A Star Is Born
by Sandy Wardrope
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: To be a winner, you've got to want to win.
_____________________________________________________________________
“GOD take me now, please,” I said, just a little too loud.
“What’s that, Maxie, you say something?” Maybee Blue asked, her voice quivering.
“S’okay, just me under pressure,” I replied. “You all right, you don’t sound so good?”
“It’s nothing, Maxie; I don’t…” she buried her face in her hands and dissolved into tears.
“Sugar.”
I never learned how to handle this type of thing: females, waterworks, that is, I’m hopeless at the tenderness crap. Ask any of my three wives. I touched her shoulder gently. “Come on, Maybee, it can’t be that bad.”
White-faced, she turned and looked at me, then wailed even louder.
“Okay, what is it? Tell me right now.” I used my masterful voice, took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Listen, you’ve got a great chance of winning. This is the biggest cash prize ever for this type of show. So what’s wrong?”
I handed her a tissue and waited. She sniffed and snorted right through it so I gave her the box.
“It’s my little sister,” she sobbed. “She needs an operation on her spine. It’s a new type of pioneering surgery; without it, she’ll never walk again. It’s only ever been done in America and costs a fortune, what with flights, hotel bills, medical aftercare and so on. We just don’t have that kind of money.”
I patted her hand. “So that’s why the big performances, the big effort over the last six weeks, eh?” I creaked up from my knees. “I’m pretty sure you’ll win tonight,” I told her. “Them other three can’t touch you.”
When I turned to go, I nearly fell over the said three, the other finalists, who stood watching. If they had overheard us they never let on, they just smiled like barracudas.
Star Gene – the richest and most popular star maker show since Pop Idol. The record-breaking TV show hosted by Taylor Wentworth, a beautiful on the rise presenter and part time slut, and judged by a trio of ‘B’ minus celebs.
“Okay folks,” I raised my voice and clapped hard. “Now listen up.”
Four pairs of hopeful eyes looked at me expectantly: were they about to receive another of my speeches? Sure they were. As stage director, foreman and chief nursemaid I look after all the wannabe stars and their fragile egos. What a job.
“Right, now, listen carefully.” I squinted at them over my glasses and nodded to Maybee at the same time, “You okay now? This is your big chance.”
And your last, I thought.
Maybee Blue was a beautiful, blonde, Blues singer with a great voice. She was only twenty-one, had no class, really, but could still win; had to now.
Kirkland James, a sexy, black soul singer was next. He was tall, mean and moody with bulges in the right places. He had a great voice, and at the right side of thirty had it all; but it showed, conceited swine.
Next Jaimie Woods, a club singer – looked great but could not sing. Tuxedo, fake tan, fixed smile, so oily and smooth he could slide on Velcro, and those teeth: more porcelain than a urinal.
Last of all, Bobby Jack. How the hell did he get here? He’s been around longer than me, and I’ve been in this business almost fifty years. He says he’s thirty-five, my backside; his underpants are older than that. He’s a crooner and can hold a note, but he’s got no chance really. But, as I say, anything goes.
With their eyes hanging on to my face the four waited on the words of wisdom. Well, with nearly half a century in the business I’ve seen it all. The dodges, the tricks, the scams, all from the prolific con artists called entertainers. I’ve seen good singers fall apart at the vital moment and the not so good win through at the end. Talent was one thing but bottle was all.
“It might not be the best singer who wins,” I said, and nodded to the studio audience. “It’ll be the one who performs for that crowd out there. They’ll be conned by, won over by, fall in love with or hate whoever does or doesn’t perform tonight. They’ll vote for the one who makes them feel good, makes them laugh or even makes them cry. So, be on your toes when you’re on stage. Go for it, and shine.”
The programme was going out live in an hour and the four acts had to have the song of their choice selected and ready to rock by then. Everything was set. Taylor was ready – hair, teeth and cleavage. The three judges, dewy-eyed, their bright smiles fixed and false. But most important of all, the audience, passionate and focused with the power to create in their hands, literally.
Taylor reminded the audience what was expected of them, and they all nodded and agreed with her every word. She told them that their applause would determine who would win, and how she knew that they would make a fair and honest judgement and choose the right person.
I was backstage with my precious egos where they started to nerve a little and fret like kids. To take their minds off things I ran through the deal once more.
“Well, children, you know the score; you topped the votes in the phone-in last week. Tonight the judges were supposed to pick a winner, but they cannot deliver, they’re divided. So it’s up to the audience; they’ll have to do it for them. Now each of you will have to go out there and win them over. A hundred grand cash and a two record deal over the next twelve months is at stake. It could make you a millionaire and a star, if you handle it right.”
