Read by David McGrath
I was there because of my girlfriend at the time. She loved Beyoncé - had a girl-crush on her ever since Destiny’s Child. Beyoncé was her hope and aspiration - a sexy, talented, adored, independent, rich woman doing it all on her own terms.
‘She only hires women for her band,’ my girlfriend said.
‘Bit sexist,’ I said.
‘I love her,’ she said. ‘I absolutely love her.’
Her friend had bailed at the last minute so there I was at the concert, amongst 80,000 Beyoncé fans, 98% women, all of them standing up in defiance against 18 to 35 year old males by singing along to If I were a boy.
‘Best day of my life,’ my girlfriend shouted, dancing all around the place.
I started to sulk. There was nothing for me in contemporary music like Beyoncé was to my girlfriend, no concerts I could go to and stand up to something, no oppressor to rage against. To Beyoncé, I was the fuckin’ oppressor.
‘Lighten up,’ my girlfriend said, bouncing her hips against mine, trying to get me to dance like a prick.
Beyoncé started the “to the left, to the left” one. My girlfriend went bananas and joined in with a group of girls close-by, all of them pretending to kick some guy out of the house, knowin’ all the words and all.
I went for a drink.
I downed a beer at the bar then had two cheeky shots of tequila so as to get good and sulky. I wanted to bring my girlfriend down from her cloud of glory. I wanted her good and miserable like I was, with no concerts to go to or good songs to sing. I’d charge her with looking at some other guy when I returned, ask who the fuck she’s texting or something.
I pushed my way back through the crowd like Richard Ashcroft in the Bittersweet Sympathy video, four tequilas and two beers on board, potvaliant, ready to take on Beyoncé and the whole shebang. I lit up a cigarette straight away and blew the smoke in everyone’s faces around us. My girlfriend ignored me. She knew how I got.
Beyoncé finished the “looking so crazy right now” one and I shouted bullshit up at the stage. The fans all threw disgusted, scrunched-up looks at me, thinking I was a complete knob. Good.
A few minutes later, a huge Samoan in a tuxedo approached. I thought, here we go. You don’t hit Samoans in the head. It just makes ‘em angry. You get in a quick kidney-punch then kick them in the balls, take a knee out with a downward stomp. I brawled all over the east coast of Australia and learnt my lesson on thick-skulled Samoans fast.
‘Sir, could you please follow me,’ said the Samoan.
‘Ah would ya go ‘way to be fucked,’ I said.
‘You’re not in any trouble.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘If you could just follow me.’
‘I’m with me moth.’
‘Your girlfriend can come backstage and get a drink while she waits for you.’
My girlfriend looked at me.
I looked at the Samoan.
Beyoncé was in the middle of telling the guy she kicked out of the house that he should have put a ring on it.
We followed him to the backstage entry-point where my girlfriend was invited to sit down, relax, told that I’d be back to her shortly. I was brought further backstage and ushered me into a dressing room, nobody around but the place full of flowers. There was champagne in an ice bucket. I popped the cork, poured myself a glass, downed it in one, poured another. Then I spotted an envelope on the dresser, opened it, found a bundle of cash inside and put it in my pocket.
The 80,000 outside erupted in cheers and applause. A commotion picked up in the hallway, cameras flashing, interviewers asking questions, laughs and shouts. The Samoan was saying, ‘that’s enough now, folks.’ The door opened and in came Beyoncé, all sweaty and out of breath. She put her back to the door and exhaled.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘All right.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Doghouse Reilly.’
‘That’s quite a name.’
‘Blue Ivy was taken.’
Beyoncé looked around the dressing room and noticed the missing envelope.
‘I had an envelope of cash for tips. Did you see it?’
‘Nope.’
This exhilarated her.
‘I heard you shout bullshit. You don’t like my music?’
‘It’s tripe.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Your message is mixed for starters.’
I had touched a nerve. She pawned it off.
‘That champagne was for when I finish the tour. They leave it there to remind me.’
‘Money tight or something?’
‘Where are you from?’
‘I’m Irish.’
‘I love that accent.’
‘You sound like a hillbilly.’
She laughed, came close and touched my bicep. ‘You’ve finished all the champagne. Naughty boy. Do you want something else?’
‘Yeah, beer. Something with a high percentage.’
‘I love men who drink high percentage beer.’
‘You’ll be fuckin’ head over heels about me then.’
‘I think I already am,’ she said, moved even closer and readied for a kiss.
‘My beer.’
‘Right, right. Edward!’
The Samoan poked his big fat head in the door.
‘Can you get Doghouse a beer? Something with a high percentage.’
‘Sure, B.’
Beyoncé smiled awkwardly.
‘You have a goofy smile,’ I said.
She found it hilarious.
‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, Doghouse?’
‘Ever? Or just today?’
‘Ever.’
‘I had a punch-up at my best friend’s wedding because I was fingering a bridesmaid under the table and her boyfriend caught me. Completely ruined the night. Blood everywhere, ripped shirts, knocked-over tables. There was an ambulance called and all—three broken noses and I got a smashed-in cheekbone. My best friend hasn’t spoken to me since. Well, guess he’s not my best friend now.’
