I Definitely, For Sure, Met Madonna!

 

London 1993, 6am

DOWN by the tradesman’s entrance of the Lanesborough Hotel, freezing my kazoonies off as the hours dragged on for decades, a throng of new-found friends hunched together, exchanging near-miss stories of how they almost, one time, nearly: met Madonna.

 

It’d been five hours of agony. All we wanted was a glimpse of our idol. Madonna had packed Wembley Stadium only a few hours prior, for her Girlie Show World Tour. I’d bolted from the show, straight to the packed London Underground station, onto the tube, pegging it for her hotel that sat directly opposite Hyde Park.

 

The aim was to get there in time to see Madonna arrive, and then watch her go inside. Maybe she’d stop and chat! Invite me in for a cup of tea? We’d talk about life, love. And the fact that she’s always welcome to visit me in my messy, but clean, South London flat.

 

A dedicated cohort of fans with similar dreams gathered nightly. Faces we hoped she’d one day recognise as the devoted ones.

Suddenly, boom! My reveries were disrupted by a sudden rush of frenetic energy that was my friend Ben whooshing in from behind. He’d just finished the graveyard shift at Wetherspoons in Piccadilly. “Any news?”

 

“Nope. Nothing. She’s still inside, I think.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘I think’?” He looked up, craning his neck to see the edge of the penthouse suite and screamed out,

“Madonna!!!”

 

“She won’t hear you. It’s too early.”

 

Ben shoved a Red Bull into my hand. “I.W.F,” he said, with a cheeky grin. That was code for Infused with Vodka. “This’ll keep you going. She’ll be out jogging soon.”

 

I slurped my drink, the cold buzz electrifying my brain in an instant. Ben was right. Madonna did relish her daily early-morning jog around Hyde Park. We’d just have to sit, and wait.

 

At the other end of our small, anxious, vigil, some out of tune singing was beginning to spark. “Get Into the Groove, Madonna you’ve got to prove your love to us!” Ben and I joined the refrain. Perhaps she’d hear us all and come down! Excitement was building as everyone started chanting, “MA-DON-NA! WE-LOVE-YOU!”

 

Delivery fans frequently clogged the driveway, making the tradesman’s entrance a twenty-four-hour affair. But when Madonna’s car pulled in, a shockwave of exhilaration flushed through her disciples. Something could happen at any minute, now. Her car, a sign of hope. The longer we waited, the more invested we were. Our determination to meet Madonna, insatiable.

 

Eventually, a tiny blonde woman emerged from enormous metallic doors at the rear exit of London’s poshest hotel. Desperate screams pulsated through the air. Hysterical flashes from pocket cameras everywhere, with pens poised for autographs.

 

Madonna vanished into her car, flanked by burly bodyguards. No jogging today. Her head was down, avoiding all eye contact. Tears stained our collective faces as desperation encumbered us. “Madonna. Pleeeeeease!”

 

Once the car door slammed shut, it was done. Hunched over and empty, we watched her drive away once again, leaving our dreams to fall into the frosty gutter. Our hopes, our adoration, the collective love for our idol, momentarily diminished.

 

This pattern replayed nightly through the London leg of Madonna’s tour. Ben and I were there. Hoping this time… or the next… that something would happen. The sheer adrenalin of seeing her in the flesh energising us to persist. “Surely next time she’ll stop!” I gasped on the third night. Ben looked at me. “Yeah. She must eventually. Right?”

She never did.

***

London, 2000

MY love for our Queen never waned. She released a few more albums, and there was another tour in sight. The very specific friendship Ben and I had forged seemed as much about the camaraderie of two superfans as it was meeting the woman herself.

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To be continued...

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