Confessions of a Pop Star. Timothy Lea

They do a nice tea, though.

      There is a burst of jeers and whistles from behind a curtain and a kid runs past wearing a bow tie and a top hat. He is in tears and is closely followed by a mother figure.

      ‘They did what with your balls?’ I hear her saying as they disappear from sight.

      I take a peep through the curtain and – blimey! – I am glad I don’t have to go out there. They make the average Crackerjack audience look like Parkhurst lifers. I can hardly see beyond the first three rows for the pall of smoke and the kids are hopping about like a flea circus on acid. The stage is littered with orange peel and coke cans and the Vic is waving his arms about like it is the first heat of a semaphore contest.

      ‘Children, I appeal to you!’ he shrieks.

      ‘No you don’t, Baldy! Push off!’

      ‘What a load of rubbish!’

      ‘Why are we waiting!’

      I step back from the curtain and shoot a quick glance at Jason – I would prefer to shoot a bullet but you can’t have everything you want in life. If the little bleeder can’t get this lot going he might as well jack it in immediately. I hope the Vic has the hall insured.

      ‘William Blenkinsop, William Blenkinsop! If I’d have known Miss Trimble’s mother was having her varicose veins done today I’d have put the whole thing off for a week.’

      The poor old Vic is clearly going to pieces faster than flaky cod. William Blenkinsop has turned the colour of cold suet and is led out onto the stage by his mother carrying a chair. A chorus of wolf whistles suggests that some of the kiddies present have very mature tastes. I even think I hear a shout of ‘get ’em orf!’ but it must be my imagination.

      ‘What is first prize?’ Jason’s evil little eyes glint with anticipation. He obviously reckons it is all over bar the shouting.

      ‘Quite an ordeal for the boy, Mrs Blenkinsop,’ I say in my best Dixon of Dock Green voice.

      ‘Yes. I wish – perhaps I shouldn’t – oh, I don’t know.’ She leans forward nervously and I gaze sympathetically at the soft swellings in her fisherman-knit sweater. I wonder if I slid my arms round her and – no, it probably wouldn’t. People have such different ideas when it comes to offering comfort.

      ‘William Blenkinsop is going to play–’ There is an ugly pause while it occurs to everyone that the Vic has no idea what W.B. is going to play.

      ‘With his willy!’ shouts a child with a big future on late night chat shows. I can feel the glow of the Vic's cheeks from where I am standing. He mouths desperately into the wings.

      ‘Bach.’

      ‘Woof, woof!’ bays the audience.

      Mrs Blenkinsop stiffens beside me and for a moment I think she is going to dash on the stage and yank William off. I have not heard a worse reception since Dad played us the last wireless he nicked from the lost property office.

      ‘Poor kid,’ I breathe as William licks his lips and prepares to play the first few chords. His eyes are closed and it is only the movement of the bow that tells us he is wanging away. The row is so great you can’t hear anything. Then, slowly, the music starts coming through. I don’t know a cello from a pregnant fiddle but it is obvious that the kid knows how to play the thing. The audience stop giving him the bird and start to listen. By the time the last note has wafted away into the rafters you could hear a pin drop. There is a moment’s pause and then lughole-shattering applause.

      The only person not clapping is Jason. He looks about as happy as Ted Heath at a miners’ rally.

      Out on the stage, William Blenkinsop bows stiffly and walks towards his highly chuffed mum.

      ‘OK Super Star,’ I say to Jason. ‘Now’s your chance to make history. Get out there and sock it to them.’ I take a last look at him and, of course, the stupid little basket has forgotten to do up his zipper. I give it a savage tug and – oh dear! The whole thing comes away in my hand.

      ‘What you doing!?’ shrieks Jason.

      ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re all right. Get out there. I’ll plug you in.’ His trousers are very tight and nobody would recognise his willy wonker if he painted it in day glo paint.

      The Vic bustles up, looking a shade happier. ‘Jason Noggett, isn’t it?’

      ‘Just Jason.’

      ‘And he’s doing an impression of someone?’

      ‘No, he’s being himself,’ I say. ‘He’s going to sing an original composition entitled “Stomp on your momma”.’

      The Vic does not look as if this is the best news he has had since the second coming but nods and shambles onto the stage with his silent lips rehearsing the words to come. We follow him.