Bobby spoke up. “I think we know what it’s all about, Maxie, and I think I speak for us all, when I say thanks for everything you’ve done.”
“Yes, thanks, Maxie,” the others joined in.
God, they have hearts after all, I thought, but said, “Get out of here.”
“Five minutes, Maxie,” the production manager held up his hand, “and counting.”
The contestants shook hands and kissed. “Best of luck,” they echoed.
I looked away, ‘drop dead’ more like.
The minutes melted away and the last seconds counted down like a dripping tap. Suddenly music thundered from the band and the show began. Taylor introduced everyone again then showed a brief video recap of how the four got to the final. That done she announced the first act: Maybee Blue. All that was required now was some false smiles, a little fake humility from her and the other contestants.
From side-stage, the rest of us watched as she performed. She sang an old favourite and did really well.
“She’s as nervous as hell,” I said to no one, then nodded out front, “but they like her and that’s what counts.”
We all applauded politely and consoled her as she came backstage in tears.
Next up was Jaimie. He tried a little too hard with his speech and came over all arrogant and big headed. No surprise there, then. He sang a Tom Jones number and got by with moderate success.
“Arrogant twit,” I said to the others. “He can’t help it, can he?”
There were some murmurs of agreement from the rest.
Kirkland was next, but his words didn’t fool anyone; even his song was too sweet and sickly to be true. Personally, I think they saw right through him.
On walked Bobby, ‘Mr No chance’. I said to the others, “Well, that’s that; Maybee, it looks like you’re the one, well done.”
The other two hugged and kissed her and said they agreed with me.
A noise from onstage caught my attention. What was going on? What was the hold up? Bobby should be halfway through his song by now. I looked onstage and saw Bobby take hold of Taylor by the arm and talk to her in a low voice. He gently eased the microphone from her grasp and turned to the band, with a wave of his hand he bid them to wait. The audience gawped.
Bobby looked straight into the cameras with his slightly crossed eyes, dyed, jet-black hair and ever-present acne. He smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve had a wonderful, fantastic time singing in this competition…”
He went on to thank everyone from his truant officer to his carer, the judges and the police.
“Today is the happiest day of my life,” he said, sniffing back a tear. “Not because of this,” he waved his arm around. “This has become secondary.” He paused. “It’s because of the great news I received less than half an hour ago on my mobile.”
The audience gasped and leaned forward to hear more.
I was dumbstruck. What was he going to say?
He went on, “My young brother Billy has just been given the all clear from the leukaemia he has been suffering from for the last two years. The doctors say he’s cured.”
Silence roared.
“What’s going on, Bobby?” I said out loud.
“So it doesn’t matter how this goes tonight, I’m just so happy for Billy.”
The audience sat still, mouths open, eyes shining.
“And now, Billy,” Bobby whispered into the camera, his eye moist. “I’m going to dedicate this song to you.” He stepped back and signalled the music to begin.
A haunting melody came from the band, and Bobby, right on cue, sang, “The road is long, with many a winding turn…”
“Good grief,” I spluttered.
Maybee’s eyes flooded. “That’s wonderful,” she wept.
The other two gaped in awe as Bobby sang that wonderful old Hollies hit, ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.’
Silence boomed from the audience, not a breath stirred.
I shook my head and walked backstage smiling. The three losers stood together and watched as a star was born.
When he’d finished, Bobby bent half majestically; he mouthed a thank you, discretely wiped a tear from his eye, then held his head bowed like a maiden. For a nanosecond there was total silence; you could hear a pin drop. Then suddenly the audience erupted, they cheered, they whistled, they shouted, they even stamped their feet. They loved him. Even the hard-nosed, camera crews joined in with applause. Some of the audience tried to run on the stage to touch Bobby, but security men whisked him away to safety, he had become valuable merchandise.
Backstage everybody wanted to hug or kiss him. They all wanted to be near to a winner. Taylor Wentworth struggled to restore order; when she eventually got it she brought Bobby back to be presented with his prize. He received it with all the humility and sincerity he could fabricate, sang the song again and sauntered off with a wave of triumph to his audience.
As he passed by, Bobby winked and said, “Thanks for everything, Mr Crane.”
“Its okay, Bobby,” I replied. “You’re the man.”
Maybee and the other two came round for a drink later, and to thank me. They all agreed she should have won, but were glad Bobby did, if only for his brother’s sake.
I stifled a laugh and almost choked; they stared at me, puzzled.
“What?”
“I’ve known Bobby Jack for years. His only brother is twenty-two stone, forty-eight, and drives a taxi in Luton.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: To be a winner, you've got to want to win.
_____________________________________________________________________
“GOD take me now, please,” I said, just a little too loud.
“What’s that, Maxie, you say something?” Maybee Blue asked, her voice quivering.
