Freddie And The Fahrenheits

Booze, You Lose

Friday 17th September 1976

Though it felt like an eternity, Friday night finally arrived. The boys were getting ready for their debut show in the back room, touching up their makeup and warming up their voices.

"I can't wait!" Elton exclaimed. "There's about 300 people out there - it'll be a doddle."

"Definitely darling." Freddie smiled. "I feel the adrenaline rushing through me already!"

David didn't say anything. He just continued touching up the lighting bolt on his face, somehow keeping the lines perfect despite his shaking hands.

"David?" The duo asked in unison.

They noticed their friend's panic and were at a loss as to what to do. For a couple of seconds, anyway - Elton seemed to have a lightbulb moment as he rushed over to him.

"Nervous, love?" He asked.

He only got a nod in reply. Elton expected this though, and you could practically see the cogs whirring in his brain as he formulated his plan.

"Well guess what?" He whispered into his ear, not letting him answer. "Remember how you fell asleep before last night's match ended? Well, Watford won."

David let out a light chuckle. Every single time.

"But that doesn't make or break this." He said. "I get what you're trying to do and I truly appreciate it Elton, but my nuts are in my chest right now and Watford winning isn't helping."

"Darling, we're going to be fine." Freddie assured him. "It's only a little club gig."

"I know, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to panic when this is the performance that defines us to the press." David said. "This Shirley Lockhart bird is going to have a field day if we fuck it up."

"We won't." Elton said, giving him a hug. "We'll do just fine."

"Hey guys." Miami said, walking over from who knows where. "You're on in five."

"Perfect." Freddie said, getting up and giving their manager a hug. "Oh Miami, we couldn't have done this without your help."

"Not without your idea, I couldn't." Miami said. "You know, you three are extraordinary."

"Let's save the cheesy compliments for after we've done this." Elton laughed. "But really, thanks Miami."

"You're welcome, Elton." Miami said. "I'd be finishing up boys, there's now only three minutes and counting."

"Shit." David whispered, before finally repeating something he didn't expect. "Watford won..."

"Knew he'd crack." Elton whispered to Freddie, who tried not to laugh.

Meanwhile, the crowd were getting excited at the prospect of this new supergroup featuring all their favourite people and a buzz could be felt all around. Only a few more minutes now and the girls would begin to swoon over David Bowie and fawn over Freddie Mercury. As for Elton John? Not so much. Let's just say that a large proportion of them didn't think he was much of a looker.

In amongst them though, there was someone who wasn't there to swoon, fawn or scream. She was only there to watch and to judge. Shirley Lockhart was a firm woman of thirty, dirty blonde with piercing blue eyes that shone like the brightest sequins on Elton's shiniest stage ware. She never wore her hair down, both literally and metaphorically, and it was always in a tight bun without even a strand out of place. She had been famous in the journalism world since The Beatles began their downfall in the late sixties and hadn't looked back. This, along the fact she was even worse on that time of the month, earned her the nickname: "Seasoned Shark Bait".