13th July, 1985
Backstage with Queen at Live Aid. Freddie's been crying for a good twenty minutes, inconsolable at their poor reception from the 72,000-strong crowd.
"It's just not fair!" Freddie sobs, burying his head in my shoulder as Brian May smashes his Gibson Les Paul against the dressing room wall. "WHERE DID IT ALL GO WRONG-?!"
I suggest that playing South Africa was a mistake as a lot of people could've seen it as support for P.W. Botha's continuing policy of apartheid. Freddie is incredulous, explaining that Queen are an apolitical band and only agreed to that concert for tax reasons. I can see he's not buying it, so I decide to give it to him straight.
"Do you want the truth, Freddie?" I ask, placing my hand softly on his shoulder. He looks up at me, tear tracks running down his cheeks and a trail of snot hanging from his moustache. "You've either got it or you ain't," I tell him, handing the poor sod one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs. "And take it from me, kid - you ain't got it."
"Teach me!" He pleads desperately. "Tell me how to be a showman like you!"
A stagehand suddenly pops her head round the door.
"Five minutes, Mr English!"
I adjust my bowtie, put on my shoulder-mounted mouth organ and check my banjo is correctly tuned.
"Do yourself a favour, Freddie," I say. "Give it up before you make a complete arse of yourself."
I pass row after row of dressing rooms and ascend the stage, where I find myself confronted with a stadium full of people chanting my name.
"GOOD EVENING, WEMBLEY!" I shout to an enormous cheer, and launch into the opening bars of "Knees Up, Mother Brown".