‘That’s so hot,’ Beyoncé said.
‘We only have high percentage cider,’ said the Samoan, poking his big fat head back inside the room.
‘That’ll do,’ I said.
He handed it over and shut the door again. I cracked open the can and Beyoncé watched me drink.
‘God, you’re so working class it drives me wild.’
‘What the fuck do you want? My girlfriend’s outside waiting.’
‘I knew you’d have a girlfriend,’ Beyoncé said. ‘The good ones always do.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You’re right, Doghouse. Everything you’ve said. I’m preaching empowerment to women one minute, setting them back a 100 years the next. I actually capitalise on empowerment and then basically use it to disempower. You can have it all too, girls. Now buy my stuff! This third-wave, nuanced, pseudo-feminist bullshit. It’s exactly like you shouted—it’s bullshit. I’m fake, this is all fake. The crowd out there all think they know me, think they love me. But they don’t. How can you love something that’s not even real? You’re real though, Doghouse. I want to get away from it all for a while. I mean, I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.’
I couldn’t resist the thoughts of bringing Beyoncé down to the local to meet the lads even if she did bug the bejesus out of me.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘we’ll see how it goes.’
I asked the Samoan to tell my girlfriend it was over, and sent her a text message to the same effect. Me & Beyoncé sneaked out the back entrance of the O2 and got the train back to mine. Her eyes were at wonder with everything—the dirty seats, the drunks and the grime. She even loved the fact that they announce what stop you’re at, and what stop’s next. It was weird. Then she looked up at me with her huge brown eyes, as though this was exactly what she wanted.
‘You’re staring,’ I said.
There were no sheets on my mattress. I got sick all over them a few mornings earlier and threw them out my window. Beyoncé said it was so “struggling artist” and started to undress. You’s can all use your imaginations for the next bit. It wasn’t great.
She stayed with me for the next few days, reading books while I wrote songs. She sent a few emails to make sure her baby was being looked after, said she was dropping off the radar for the time being then switched off her phone.
She bought me new sheets.
She washed all my clothes and made me dinner in the evening.
She cut my hair.
She listened to my demo and told me how great I was, and that I was definitely going to make it in the music business.
‘You’re going to be so good,’ she said. ‘I believe in you, Doghouse. Keep going with it. Don’t give up. Put your faith in God and he will help you.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Don’t give up.’
‘No, what did you say after that?’
‘Put your faith in God.’
I told her to read some Dawkins. She cried for 2 days after the God Delusion.
‘It’s all one big lie,’ she said finally.
‘Yup,’ I said. ‘Welcome to the real world.’
Her mother froze all of her accounts in an attempt to get her to come home. We were broke. I needed to keep going with my songs so Beyoncé got a job in Pret-A-Manger. Everybody told her she looked like Beyoncé. She said she got that all the time.
She told me in confidence one night that she thought her ass was fat. So I had that Achilles heel ready and waiting if she got uppity about my drinking or me stealing money from her purse, telling her I’d have to widen the front door to get her inside if her ass got any bigger, funny stuff like that.
I started bringing up old girlfriends in conversation.
I stopped bringing her out to the pub.
One night, I got so drunk I forgot she was there when I brought two girls home after a gig.
She forgave me the next day after they had left, told me that she loved me, and that I’d be discovered soon because my music was incredible.
I told her if I wanted praise from every desperate slut in the place I’d go speed dating. Then told her to make me some spuds.
She went into the next room and put on some Tracy Chapman.
‘My spuds,’ I shouted after her.
She came back out and got cooking.
I hated her loyalty and her devotion. I hated that I was her everything.
I threw the spuds against the wall when she gave them to me, drank vodka instead and told her she couldn’t cook a spud if her life depended on it. I gave her the silent treatment until she apologised.
She was completely miserable to be around.
‘I can’t believe this is my life now,’ she said.
‘This is what you wanted,’ I said. ‘This is real.’
She cried.
I couldn’t stick the crying anymore.
I decided to give her a break, let her get back to her life.
I made her a nice dinner, sat her down and said, ‘I love you, Beyoncé. You’re so beautiful. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.’
Beyoncé dried her tears and said, ‘yeah, well I don’t love you. It’s over. You big-eyebrowed douchebag. Your music is shit by the way. Oh, DJ, turn up track 5 by Doghouse, the one where he compares himself to a male bee left to die outside the hive with his wings cut off. I love that one. Turn it up!’
‘Yeah, well you can find everything you own in a box to the left, you bitch.’
She called Jay-Z to come and get her. I guess she apologised to him something fierce and he took her back.
She texts me now and then, keeping it neutral, trying to see how I am. I don’t text back.
(c) David McGrath, 2013David McGrath’s favourite Beyoncé song is the duet she did with Jay-Z called ‘03 Bonnie & Clyde. His favourite film is Notting Hill because of its raw and gritty realism.
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