Latest Wednesday instalments...

It was never intended as their first gig.  As debuts went, it didn’t start auspiciously.

The three girls who had been known collectively for the last month as All the Rage were cringing in the wings as Mr Hingley, headmaster of the Sir Richard Allen Comprehensive School, droned in his Wolverhampton brogue that cans of those Black Country beverages ‘Banks’s moyld and bitta’ could be purchased from the dining area-cum-bar ‘fer only nointy-noine pee!’

(Joe Oliver, proud lover, brother and manager that he was, made a recording of the show, and this joyous announcement could be heard on it.  In years to come, this would be a source of hilarity to the girls if ever the CD was unearthed for a nostalgic listen.)

‘Now, just before we welcome the All the Rage ladies, who are providing this evening’s entertainment,’ the monotone headteacher continued, ‘let us take a moment to think about why we are here, and stand for a two-minute silence in memory of our Mr O’Gorman.’

While Justine observed it, unusually reverently – Mr O’Gorman was her old music teacher – Faith and Chantal were stifling an outrageous desire to burst out giggling.  The silence was no surprise – Mr O’Gorman’s sad demise was the reason, after all, for the concert – and neither girl intended disrespect to the dead, but it cast such a solemn veil over otherwise jolly proceedings.

Both girls were feeling slightly hysterical anyway.  They were in the kind of mood where they found the darkest subjects inappropriately funny.  The nervous grimaces they exchanged said: How the hell are we supposed to follow this?  How the hell do we get them to snap out of this reverie and start jigging about to Shania Twain?

Chantal’s intestines were squirming into one another like fighting worms.  She knew certain audience members were there purely to watch her die on her arse.  Well they’d been already supplied with material for infinite piss-taking – and the girls weren’t even on stage yet.  It was all so incongruous and un-pop: a headmaster in dun corduroy acting like the world’s least dynamic compere, beneath the severe-faced bust of Sir Richard himself glaring down from the pelmet above the stage.  And now this silence. 

It was mid-July – although the girls had originally earmarked the August bank holiday weekend for their trio premiere, at the good old Hare & Tortoise.  Fanatical hours of hairbrush-in-mirror drill had become a daily fixture of their lives – with that goal in mind. 

It wasn’t so much their singing that required urgent coaching, though – they were all natural vocalists – as their choreography and co-ordination.  None of them were dancers, they weren’t out to emulate Steps, but they knew audiences would quickly bore of three wenches standing stationary on a stage.  Folks wanted a show, not background music.  They wanted to see effort and energy.  Hence the girls afforded themselves a good two months to totally hone their vocals and devise basic dance routines.

That was until a phone call from Mr Hingley to the Hare & Tortoise had brought things pressingly forward.

‘I’ve been reading all these impressive articles about you in the press,’ he told Justine, in his familiarly patronising, haven’t-you-done-well-but-you’ll-never-be-as-clever-as-me tone.  ‘You’ve rather transformed the fortunes of your dad’s pub, haven’t you?  Always good to hear of former pupils making a success of themselves.’

‘Thank you.’  Justine said that because Hingley left a loaded, ‘please acknowledge the compliment I’ve just condescended to pay you’ pause which she felt honour-bound to fill.  She pulled a bit of a face, though.  He wasn’t bad, old Hingers, though he hadn’t lost that ‘I’m your teacher’ superiority.  I’m twenty-two, for Gawd’s sake, Justine thought as she went on buttering sandwiches, the cordless phone clamped between her cheek and shoulder. 

‘You’re welcome.  Now the purpose of my call is to ask whether your little pop group – Chantal & Justine, isn’t it – ’

‘All the Rage now actually,’ Justine updated him.  They had literally just acquired that moniker, and she gloried in the proud novelty of telling people.  ‘We’ve recruited a third member.’

