I suspect there comes a point in every woman’s life when something which at first seemed so insignificant all of a sudden becomes, well, significant. Just when I thought I was down with the kids, and it pains me to use that phrase because I don’t really feel like I left the kids all that long ago but, nonetheless, just when I thought I was, I realised I was not down but in fact up, far away from those cool kids on the ground.
There they were, chart-shooting-stars walking down Carnaby Street, laughing at how conventionally beautiful they all are when I shot over out of nowhere to perform part one of my rabid display of uncool. It’s around this time that a woman also discovers she can grab the attention of a group of sex god trainees in one beguiling sentence.
“You’re a group of good looking lads!” I said. A pedophile by all accounts.
They were putty in my hands, wide-eyed, excitably shifting from side to side in anticipation of what I would say next. When I told them I worked for a women’s mag – they licked their lips – and when I asked them if they wouldn’t mind answering the question What Would You Change If You Could Change One Thing About Your Girlfriend? – well, they fell over themselves in up-for-it-ness.
“But wait!” the dreamy denim jacket dude faltered looking each demi god in the face “can we do this guys?”
“Errr, yeeah?!” said the long haired future Howard Donald, so up for it he’d almost eaten the clipboard I was holding.
Oh right, I thought, actors. Typical. Precious bloody actors. “What is it, you part of a union or somink?” I quipped expecting them to make a joke about Rugby Union or..student union.
“No, we’re in a band” they said in unison.
Of course they were in a band, they looked like a band on their way to band practise. My photographer looked a tad itchy to get papping so I had to hurry things along in a ‘look can we do this or not?’ type of way.
The flock of girls surrounding us somehow failed to transport me any closer to the reality of the situation. I took down their answers, a mixture of throw away, calculating and plain humiliating for whoever they’re dating but funny from the future Howard Donald for whom I was starting to develop strong feelings.
“So what’s your band called?” I asked, trying to wrap things up. They were still in band formation, arranged size order, aka perfect.
“The Haunted! Cool” I said, back pedalling away, my photographer not coming with me. What the hell, photographer, we’ve spoken to lots of good looking guys today, I need forty comments by 4pm – vamos!!
“Yeah, we’re a Halloween themed band” – they suddenly burst into laughter. Oh, I’d heard them wrong. I always hear people wrong because I’m a bit deaf in both ears.
“We’re called The Wanted” corrected denim demi god.
“And how’s it all going? What’s…happening?” I asked zealously – genuinely sorry for mishearing but genuinely under the impression they’d say they were auditioning for X Factor 2011. And then, the bombshell.
“We’re number one”.
Number one? Number one? I looked at photographer. In the same way The Beatles were number one?
I’d made an utter bosom of myself and photographer looked up at the sky grateful that it was my neck that’d been stuck out and subsequently sliced into slivers of uncool and not his.
In the same way your life flashes before you when you die, the past five minutes blinded and gagged me from producing words. All that was left for me to do, to complete my transition from in-the-know to clueless knob, was take my place within the band’s Smash Hits cover formation. Without words, we were snapped by photographer three, four, five times and in my blushing state, all I could muster was a shy look at the birdy flying high in the sky.
I know The Wanted will remember me when they’re.. well, they are stars aren’t they. So here I am with stars who I coerced into helping me in one sentence and who in turn, brought me to a pathetic state of uncool with three words.
Check out what The Wanted said to me in this week’s issue of More! Magazine or … don’t