Gazing

Carl Jericho strummed his guitar, tuning up for an encore number. He’d already left the stage his T-Shirt stained in various places from the incredible amount of sweat that had escaped through his pores. The crowd were all shouting in unison for more, the entire club screaming ‘Carl’ ‘Carl’ ‘Carl’ wanting the night to never end. When he’s led the band back onto the stage he’d already decided his next move. The cover version of Neil Young’s Rocking In The Free World which they had been practicing throughout the entire arena tour had never made it onto the set, never felt right, but tonight in the secret charity gig everything screamed perfection.

“We’ve been practicing this little number throughout the tour, but to play an absolute classic you need the right crowd. Tonight, in our hometown, I think we’ve found an audience good enough,” Jericho leant into the mike, “Manchester Academy, Are you ready?”

The crowd screamed out as one, Carl Jericho stood there basking in the glory of his idol status.

“Maybe, I was wrong. Manchester, Are you ready?” Jericho screamed into the microphone.

The crowd roared; screaming, shouting and pleading for more. Trying even louder with even more effort to appease their God who stood before them, asking them to pray to him and receive his gifts.

Alexandra was almost deafened by the drunken screams of the young girls surrounding her. She put a hand on her belly and tapped it gently half wondering if this was really the place to bring her unborn child. She thought of her Dad and how he’d probably say “Never too young to educate them” and start to regale her with a story of he and her mother used to play Led Zeppelin records to her while she slept in the womb. She was quite content that the avoidance of smoke and alcohol far outweighed the negative effects of treating her little one to Lithium Junkies performing some of their classics. She even treated herself to a little pregnant hormonal cry during an acoustic version of their mega hit ‘Don’t Look Like That’. Her heart skipped a beat when he looked directly at her and smiled. Carl Jericho, the sexiest man alive ever according to Cosmopolitan, looking directly at her in a sea of people.

“I think you deserve this, so I’m dedicating this to the most beautiful, the most perfect, the most amazing woman in this room. You know who you are,” Carl Jericho gushed, holding the entire room in his hand with his magnetism.

“Thank you,” Alexandra whispered back knowing she wouldn’t be heard over the screams of the audience.

As Jericho began to play the opening chords, Alexandra could see in him the man she first met at a friend’s engagement party. He was sitting in the corner of the room, a small glass of white wine sat neatly on a silver coaster, no sign of the extravagant egotistical rock star that was belting out a Neil Young classic like it was one of his own. She had sat down beside him and listened as he played Travis’ ‘Driftwood’ on an old acoustic guitar. It was just him and a guitar, yet the whole room seemed to stop and listen, like for those two minutes there was nothing sweeter in life than Carl Jericho’s grizzly vocals telling a story about a piece of flotsam. It was then that they’d got talking; found a common interest in the paintings of Edvard Munch, even more so to find that he had a genuine reproduction of Vampire hanging in his stairwell.

She looked at him on the stage, his long blonde hair a tangled mess, his chin full of overgrown stubble that hadn’t yet become thick enough to resemble the beard he favoured when being little known Spike Floyd. If only the press had seen him at the party, thick black rimmed glasses and a black suit, a million miles away from his alter-ego’s snakeskin pants and silver open fronted shirts. She looked around the room and wondered how many people actually knew that deep within this immaculate showman was an insecure depressive who could talk for hours about art and literature.

High above the spotlights changed from red, to green, to blue and gusts of dry ice flowed into the jumping crowd. Carl Jerricho began his guitar solo, in this persona everything was a challenge, he had seen Neil Young completely dismantle a guitar and play it just by waving the strings around, this was to be the best show he’d ever played. He knew that within 24 hours camera phones, digital camcorders and unofficial bootlegs would have filtered their way onto the internet. He also knew that a really good show would have the YouTube hit rate through the roof just in time for a Christmas greatest hits package to fall onto the shelves. With a final flourish he swung his guitar above his head and brought it down onto the stage, a hundred camera’s illuminating the moment with their flash as they sought to capture the moment when their hero reproduced the cover of The Clash’s London Calling.

Alexandra screamed at the top of her lungs as the pure emotion of watching Carl Jericho destroy his guitar and release all the pent up frustration inside him. She felt a twinge in her belly as she realised she was jumping a little too much and should probably sit down. She smiled broadly as Jerricho kicked his guitar from the stage and stomped around releasing more tension, more energy. He picked up the mike from the stand and bowed to the screaming adoration.

“Thank you, thank you,” he breathed heavily, struggling to get his words out, “I want to thank each and every one of you for making this gig, possibly the greatest in my living memory. You’ve come out and made a hell of a lot of money for our charity and we hope to see you again real soon. It only remains for me to thank you on behalf of the band, Tasha, JJ, myself Carl. Thanks for supporting us, you’re our heroes.”

Jericho slowed down and stood at the microphone stand, replacing the mike back into its holder. He reached behind him for one of his back up guitars. The room was a hum as they waited for a second encore song. Jericho looked out, holding his hand to his eyes in search of something or someone. Alexandra held her breath and felt her heart beating a little faster.

“Somewhere out there is the love of my life, she’s been instrumental in providing inspiration for new songs which we hope to get out to you sometime in the next year. She’s my sun, my star and the mother of my child,” Carl Jericho pointed out into the crowd to a small brunette sat at the bar holding a bottle of Bud. “Charlotte, I know you like the Foo Fighters so this is for you. I love you, baby.”

As Jerricho uttered the first line and admitted he had a confession to make Alexandra suddenly felt very, very sick.