‘Splendid, splendid.  Now, as I was about to say, I wondered whether your group might like to participate in a charity concert we’re holding at the school?  It’s a tribute to Mr O’Gorman, the music teacher, who passed away recently.  You remember him, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do.  He was my favourite teacher.’  Only teacher I liked would have been nearer the mark.  Justine was never much of a scholar – though Mr O’Gorman’s subject was the only one she’d enjoyed and excelled at.  Her tone and manner grew warmer.  ‘I’m sorry to hear about his death, Mr Hingley,’ she condoled sincerely, ‘was it recent?’

‘Two months ago.  Poor chap was diagnosed with cancer just after Christmas.  Great shock, very sudden.  The kids were devastated.  They’ve been tremendous, though, doing lots of fundraising for Cancer Research.  This concert was their idea.  Well, concert-a-thon, I suppose you might call it.’  He chuckled geekily at his little description.  ‘We’re trying to make a day of it, with recitals from the choirs and orchestra in the afternoon – then I wondered whether you’d care to get involved on the night?’

‘Love to.  I really would.’

‘Splendid.  I’ll add your name to the posters.  All the Rage, did you say you were called?’

‘That’s right.  So when is the show?’

‘July the fourteenth.  Near the end of term.’

Justine gulped.  Hard.  ‘July the fourt…that’s quite soon, isn’t it?’

‘Mmm.  Shall I put your name down, or do you need a bit of time to think?’

‘No, no, it’s all right.  We’ll do it.’  Justine crossed her fingers so tightly they turned the same blue shade as her nail varnish.  ‘I’ll soon rally the girls together.  Anything to support Sir Dick’s.’

‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to pay you, as it’s a fundraiser.’

‘I appreciate that.  It’s fine.  Totally fine.’  There was no question of refusing.  In circumstances like this, Justine was entirely munificent.  She spoke often of using any eventual fame for the good of family, friends and charities.  One of her promises to herself was to never make diva-ish demands for obscene fees before she would thrust so much as a toe out of bed. 

Rather inevitably, Faith and Chantal went into panic mode and needed a little coaxing to work towards an expedited deadline – and for a school concert, of all things.

‘We won’t be ready,’ Chantal grizzled.

‘We’ll have to be,’ Justine retorted with unusual crispness.

‘Chantal’s right, Just,’ Faith hunched up her lanky legs on the bed and rested her chin on them, ‘I don’t see how we can be nearly polished enough in less than a month.  The school will just have to find another cabaret act.’

‘But they want us!’  Justine was amazed to feel her eyes and nose ominously filling – she hadn’t cried in months.  ‘I could hardly say no.  What mean cows would we have looked if I had?’

‘Not mean,’ Faith tried to reason, ‘just reluctant to make prats of ourselves by prancing about in front of merciless schoolkids with a shoddy act.’

‘It won’t be shoddy,’ Justine took a huge, irritable sniff from her Olbas bottle, this time to un-bung her nose of teary snot, ‘because we’re all experienced singers – especially you, Faith.  It’s not like you to suffer from stage fright.’

‘I’m not – it’s just – ’

‘Come on, girls, it’s for charity.  Look, the teacher who died meant a lot to me.  If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be doing any of this.  I wouldn’t be singing at all.  I wouldn’t be standing here trying to rally you pair into performing at a charity gig.’  Justine caught her breath, startled by the force of her own emotion.  School never meant much to her while she was there – but perhaps the experience taught her more than she appreciated.  ‘You’re not concerned about ballsing up on stage at all, are you, Faith – you just don’t think a school concert would be cool enough for you!’ 

Justine always hit home, with stinging accuracy.  In fact, the girls’ attitudes towards the Sir Dick’s ‘concert-a-thon’ pretty aptly summed up their respective characters: Chantal was apprehensive; Faith, despite the recent makeover in her nature, was image-conscious; while Justine was fired up and raring to help out.

Faith, chastened, reached out and silently squeezed Justine’s little hand.  She had never felt so much compassion for a friend; it wasn’t until she’d met these girls that she realised how shallow some of her friendships in the past had been.  Those past mates, and she herself, actually had much in common with Ross: good for a laugh, but little else.

The trio were learning so much from each other: not only about music and techniques, but about life.

‘So we’ve got a month to rehearse,’ Chantal said, with unusual pragmatism, after a pensive pause, ‘why are we wasting time arguing – we’d best get on with it!’

