It started well enough – the three of us on stage, ready to fulfil the cliché and sing our way to becoming school legends. I feel al-ah-ah-ah-ive! Heads snapped upwards, arms shuddering up in true Freddie fashion. Why didn’t I borrow the caretaker’s hoover? It’s too late now.
Time to surprise them with our range: Floatin’ around in ectasyyyyyy… and cue plinking piano chords. Where the f*ck are the plinking piano chords?! Dropping our shoulders one by one, then performing jaunty hip actions to the main chorus lines, I watch the pianist shrug his shoulders then just casually step away from his stool. The utter bastard. ‘Cause I’m havin’ a good time, havin’ a good time!
My mic cuts out with a hiss and I shoot a look at our drama teacher in the wings. She shuffles her hands at me like a dog burying it’s own excrement. No matter, I can deliver on the volume front. A cardboard cut-out shooting star, lovingly handcrafted just an hour before, rattles across the stage.
The routine speeds up. A manic swish of arms follows the racing car as it zooms by – there really is no stopping us now. It’s certainly getting warmer as we lick our fingers and emulate steam coming off our rears: Two hundred degrees that’s why they call us Missus Fahrenheit!’ We hope the audience appreciate that, despite the comic tashes hanging off our faces.
I wanna make a supersonic woman of youuuu. We sweep the room with pointing fingers a lá Grease, and the crowd is spellbound. We embrace the gaudiness, throwing a beach ball across the stage to show that we were indeed having a ball, and resorting to ringing phones made of our own hands to encourage the audience to give us a call.
Yet there be mutiny in the ranks. During the ‘oohs’ my co-stars suggest legging it off stage – slightly impractical given that I’m on crutches. Instead, I repeat the phrase ‘good time’ to instil confidence into my dissenters, then hastily beckon our saviour to the fore.
It was time for the guitar solo. The strong tinny ‘dowww’ noise is all we need to stay in the game. We dance/hop around him as if he is a totem pole to be worshipped. Our heavy ragged breaths are lost under his stretching and staggered notes. His long ginger hair sways over his face as he pulses higher and higher, before inevitably dropping us back in the room.
We burn our way to the end, and are shuffled off-stage before we can finish all the dreamy ‘la la laaaahhhhs’ that Queen would have wanted. The compère slides me my crutches before introducing the next act: ‘And now for someone who can sing!’.
We were memorialised in our Year Book under the title ‘Please Stop Me Now.’
Watch the proper version here: http://youtu.be/HgzGwKwLmgM