The Sarah Cracknell out of Saint Etienne story
Following my recent post about Jimmmy Hill's pecker, I feel I should even things up with the time I saw a pop star's front bottom under exceptionally trying circumstances. It's only fair.
You don't turn down a freebie to Reading Festival, especially if it involves a backstage pass, allowing you to ignore all sorts of self-important people.
Every now and then, the rich and famous would emerge from their champagne-flavoured cocoon to go and see their mates play on the main stage. This involved negotiating a rather small gate "manned", for the want of a better word, by a pair of extremely hairy bouncers, whose sole mission in life was to ensure that the great unwashed remained on the right side of the fence.
I forget which band was on stage, but a large number of celebrities felt the need to get round the front and frug away like mad, drug-addled dervishes to the vogueish young sounds that make today's youth do the hippy-hippy shake. Or something.
Suddenly, the heavens opened and there followed a rainstorm of biblical proportions. These may have been hip young sounds, but the massed celebs weren't going to get their 501s wet if they could help it. Oh no, there was a lovely, dry VIP area backstage with all the marijuana they could eat.
Cue massed scramble for the tiny gate, where the gorillas slowly checked each and every VIP pass to cries of "Don't you know who I am?"
It was at that point that much of the talent had had enough and started to scale the ten foot fence that separated the plebs from the world of celebrity. There was an unseemly scramble as the rain pelted down on muddy VIPs, presenting a scene that would not be out of place on Takeshi's Castle.
Someone pointed out to me what could only be the delightful singer of the popular beat combo Saint Etienne scaling the fence in an energetic fashion, wearing a mini dress which left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
She had obviously either got dressed in a hurry that morning, or had forgotten to pack any underwear for the weekend. She could have caught her death.
Any road up, teetering on top of a ten foot high fence revealing your parts to the world is hardly the height of sophistication.
With a final heave, she and her initimate particles disappeared from view to a large cheer from the spectating hundreds.
Yes, dear reader, I can honestly say that I have seen Sarah Cracknell's crack, and I shall go to hell for it.