‘You mean you’ll do the gig?’ Justine snuffled, touched.  She should have known these two wouldn’t let her down.

‘Yeah, course we will,’ Chantal smiled.  ‘Like you say, it’s for a good cause.  Anyway, we’re hardly in a position to be choosy yet.  I guess we can only start turning offers down once we get deluged with them – if we ever do, that is.’

She too was changing; maturing.  A few weeks ago, she’d have reacted with far greater fuss, but since her split with Ross she’d gained a bit of grit and independence.  Not that it could assuage her wretched shame over Kris.  Her beloved Kris, whom she’d thought she was spiting for standing her up that night three months ago, who had not only made it to Martino’s after all but witnessed her traitorous Ross-snog.  Chantal had never felt so shitty in her life as she did late on her twenty-first birthday, after her revelatory run-in with Kara.

‘I went from virginity to cheating slag-dom in three months,’ she’d wailed to Faith – who, having enjoyed her own fair share of ‘cheating slag-dom’ in the past, listened without judgement.

Chantal appreciated what a measure of Kris’s dignified character it was that he hadn’t marched into Martino’s and decked Ross.  She could only imagine his poor, gorgeous face as he stood in that diner threshold, transfixed in heartache.  He was such a gracious man – and their break-up was totally her loss.  Her mom was right that she was young and would probably meet a new chap sooner or later – though she doubted she’d ever scale the dizzy peaks of passion she had with horny Kris. 

Oh, bugger Ross Froggatt!  Why did he have to be my waiter that night?

But she knew it was no use blaming Ross.  He may be, in his own words, ‘a tart,’ but at that precise moment she was the one who had actually been cheating.  He hadn’t forced her to snog and date him.  She could have turned him down. 

Chantal had decided to dismiss Kara’s other Reflex revelation – about Kris’s supposed proposal – as the spoutings of a silly little cow (completing ignoring the fact she was just two years older than Kara, and prone to silly cow-ness herself on occasions).  The girl was obviously talking bollocks.  She was – understandably – indignant on her brother’s behalf and obviously thought she’d ladle the guilt on a bit more by spinning a preposterous story. 

‘I mean, what kind of bloke would propose just four months into a relationship?’ Chantal snorted incredulously to her friends.  Faith and Justine totally agreed (it was ironic they believed Kara’s lie about Kris having found a new girlfriend, but not the incredible facts about the betrothal that never was). 

Still, Chantal had undeniably been stupid – and must now pay for this stupidity by enduring a life eternally Krisless.  Her only workable coping method was to refuse to think about him; to focus on the group to the extent that everything non-All the Rage-related was blotted out.

Her single-mindedness proved an advantage when it came to rehearsing for the Sir Dick’s gig.  There followed a month of the most intensive drill.  It had to be intensive because their timescale was so tight.  They had a choice: they got it right, or they died on their arses.  To these girls, it wasn’t ‘only’ a school concert; they trained with the same dedication as though it were Live 8: formulating a set list, scouting the Internet for vocal exercise tips and perfecting routines, that combined their joint interests and fortes – Chantal’s angelic beauty, Justine’s infectious exuberance and Faith’s sophisticated gloss.

By July the fourteenth, they knew the set backwards, and could do the choreography in their sleep.

But even supercool Faith was squirty-stomached when they entered the immense school theatre in the late afternoon.

The daytime recitals were over, and their audiences had straggled away (some to get changed and have a bite to eat ready for the evening’s relay of entertainment); teachers were clearing up, and a few lingering kids milled about with cellos and music stands, appearing a touch abashed by these three ‘big girls’ who’d wandered in looking – to them – like pop stars.

‘They’m the band, I bet yer,’ Justine heard one outsize-jumpered moppet whisper to her pal as they beetled out lugging instruments that were nearly as big as them, ‘All the Rage!  One of ’em used to come here, apparently, yonks agoo.’

How cute, Justine thought, our first crop of fans!

‘Seen this?’  Chantal waved her car keys at a massive pink poster on the wall.  ‘We’re in print.’

