Lonely People

Plastered Plonkers

I despise press conferences. They were worse than any concert, any interview, or any stupid show we had to put on. In a press conference, the reporters could easily get a piece of you. Once, one of the reporters had snipped off a piece of Ringo's hair. It was a dangerous game to play, and yet, we did it time and time again.

There were two types of press conferences I had been to; the type where the band was on a stage and the sort where we were mixed in with the crowd. Being on the stage was bad, it was like we were behind glass, only there to be viewed. Being on the floor with them, however, was absolute hell. That was when it was the most dangerous for us.

Ellen had arranged a press conference at one of the luxurious hotels in London. This hotel was the sort you would expect The Queen to stay in if her house wasn't just down the street. It had a large ballroom up for renting. As soon as we walked in, we were hounded by the press. I got separated from Molly and Linda, which was their intention.

"Miss McCartney, this album, would you tell me why you chose to go in the direction you did?" one reporter asked.

The room was so loud, I had to strain to hear him. I lifted an eyebrow and asked, "What? What do you mean?"

"This album, Liverpool Bops," the reporter continued, "Why did you chose to do it so differently than your previous albums?"

"Well, why not? Doing the same thing all the time gets dull, you know," I answered.

"Yes, I suppose so."

He wrote something down as I was moved elsewhere. In a crowd such as that, you don't move yourself. You move with the flow of the crowd whether you like it or not. I was thrown around by reporters and security guards alike. Most of them didn't mean to push me along, they simply ran into me while someone else was running into them. I ended up slamming into the bar and groaning.

"I bloody hate press conferences," I muttered.

"Amelia, please, over here!" a voice called behind me.

I spun around to see a female reporter and her male cameraman. The man lifted his camera, asking for a picture. I nodded and smiled brightly. He snapped a few shots before thanking me.

"Amelia, which of the new songs did you most enjoy recording?" the reporter asked.

I shrugged, "They were all pretty great. I liked Kensington Gardens. That was a fun one, what with the panpipes and everything."

"What instruments do you play?"

"The better question is what instruments don't I play," I replied, "I play a bit of everything. Gotta keep up with the times, you know."

I grinned. The reporter nodded. Someone else tapped my shoulder to gain my attention. When I spun around, I was met with a bright camera flash. A man was smiling at me as he asked, "Miss McCartney, did The Beatles assist you in any way?"

"No, of course not," I spat, "We're not Beatles, you know."

"Yes, but-"

"Sorry, I'm needed over there."

I pushed through the crowd to get away from him. Several reporters stopped and asked questions, mostly about the new album. Ellen had lectured all three of us before coming here on what to do and what not to do. As usual, she told me, very sternly, not to curse or be rude to the reporters in anyway. If I was asked I question I didn't like, I was told to politely move on.

That was easier said than done. Once a reporter had you, it wasn't very likely that they would let you go. They had claws like steel that could grip tighter than a shark's jaws. Reporters had a lust for information, one that would drive them to great lengths to achieve, including cornering terrified band members.