Club Tropicana Drinks are Freeeeeee...

Here's a question. What in the world could drag dozens of peri/actual/post menopausal women out on a Sunday morning, to stand in a three-hour queue, in the middle of a busy shopping centre, without any of them moaning for a single second? What in the mofo world? 

Two words. Andrew Ridgeley.

Modelling my 2018 calendar -
Andew on the left.

What's that? Who's Andrew Ridgelely? Why, you sound like my younger siblings, several of whom seemed perplexed that I'd had spent a chunk of a recent weekend doing just that. Look, it's not my fault you're all too young. I can't help it if half of the best band in the world was happy to slip out of the limelight by the late eighties. For me, his name still evokes a gut memory of poptastic, carefree joy. In 1985 Andrew Ridgeley was all over my bedroom wall. As was his band mate George Michael. We've covered my love for his better known partner before. Now, it's Andrew's time. It's only fair he gets a blog post, considering I have a large portrait of his late-friend on my lounge wall. It's the least I can do.

Re-enacting the Last Christmas
video. Almost exactly the same.

When I was in single figures, George and Andrew were EVERYTHING. Their three-year reign of the charts, along with their albums, Smash Hits covers, and Top of the Pops appearances were snatches of colour amidst the ordinariness childhood. Wham were glamorous. They were cool and aspirational. I've written this sentiment before, but it bears repeating - the Last Christmas video is perfect. It's everything I love about winter, weather, Christmas, friends, food, and twinkly lighting all in a four minute and thirty-seven second burst. I am sure it is the reason that at this time of year, when I spot a bit of frost on my windscreen, I feel deep joy and a sense of being grounded. It's my time. It's nearly the Last Christmas video time.

But anyway, I've digressed. Quite spectacularly it seems. Let's get back to the story. It's a really quick one to be fair. A couple of weeks ago, I turned up to a Waterstones in Manchester with my ticket for Andrew Ridgeley's book signing. For £20, I'd got a ticket to the thing, a copy of the book, a T-shirt, and a commemorative lanyard (I know! Get in!) which now dangles from the headrest of my driver's seat for the amusement of any backseat passengers behind. Bargain. 

I was still an hour and a
half away at this point.

The interesting thing about the whole shebang was that I had completely underestimated the turn out. I knew that Andrew held a special place in the hearts of many people my age. But when I got there half an hour before the start, and was directed to the end of a queue that trailed out of the shop door, zigzagged around security barriers in the centre of the shopping centre, before cutting off and recommencing out of an exit, and up some staff-only stairs, it was quite the eye opener. Manchester and the surrounding area had turned out in force. I asked one of the staff about numbers. There were three hundred people there - the maximum number of tickets that they were allowed to sell. The queue began to move at 1pm. That's when it officially started. I got to the front at 3.30pm and there were still plenty of people behind me. I had imagined I'd be in and out. As it turned out, a sizeable chunk of the day was taken up.

But during all that time, everyone in the queue was pretty chipper. I chatted to a woman in front of me, who - despite my menopause joke at the start of this ramble - was eighteen. She had come on her own and loved eighties music. We had a good natter as we waited. Then there were a group of women behind me. One of them was massively regretting coming in heels. By the time we'd made it to the zig zag barriers, she was four inches shorter and holding her shoes in her hand. Then there was the woman a few people ahead of me. Her partner was keeping their one year old amused by wheeling him off into different shops as she waited. When she finally got to the front of the queue, about ten minutes before me, she cried as she took photos with Andrew holding her kid - a kid that was wearing a Choose Life T-shirt. She left and walked past me in the queue, looking dazed, happy, and emotional. I felt genuinely chuffed for her. 

Yep 

When it came to my turn, something rather lovely happened. Wham songs had been blasting out from Waterstones as I had reached the final stage of the queue. The shoeless woman and her mates behind me had been particularly vocal during Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, which had kept us all amused. But then, just as the woman in front of me got her turn and I was able to see past the bookshelf and get a glimpse of the guy I'd been queuing up for all day, Last Christmas came on. I don't do crying, so I didn't. But if I did, then I would have done. It felt like the most perfect timing. 

The minutes that followed were hazy. I rambled. Andrew Ridgeley smiled lots. He was kind, said some things, and I rambled on again. I don't know really. Three hours of standing with no liquids, a bit of a hangover, and the adrenaline of meeting a childhood idol wasn't very conducive to an incisive and intelligent conversation. Happily for me, a member of Waterstones staff had my phone and photographed our chat. I have a frame by frame account of the entire exchange.


And then it was all over and I drove home, playing Wham all the way. The good news is that the book is a lovely wander down Memory Lane. It's a bit nostalgic whilst giving me more insight into stuff I was probably too young to grasp at the time. And even though it was a long wait to meet him, there was something lovely about the camaraderie of that queue. 

The country has been torn in two, the economy is buggered, and the uncertainty of the next week in Parliament is playing havoc with businesses, services, and stress levels all over the place. But for three hours, a couple of Sundays ago, three hundred people queued up to see their eighties idol. It was good-natured, supportive, and exhilarating. It transcended everything else that is going on, just for a while. And now I get to read the book, to eke out the escapism for a little longer.

Have a lovely week, folks.