‘THE DANNY O’GORMAN MEMORIAL CONCERT,’ Justine recited the 48-point Helvetica heading.  ‘RAFFLE.  BAR.  DANCING TO ALL THE RAGE.  They’d better bloody well dance to us!’

‘We’re official now then – don’t it look weird seeing our name written down, though?’

Faith, meanwhile, was impressed by the state-of-the-art hall.   ‘Was this swanky theatre here when you were a pupil, Just?’ 

‘No, it was just a musty old school hall then.  Hingley was saying on the phone that they revamped it and transformed it into this a couple of years ago.  Bit of a change from the Bull & Bladder of a Saturday night, eh?  To be honest, I didn’t expect it to be quite so smart.’

‘No, nor me.  We just had a musty old hall to sing in too,’ Faith reminisced, amazed at how emotional was the memory of showing off her mature-beyond-her-years voice and thespian talent in homemade costumes, ‘but it was still a thrill to “tread the boards,” as they say.  I’d have killed to perform on a stage like this, though.’

Faith Jephcott spent virtually every weekend queening it on a stage of some description – but she had never felt so nervous in her life as she did now.  Solo spots were different: she was answerable to nobody but herself.  Now for the first time she was a part; a third.  She was genuinely scared of letting these girls down.

‘Well now you are,’ Justine pointed out, sensibly drawing Faith back to the present.

‘All the folks are here,’ Faith announced at seven o’clock, concluding a call on her mobile.  ‘That was Joe.  He’s at the bar with your mom, Just.  And your parents and mine are apparently gassing away out there too, Chantal.  Shall we pop out and say hello?’

The girls were now backstage (i.e. the classroom behind the theatre, which at Sir Dick’s happened to be the chemistry lab), titivating in a state of near silent fluster, awaiting curtain-up at seven-thirty.  They’d soundchecked – which had gone superbly – and were now in their slinky apparel, touching up their make-up in mirrors that were balanced on top of boxes labelled ‘BUNSEN BURNERS’ and ‘TEST TUBES.’  As dressing rooms went, it wasn’t quite London Palladium standards.

‘The downside of running a pub,’ said Justine, threading typically loud retro-yellow earrings through her lobes, ‘is that only one parent at a time can come to my gigs as they can’t both leave the bar.  No wonder Dad likes us to play the Hare!’  She dabbed her wrists with her trademark Olbas Oil (Chantal and Faith were by now immune to both the stench and the insanity of her wearing it like perfume).  ‘Right I’m ready!’

When they stepped out into the dining area, which tonight was tripling up as bar and front-of-house, the girls were blown away by the sheer bustle and magnitude of the crowd who’d come to see them.  As all three were experienced in the field of school-show biz, they knew what phenomenal support these productions could attract – but your mates and teachers were never going to be as daunting an audience as strangers like these.

From being all but deserted when they arrived, the huge canteen where the teenage Justine used to guzzle her sausage rolls and pink custard was now an ocean of heads.  It was noisy with the thrum of buzzy indistinct chatter; heaving with teachers and parents – clutching vending machine cups incongruously filled with sparkling wine – and pupils buying bags of Revels and looking embarrassed to be with their folks in their daily domain.

This is our audience, each girl was thinking, in telepathic chorus, this is All the Rage’s first audience.

Audrey and Joe were there, getting to know Ron, Pam, Ken and Shirley.  The parents all looked proud and expectant, and each of their offspring felt a warm gush of comfort on seeing them – even Faith, though it was Joe’s arms she ran to.  At quivery times, even ‘big girls’ like them experienced ‘I want my mom’ sentiments.

Chantal waved warmly at her parents, to whom she had never felt so close as she had for the last month.  She on her way over to them when a froggy voice apprehended her.

‘Watcha Chubs!’

She froze.  Literally.  In more than one sense of the word, for she became both chilled and as stationary as though a giant finger had pressed ‘PAUSE’ on the imaginary remote control that operated her.

It can’t be!

