Picture this: I'm a chubby eleven year old. I love the following things: Madonna, chocolate in all its various guises,Nottingham Forest, doing well at school and singing, even though I'm not particularly good at it. Often terrible in fact. Fast forward thirty years and not much has changed.
But when I was nine I had delusions of grandeur that I've managed to shed over three amazing, challenging and sometimes heartbreaking decades (if you omit the fact that I play the lottery every effing week, often to no avail. Although that said, I won £6.70 on Friday. Woop!) When I was nine, I had what I thought was a very good idea. While all my peers wrote to Jimmy Saville, asking him to fix it - shudder - I decided to go one further. I decided that I would write to Madonna.
Dear Madonna, I probably wrote. I understand that you are on tour, travelling around the world to far off places like Japan and China, where my Mam assures me that they put mice in wine and then drink it. I mean, gross! Her mate went there (what's wrong with Skegness?) and everyone laughed at her because she has blonde hair and was a bit fat. Actually she was quite a bit fat, but we have to be nice to her because her house smells of fish and she runs the catalogue. There are bargains to be had, Madonna. You should really look into it. You can get a stereo with two tape decks and copy albums. I don't do that, of course. Actually, I do - but only with Michael Jackson and Belinda Carlisle. I usually black mail my sister into buying your records for me because I know she smokes and if I tell Dad he'll go mental, mental chicken oriental. Mam smokes too, but I'm not supposed to know. I do. I'm not stupid. I know all my times tables and everything. But not only am I quite clever, I can SING. And I know all the words to all of your songs. All of them. So what I think is this: you're going on tour and you've got a backing dancer who is about my age. To be honest, Madonna, I think I could do a better job. I could sing as well as dance. I'm better value. So if you want me to come on tour with you, then write back as soon as you can and I'll come on tour with you. Honest I will. I'll be dead good. I am writing this as I play the True Blue album. Papa Don't Preach is my favourite. My Dad preaches a lot. Not to God - he says Jesus is a twat - but preaches in general. See what I have to put up with? You will be doing me a favour, as I will you. Promise you. Cross kings and everything. True Blue, baby, I love you. Tee! Hee! Hope to hear from you soon... Johnny.
So that's what I did. I wrote Madge a letter, offering my services. But it didn't end there. I posted the letter via her fan club and immediately felt a pang of regret clutch at my insides as I dropped the letter into the post box. What had I done? What would Mam say when I told her that I would be leaving home for a bit to go singing with Madonna? What would school say? And also, I'd lied. I didn't know all my times tables - seven and eight were still lacking. I was convinced beyond doubt that within a week, Madge would have snapped me up and sent me tickets to go and join her and what would I do then? I mean, I couldn't exactly let her down. I kept vigil at the letterbox and days passed in a sweaty, panicky haze... Weeks floated by with no response. She was busy, I told myself. I would come home from school, fully expecting a distraught mother to be packing my case, wailing that she would miss me, but understood that I had to do what I had to do and could I get her a T-shirt (that she would simply turn into a duster like she would everything else that wasn't worn for less than a week.)
Needless to say, I am still waiting for a response. Unless my brother intercepted the letter and decided to bin it because I had pulled the legs of his latest He-Man figure. I wouldn't put it past him.
That's probably what happened.
Don't you think?