“S’okay, just me under pressure,” I replied. “You all right, you don’t sound so good?”
“It’s nothing, Maxie; I don’t…” she buried her face in her hands and dissolved into tears.
“Sugar.”
I never learned how to handle this type of thing: females, waterworks, that is, I’m hopeless at the tenderness crap. Ask any of my three wives. I touched her shoulder gently. “Come on, Maybee, it can’t be that bad.”
White-faced, she turned and looked at me, then wailed even louder.
“Okay, what is it? Tell me right now.” I used my masterful voice, took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Listen, you’ve got a great chance of winning. This is the biggest cash prize ever for this type of show. So what’s wrong?”
I handed her a tissue and waited. She sniffed and snorted right through it so I gave her the box.
“It’s my little sister,” she sobbed. “She needs an operation on her spine. It’s a new type of pioneering surgery; without it, she’ll never walk again. It’s only ever been done in America and costs a fortune, what with flights, hotel bills, medical aftercare and so on. We just don’t have that kind of money.”
I patted her hand. “So that’s why the big performances, the big effort over the last six weeks, eh?” I creaked up from my knees. “I’m pretty sure you’ll win tonight,” I told her. “Them other three can’t touch you.”
When I turned to go, I nearly fell over the said three, the other finalists, who stood watching. If they had overheard us they never let on, they just smiled like barracudas.
Star Gene – the richest and most popular star maker show since Pop Idol. The record-breaking TV show hosted by Taylor Wentworth, a beautiful on the rise presenter and part time slut, and judged by a trio of ‘B’ minus celebs.
“Okay folks,” I raised my voice and clapped hard. “Now listen up.”
Four pairs of hopeful eyes looked at me expectantly: were they about to receive another of my speeches? Sure they were. As stage director, foreman and chief nursemaid I look after all the wannabe stars and their fragile egos. What a job.
“Right, now, listen carefully.” I squinted at them over my glasses and nodded to Maybee at the same time, “You okay now? This is your big chance.”
And your last, I thought.
Maybee Blue was a beautiful, blonde, Blues singer with a great voice. She was only twenty-one, had no class, really, but could still win; had to now.
Kirkland James, a sexy, black soul singer was next. He was tall, mean and moody with bulges in the right places. He had a great voice, and at the right side of thirty had it all; but it showed, conceited swine.
Next Jaimie Woods, a club singer – looked great but could not sing. Tuxedo, fake tan, fixed smile, so oily and smooth he could slide on Velcro, and those teeth: more porcelain than a urinal.
Last of all, Bobby Jack. How the hell did he get here? He’s been around longer than me, and I’ve been in this business almost fifty years. He says he’s thirty-five, my backside; his underpants are older than that. He’s a crooner and can hold a note, but he’s got no chance really. But, as I say, anything goes.
With their eyes hanging on to my face the four waited on the words of wisdom. Well, with nearly half a century in the business I’ve seen it all. The dodges, the tricks, the scams, all from the prolific con artists called entertainers. I’ve seen good singers fall apart at the vital moment and the not so good win through at the end. Talent was one thing but bottle was all.
“It might not be the best singer who wins,” I said, and nodded to the studio audience. “It’ll be the one who performs for that crowd out there. They’ll be conned by, won over by, fall in love with or hate whoever does or doesn’t perform tonight. They’ll vote for the one who makes them feel good, makes them laugh or even makes them cry. So, be on your toes when you’re on stage. Go for it, and shine.”
The programme was going out live in an hour and the four acts had to have the song of their choice selected and ready to rock by then. Everything was set. Taylor was ready – hair, teeth and cleavage. The three judges, dewy-eyed, their bright smiles fixed and false. But most important of all, the audience, passionate and focused with the power to create in their hands, literally.
Taylor reminded the audience what was expected of them, and they all nodded and agreed with her every word. She told them that their applause would determine who would win, and how she knew that they would make a fair and honest judgement and choose the right person.
I was backstage with my precious egos where they started to nerve a little and fret like kids. To take their minds off things I ran through the deal once more.
“Well, children, you know the score; you topped the votes in the phone-in last week. Tonight the judges were supposed to pick a winner, but they cannot deliver, they’re divided. So it’s up to the audience; they’ll have to do it for them. Now each of you will have to go out there and win them over. A hundred grand cash and a two record deal over the next twelve months is at stake. It could make you a millionaire and a star, if you handle it right.”
Bobby spoke up. “I think we know what it’s all about, Maxie, and I think I speak for us all, when I say thanks for everything you’ve done.”
“Yes, thanks, Maxie,” the others joined in.
God, they have hearts after all, I thought, but said, “Get out of here.”
“Five minutes, Maxie,” the production manager held up his hand, “and counting.”