Chantal did a squeamishly slow pivot to her left, whence the dreaded greeting came.  And there stood Gary Genge, five-foot-four of odious smugness.  He’d chosen a particularly sheeny suit for the occasion, and his pixie face was flushed from the plastic-cup wine.

This has to be a nightmare.  I’ve taken the day off to get away from him.  What the hell is he…why…and why did I have to come out front?  Why couldn’t I have stayed nice and safely backstage?  How shitty am I going to perform tonight, knowing he’s here, gawping at me!

But there was worse to come.  Gary alone was confidence-wrecking enough – but then Chantal noticed with horror that he was flanked by Charlotte, spiky and disdainful in a black strappy top and size six jeans – and Mark, who actually had more spots and less macho sophistication than some of the fourth-form choirboys who’d sung this afternoon.

‘What – are – you – doing – here?’ Chantal finally stammered through lips as dry as sugar paper.  Gary, Charlotte and Mark were so unwelcome and incongruous in her world.  They belonged in the loathsome office, not here.

‘My two sprogs, Russ and Owen, are pupils here – and Wendy’s on the board of governors.’  Gary indicated a smart, pissed-off looking woman who was simultaneously chatting to someone in the crowd and keeping a hawk eye on her husband and the glamourpuss receptionist alongside him.  ‘When I heard All the Rage were providing the cabaret tonight, I thought to myself: Isn’t that the name of our Chubby’s little group?  I can’t miss their grand debut!’  He pronounced the word ‘day-boo,’ in an affected American brogue.

‘You kept this a bit of a secret, didn’t you, Chubster,’ Charlotte gloated.

‘Yeah,’ Gary wagged a pudgy finger in mock reproof, ‘but we’ve got you sussed!  And of course young Mark was dying to come and see you too.  He’s so glad you’re single now,’ he added in a leery whisper, as though Mark wasn’t there – which he actually may as well not have been, for all the silent shoe-staring he did.

Chantal became aware of Faith and Justine standing either side of her – Faith in front of the omnipresent Joe, whose arms were draped round her waist – and she suddenly felt very confident and safe.  She wasn’t alone, against the others, as she was at work.  This was her domain, her territory, and she had the girls; her posse.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your gorgeous friends?’  Gary’s small eyes skimmed Justine and Faith’s bodies up and down.  Both girls felt revolted.

Chantal beamed, all sweet and steely.  ‘Of course.  This is Justine, and Faith – and Joe,’ she added pointedly, drawing attention to Gary’s leering question, which only took in the girls.  ‘And this is Gary, Charlotte and Mark.’ 

From one minute blanching at the sight of her vile workmates, Chantal now felt another hysterical moment coming on; another longing to laugh.  Look at the daggers Faith and Charlotte were giving each other – this was better than Footballers Wives!  It was not unexpected, really, that two such babes should be instant enemies.  While Faith was nowhere near as caustic as Charlotte, she could turn on the haughty scorn when she wanted to. 

Chantal wondered if Faith viewed Charlotte as a threat, Joe-wise.  She needn’t have worried – Joe detested shallow bitches. 

But Chantal was amazed to discern something in her workmate’s expression that she’d never noticed before – towards herself.

She’s jealous of me – I don’t believe it!

Charlotte actually had a massive inferiority complex – though admittedly she hid it well.  It was mainly about physical features, like her small, spiky breasts.  She had always hated them, envying Chantal’s melons.  Now she was envying lots more about Chantal.  She had this warm pair of friends; Charlotte went around with a superficial tribe who deafed her out when it suited them (this being one such night – hence her presence here); Chantal was making something of her life, and had fit boyfriends from time to time; Charlotte had to fabricate one-night stands with soap stars.

But above all, Chantal was happy; she possessed that true kind of happiness that made her gleam from within, like one of those globe-shaped Habitat lampshades.  And right now she felt like a ten-foot tall goddess.

This girl can never hurt me again.  I am a superstar!  I am a superstar! 

It wasn’t the most modest of mantras, but the one which Faith had coached Chantal and Justine to repeat prior to and during performances.  ‘You have to go out with that attitude if you want audiences to believe in you.  It’s no good dithering on stage apologising for being alive.  You have to believe in yourself – otherwise how will the audience?’

