I hit YouTube, Wikipedia and Google within seconds of her reply. I had only been researching Young Guns for 15 minutes when I found myself typing “Gustav Wood (The Lead Singer) Topless” into Google. My mother would be proud… The internet is a bad influence on me.
Hi Gustav, welcome to my top 5. I’d like you to meet Cristiano Ronaldo, Enrique Iglesias, James Smith and Tyler Bachtel. Sorry Dale Howard. You’ve been bumped.
I told my editor type friend the mischief I had been up to whilst doing ‘research’. Okay, don’t consider me completely irresponsible, I had a notepad full of well thought out and devised questions for all of the acts. The topless pictures were just extra-curricular activities. I didn’t find any by the way. “Can I see your questions?” she asked me. “Sure,” I said getting out my brown notepad from my pocket and handing it to her. “It’s empty,” she replied flicking through it.
I had managed to pick up the wrong note pad in my rush out of the door. I probably would have had more time if it wasn’t for Google tempting me.
The time to interview the Young Guns soon rolled around. They came into the press room, introduced themselves and sat down. I started running through my questions; they were surprisingly engaged with giving their answers; especially after our traumatising experience with Shmoolio Foolio.
We were about half way through when my editor type friend started giggling to herself. I tried to keep a straight face and carried on the conversation. They left.
I fanned myself in a Oh-my-god-talk-about-sex-on-legs sort of way. “Sexiest man I’ve ever met,” I said as soon as I was sure they were out of ear shot. “Why were you giggling half way through?”
“I started thinking about him topless and then remembered you sat at home Googling topless pictures of him. And there you were sat next to me, asking serious questions about his music.”
“We have to retain the utmost professionalism.” I replied. Half joking, half serious.
“You know,” she said to me. “I wish the news and politics editor could do this with us.”
“Me too. She’d be good at it. Very professional.”
“Very professional.” She parroted back.
We found the news and politics editor in the smoking area nursing a Jagerbomb, dressed like Sandra D from Grease; struggling to stand. She kissed me on the lips. I think you can see where this is going.
It was time to leave, and if possible, she got more and more drunk. As we left the Fresher’s Ball we passed the Young Guns van. They were all sat inside watching something on a laptop. My editor type friend and I waved with a smile. “Shall we ask to have a picture with them?” she asked.
“I think it’s probably best not to.” We had let the news and politics editor out of our sight. Sure, enough, there she was sticking her head inside the Young Guns’ van.
“Oh what you got there?” she said in an Irish accent. “What ya doing there?” I was mortified. “Watching a bit of food porn are ya? A bit of Nigela Lawson?” She carried on this way for a good five minutes, despite our efforts to move her away from the van. I caught sight of the Young Guns, they looked horrified. We finally managed to drag her away. “I can’t believe you just said food porn in an Irish accent, to the hottest man I’ve ever met.”
“Well who are they!?” she replied in an irate tone. “Who do they think they are? Some pissing unsigned talentless band in a van.”
“Who are you thinking of? They’re both signed and talented. Did you not see them perform?”
“No I was erm… busy,” she replied, stumbling in her high heels and falling over. The Young Guns drove past in their van. “Are you going to be able to walk home?” I asked her seriously, helping her back to her feet. “I’m jobber as a sudge,” she answered falling back over and pulling me down with her.
“Very professional.” I heard my editor type friend say sarcastically from behind me. “Very professional,” I answered back. “Very professional indeed.”
Oi! You buggar!
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