The contestants shook hands and kissed. “Best of luck,” they echoed.
I looked away, ‘drop dead’ more like.
The minutes melted away and the last seconds counted down like a dripping tap. Suddenly music thundered from the band and the show began. Taylor introduced everyone again then showed a brief video recap of how the four got to the final. That done she announced the first act: Maybee Blue. All that was required now was some false smiles, a little fake humility from her and the other contestants.
From side-stage, the rest of us watched as she performed. She sang an old favourite and did really well.
“She’s as nervous as hell,” I said to no one, then nodded out front, “but they like her and that’s what counts.”
We all applauded politely and consoled her as she came backstage in tears.
Next up was Jaimie. He tried a little too hard with his speech and came over all arrogant and big headed. No surprise there, then. He sang a Tom Jones number and got by with moderate success.
“Arrogant twit,” I said to the others. “He can’t help it, can he?”
There were some murmurs of agreement from the rest.
Kirkland was next, but his words didn’t fool anyone; even his song was too sweet and sickly to be true. Personally, I think they saw right through him.
On walked Bobby, ‘Mr No chance’. I said to the others, “Well, that’s that; Maybee, it looks like you’re the one, well done.”
The other two hugged and kissed her and said they agreed with me.
A noise from onstage caught my attention. What was going on? What was the hold up? Bobby should be halfway through his song by now. I looked onstage and saw Bobby take hold of Taylor by the arm and talk to her in a low voice. He gently eased the microphone from her grasp and turned to the band, with a wave of his hand he bid them to wait. The audience gawped.
Bobby looked straight into the cameras with his slightly crossed eyes, dyed, jet-black hair and ever-present acne. He smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve had a wonderful, fantastic time singing in this competition…”
He went on to thank everyone from his truant officer to his carer, the judges and the police.
“Today is the happiest day of my life,” he said, sniffing back a tear. “Not because of this,” he waved his arm around. “This has become secondary.” He paused. “It’s because of the great news I received less than half an hour ago on my mobile.”
The audience gasped and leaned forward to hear more.
I was dumbstruck. What was he going to say?
He went on, “My young brother Billy has just been given the all clear from the leukaemia he has been suffering from for the last two years. The doctors say he’s cured.”
Silence roared.
“What’s going on, Bobby?” I said out loud.
“So it doesn’t matter how this goes tonight, I’m just so happy for Billy.”
The audience sat still, mouths open, eyes shining.
“And now, Billy,” Bobby whispered into the camera, his eye moist. “I’m going to dedicate this song to you.” He stepped back and signalled the music to begin.
A haunting melody came from the band, and Bobby, right on cue, sang, “The road is long, with many a winding turn…”
“Good grief,” I spluttered.
Maybee’s eyes flooded. “That’s wonderful,” she wept.
The other two gaped in awe as Bobby sang that wonderful old Hollies hit, ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.’
Silence boomed from the audience, not a breath stirred.
I shook my head and walked backstage smiling. The three losers stood together and watched as a star was born.
When he’d finished, Bobby bent half majestically; he mouthed a thank you, discretely wiped a tear from his eye, then held his head bowed like a maiden. For a nanosecond there was total silence; you could hear a pin drop. Then suddenly the audience erupted, they cheered, they whistled, they shouted, they even stamped their feet. They loved him. Even the hard-nosed, camera crews joined in with applause. Some of the audience tried to run on the stage to touch Bobby, but security men whisked him away to safety, he had become valuable merchandise.
Backstage everybody wanted to hug or kiss him. They all wanted to be near to a winner. Taylor Wentworth struggled to restore order; when she eventually got it she brought Bobby back to be presented with his prize. He received it with all the humility and sincerity he could fabricate, sang the song again and sauntered off with a wave of triumph to his audience.
As he passed by, Bobby winked and said, “Thanks for everything, Mr Crane.”
“Its okay, Bobby,” I replied. “You’re the man.”
Maybee and the other two came round for a drink later, and to thank me. They all agreed she should have won, but were glad Bobby did, if only for his brother’s sake.
I stifled a laugh and almost choked; they stared at me, puzzled.
“What?”
“I’ve known Bobby Jack for years. His only brother is twenty-two stone, forty-eight, and drives a taxi in Luton.”
About the Author
Ardrossan-born Sandy Wardrope is a grandfather in his sixties who worked as a mechanical fitter for almost fifty years. Having left school at the age of fifteen almost completely uneducated, Sandy came to writing late in life. But he has already completed his first book, a contemporary crime novel set locally. He has also written a multitude of short stories, many of which have been published. His stories are usually about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary events; as Sandy explains: “I don’t do super-heroes or fantasy, horror or spooky, just plain old folk trying to get on.”