‘Didn’t think this kind of place would exactly be a cool Friday night hangout, Charlotte,’ Chantal commented, with arch innocence.  ‘Didn’t you get any better offers for tonight?’

Charlotte recovered herself with the speed of a boxer.  Her face was once more a study in Rimmel-encrusted scorn.  ‘Oh, I won’t be stopping all night,’ she drawled, ‘I’ll just stay for a couple of songs – probably won’t be able to stomach any more than that anyway – then I’m meeting my boyfriend and moving on to the Canal Club.’

‘Where is he now then?’ Faith demanded.

‘Working.  He’s a fireman.’

‘With an enormous hose, no doubt,’ said Faith dryly, at which point Justine – who had never been good at keeping a deadpan façade – cracked up completely.

‘Now much as we’d love to stand here yacking all night,’ Chantal fizzed, by now enjoying herself immeasurably, ‘we must go and circulate.’  She gave a sarky little wave, and the All the Rage girls exited back to their families, leaving behind three lost wallflowers.

‘That felt good!’  Chantal felt like an underdog film character who has finally snapped back at the baddie.  What she’d said to Gary and the gang hardly amounted to sackable backchat, but it was the first time she’d had anything resembling the upper hand with them and it seemed like a victory.

‘What a bitch!  Faith’s disgust was tempered with overwhelming pity for Chantal – she’d had no idea her friend worked with such obnoxious people – and a guilty dawning that there were elements of the old Faith in Charlotte.  Emphasis on the old Faith.  ‘Let’s make sure we make a mega success of this band – the prospect of never working with the likes of her again is the best incentive I can think of for giving up your day job!’

‘And so, without further ado,’ Mr Hingley was droning, after really quite a lot of ado, ‘ladies and gentlemen: please put your hands together for the fabulous girl band making their debut tonight – All the Rage!’

The three of them were holding hands supportively in a triangle backstage.

‘Come on, girls,’ urged Justine, ‘let’s do this for Mr O’Gorms!’

Applause – of both the polite, dispassionate kind and the raucous variety that distinguished the applauders as All the Rage family members – greeted the trio as they emerged on to the hugest stage any of them had ever trodden.

These were assured and capable performers but, dazzled by professional-looking lights in this infinite auditorium, felt instantly small and mechanically awkward as they forced themselves across the stage and struck Destiny’s Child-ish poses in their evenly spaced positions.  Their movements made have looked as fluid as ever, but they felt positively military.

They looked gorgeous, at any rate, having hit the Merry Hill Centre and invested in knee-length Jane Norman dresses of matching wrapover styles but in the colours that were to inadvertently become their trademarks: baby blue for Chantal, queenly purple for Faith, burnt orange for Justine.  They added personality to their carbon copy frocks with favourite pieces of jewellery.

As far as hair went, they’d each taken the ‘less is more’ approach.  Their respective tresses – of varying lengths, but all falling into the ‘long hair’ category – were worn down and flowing. 

‘It’s the sexiest option,’ Faith had insisted, ‘we want to look young and fun-loving, not French-pleated like a tribe of librarians.’ 

Their eyes remained transfixed, ever so slightly rabbit-in-headlights fashion, on the row upon packed row of expectant faces – except for when they shot downward peeps to check the three typed set lists spread at intervals along the stage.

Man I feel Like a Woman – Shania Twain
Stop – Spice Girls
Left Outside Alone – Anastacia
Life for Rent – Dido
Crazy for You – Madonna
Ain’t It Funny – J-Lo
Say My Name – Destiny’s Child
Total Eclipse of the Heart – Bonnie Tyler
Only You – Yazoo
Venus – Bananarama
Single – Natasha Bedingfield
Hole in the Head – Sugababes
Jump – Pointer Sisters
Hot Stuff – Donna Summer
Where Did Our Love Go – The Supremes
Whole Again – Atomic Kitten
Better The Devil You Know – Kylie

Encores:
It’s Raining Men – The Weather Girls
Spice Up Your Life – Spice Girls
 
The backing tape roared feistily to life with the intro to Shania Twain’s hen night anthem Man I Feel Like a Woman.  Faith, in the middle, winked at Chantal and Justine in turn and spoke the ‘Let’s go girls’ opener.  She’d been nominated by consensus to deliver the line.  Her height, and general ‘I’m the leader of the girls’ night out’ bearing, made it appropriate that she should kick off the party.

