, and signs my pass. "Take it easy," he says, obviously amused at the scene I've just caused. I turn around, and EVERYONE is looking.

I sheepishly return to the table, picking up a couple more cans of beer along the way to blot out the relentless barrage of mockery I'll receive when I return to my friends, with my face on fire.

Never meet your heroes, kids.
(Sloppy Giuseppe, Thu 4 Dec 2008, 0:28, Reply)