I was doing a gig in Guildford tonight as part of the Guildford Literary Festival. I have written a book and now I am literary. It doens't matter what the book is about.
The people organising the event seemed a bit surprised when I turned up. A well spoken middle aged woman came to say hello, but was rather flustered by my arrival and went off to find Bernard who was in charge.
I went to get some stuff from my car and when I got back the man from the box office showed me to the dressing rooms, though he didn't know which one I was in.
Dressing room one was full of children and so I went into dressing room two, where the well-spoken lady was moving chairs around. She seemed a little shifty and uncertain about what was happening.
"I'm sorry, we're not quite ready for you yet," she apologised for apparently no reason.
"It's OK," I replied. "I don't particularly need anything, just a chair. I have to wait for my tour manager to arrive anyway."
She gave me a chair and I sat down to read the papers.
"Can I get you a drink?" she asked.
"A diet coke would be very welcome," I smiled.
"Are you sure?" she said, as if I might want an alcoholic drink even though it was only 5.30 on a Sunday afternoon (I know I drank yesterday afternoon, but that's different).
"Yes, that'd be great."
"And have you eaten anything? I don't think the cafe opens til 6.30, but I could get you something then."
"That would be great." And it would be. If there was a cafe that meant hot food. No sandwiches for me tonight. Not no sandwiches in the rubbish Leeds sense, but no sandwiches in the proper meal sense.
"I'm sorry we're a bit underprepared," she fussed, "If you were here tomorrow there would be a chaise longue and everything."
"Well, I'll come back tomorrow then," I said, thinking it was a wierd thing to tell me. Like they were going to pull out the stops for the other proper authors, but cock boy was getting a plastic chair and a can of coke and he would have to like it.
"That's fine. I've got everything I need. Don't worry."
The lady disappeared, only to reappear a few minutes later with the coke. She carried on fussing and addressed some of the same points. I tried to reassure her that everything was OK and that I would wait for Simon Streeting, my tour manager.
Simon Streeting arrived and came in to tell me that there was no food as the kitchens didn't open on a Sunday, but that there was an Italian restaurant nearby. It was worse than Leeds. At least they had salad and fruit and didn't taunt me with the promise of a chaise longue being in my dressing room some 24 hours too late for me to sit on it.
Luckily the fussy well-spoken lady must have found out about the lack of food, because very quickly two large plates of sandwiches were sorted out. Nice ones too. Not as nice as a proper meal (the Glasgow Tron is still winning on that score), but still very passable. Later on a man from the bar would arrive with a bowl of olives and pistachio nuts and apologise that there wasn't any fruit. Apologise? Olives and pistachio nuts are the most luxurious things I have ever eaten. Much better than fruit. If only I had had a chaise longue to eat them on.
Just after our sandwiches arrived another over-fussy, over-stressed, well spoken woman came into the dressing room. She seemed even more disorientated and confused. She shook Simon Streeting's hand, but when I introduced myself she promptly dropped it and came over to me enthusiastically. She didn't really say who she was, or why she was here (in fact Simon Streeing made an assumption for some reason that she was the woman from Smiths who was here to sell my books). Apparently she had been called up at the last minute because whoever was meant to be looking after me had not turned up. Hence the reason she was so flustered. Doubtless also the reason for the fluster of the first lady, who wasn't meant to be looking after me at all. Not that I needed looking after, or pretentious furniture. Just a chair, a diet coke and a sandwich and I am reasonably content.
She explained that she was here to make sure I had everything I needed and that there were flowers in my dressing room. I said I had everything I needed and that although I didn't have any flowers I didn't really need any. In any case if I had any problems I could always ask Simon Streeting.
"Is he your runner?" she asked.
"Not really," I replied, "But now you've called him that I quite like it. Yes, so let's just call him my runner."
She seemed a bit stopped in her tracks. She had rushed to the theatre to assist me because the original person who was supposed to assist me was not here to assist me, but now she'd got here she found I didn't need any assistance. The show was ready to go, I had some sandwiches and a drink. I just needed some space to prepare myself for the good people of Guildford.
She went away, still out of breath and more confused than ever (espcially after Simon Streeting had talked to her fro about two minutes about when she would be selling books. He just hadn't been listening. Or more likely he had been affronted by being thought of as a runner and had arrogantly decided to put this lady in her place. That's him all over. He is known in the trade as "the arrogant tour manager").
Simon later found her down in the venue with two tables trying to put them in the centre of the stage. The rider calls for two tables, but we had already got them and they were set up. She was so keen to assist that she was in danger of spoiling things.
It was ironic that had no-one turned up to help me personally then I wouldn't have known any better as this never happens anywhere else, but because they had made such a fuss it had become a bit of an issue. These flustered women actually turned a calm and sorted situation into a tense one. Bless them for their kindness though. It was all very sweet.
Ah well, all was well in the end. And the gig was fine.
Afterwards I bumped into the first well spoken lady by the table where they were selling my books.
"Thanks for having me along," I said, "It was fun."
"Oh good. I'm afraid I didn't get to see the show. I was off having dinner with Esther Rantzen, you know...."
"Oh I totally understand, "I replied, "It was Esther Rantzen. You didn't want to miss that for me."
Once again things might well have been better if she hadn't told me about that.
And one thing was for certain, wherever they were having dinner, Esther Rantzen was enjoying it reclining on a beautiful chaise longue.
My beautiful chaise longue.
In the pecking order of the book festival the pecker bloke comes last.