And they were away.

Chantal almost immediately spotted Gary, gimlet-eyed in the second row with the long-suffering Wendy and their sons, a pair of pug-faced, mini-me Gary clones.

I’ll sock it to you, you smug bastard, she thought, I am a superstar.  I am a superstar!  I am…‘I’m going out tonight, I’m feelin’ all right…’

Yes, that was wonderful!  Performing was such an exquisite joy.  It was like alcohol – one taste and the girls’ tension started to melt.  There was that same thermal peace which radiated up from the tummy and relaxed the muscles.  Their moves became groovier, less toy soldier-like. 

To begin with, though, they were each so intent on projecting their own voices, and memorising their own steps, that they forgot each other.  They weren’t a team, but three soloists.  Their voices harmonised – somehow – but their vision was blinkered. 

That was until the second Shania chorus, when Chantal, Faith and Justine suddenly caught each other’s eyes.  It was almost a surprise to be reminded of each other’s presence.  They exchanged supportive winks, and suddenly their selfish nerves evaporated altogether.  It was like yeah, we’re a group, we’re all superstars together.

Justine, appropriately, took lead mic on the second number, the Spice Girls’ jaunty, Supremes-ish Stop.  It was a song she loved and knew backwards, and she delivered it with a contagious passion that even induced a few brave souls to dance.

All the Rage had no lead singer: there were tracks on which one girl dominated – ones which tended to reflect an individual’s passions and strengths – and others on which they harmonised.  This approach was the vogue among most of the girl – and boy – bands that dominated the modern charts.

Eight numbers in, came a much welcomed ‘slow section,’ to let the girls catch their breath and demonstrate their sultrier choreography.  ‘Yes, we can do serious when we want to,’ it proclaimed.  ‘We’re more than just clappy-skippy pop muppets, you know!’

Chantal took lead vocals on her two favourite 1983 ballads: the perennial Only You by Yazoo and Bonnie Tyler’s hair-lacquer rock anthem Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Chantal knew Gary and Charlotte were watching intently for fuck-ups, and had never felt so under pressure.  She actually found herself grateful for their vulture presence, though; she needed – and discovered she loved – this incentive to give it her all; to be the absolute A1 diva.  Her voice on the Bonnie Tyler one had never sounded so pure and powerful, and she was backed by haunting harmonies from her very proud bandmates.

In fact, Justine and Faith were so chuffed, they hugged and high-fived with her – more gestures which gave Charlotte pain.  Arrogant, lonely Charlotte.  Funny, I thought she was leaving early, thought Chantal, obviously her fireman wasn’t hot enough after all!

Chantal couldn’t resist a peek at her, and Gary, clapping grudgingly, as though it was against their religion to acknowledge Chubby’s merits.  Wendy Genge, in contrast, was applauding with good-natured enthusiasm.

By the post-Better The Devil You Know bows, the majority of folks were on their feet, and the ‘raucous’ style of applause was no longer confined to the girls’ families.

They did their token ‘disappear backstage for a few minutes, but you know full well we’ll do an encore’ bit, and enjoyed a brief group hug in the wings.

‘Would you like to hear some more?’ asked Mr Hingley in his stiff, clueless manner, like somebody’s granddad trying to present Top of the Pops.  ‘Then let’s welcome back All the Rage!’

Their bonus tracks were The Weather Girls’ classic It’s Raining Men, and another Spice Girls one, Spice Up Your Life.

By curtain-down, the girls were euphoric, their families proud as punch, the crowd – barring Charlottte and Gary – thoroughly entertained, and the Danny O’Gorman Memorial Fund a thousand pounds better off.

They’d had worse nights.