Free Is It Just Me? by Chrissie Swan Page A

hero. Tread carefully. Very carefully.
    You see, my first love was Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran. My sisters and I dreamed of the band every night. When they toured Australia in the early ’80s, my sisters even saved their pennies and caught a TAA flight to Sydney to stalk them. Our sorority owns every vinyl album they have ever released, even Night Versions – essentially laborious 45-minute versions of the radio edits we loved on Countdown . We were hardcore. And it’s a love that has not waned.
    So you can imagine my boundless joy when, earlier this year, I was given an opportunity to interview the band, then meet them backstage before their stadium show. When I told my sister she’d better organise a babysitter as she was finally going to see them face to face, she cried. We both did.
    First came the interview. I sat down with two members, John Taylor and Roger Taylor. I bored them senseless. I told them how much they meant to me. They had no interest whatsoever. Then I tried to get all cerebral and ask serious questions about their influences, but I’d lost them at hello. Within two minutes, they had lost the will to live. When I’m nervous and humiliated, my voice goes high and tight, as if I’m choking on sourdough, so all the interview yielded was a few minutes of me asking inane questions. I couldn’t even listen to the edited audio. Such shame.
    This didn’t bode well for the meet-and-greet planned for later that night. I didn’t tell my sister of my horror. Instead, I cleared the bread from my throat and soldiered on.
    We met outside the arena squealing. We had lipstick on and fully charged iPhones.
    My sister warned me that I was about to see a side of her I might not like. “I’m going to be kind of gross and excited, you know?” I told her it was okay. I’d love her anyway. We were ushered backstage, where we waited. And waited.
    Eventually, we were corralled into a long hallway and asked to wait against the wall, firing-squad-style. There was a kerfuffle and then they appeared, all five members, including the lead singer, Simon Le Bon. A few other fans carried bits and pieces to have signed, but my sister and I just wanted the photo. Finally. A photo. After thirty years of admiration, we wanted three minutes of their time … and they treated us like something they’d stepped in during an outdoor Pilates class. Then it was over. They walked on stage; we went to our seats. We couldn’t even look at each other, the humiliation was so great.
    It took us a few weeks to admit how horrible it was. How bad we felt about ourselves and the disappointment that our fandom was misguided. It is hard for your feelings not to be hurt when your idols make you feel stupid for liking them.
    As I said, you have to be careful what you wish for. I’d heard that meeting someone you greatly admire often ends in tears and now I’ve learnt about it firsthand.
    So, Rick Springfield, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll hide my love for you under a bushel. I’ll keep the feelings of adoration pure. And I’ll be watching you with my eyeeeesss and I’ll be lovin’ you with my body, you just know it … and I’ll be holdin’ you in my arms late, late at night …
    Because it’s probably better to keep some mystery about what it’d be like to be Jessie’s Girl than to find out for sure.
    Â 
    26th August 2012

Crap dates and motorbike loans
    I was recently visiting my newfound love, the online bookstore, and something caught my eye just as I was about to hand over my credit-card details. Admittedly, I do know them off by heart, so there is not a lot of time between punching in the numbers, hitting confirm and high-fiving myself for organising the speedy (and free!) delivery of yet another selection of books I do not have the time to read.
    But there it was, causing a rare pause in my Pavlovian book-purchase response