When my wife first raised the idea of accompanying the band – with four other wives and girlfriends – on the penultimate leg of our spring tour, I was sure it would not come to pass. I figured she would eventually realise it was the last thing she wanted to do. If I had to, I was certain I could talk her out of it. I was wrong.
“What time are we leaving tomorrow?” she says, the night before.
“We’re meeting the van at 9.30,” I say.
“9.30? That’s ridiculous,” she says.
“We have to be in Morecambe by three,” I say.
At 3.30 we convene with the band and the other wives in the hotel. I buy my wife a beer and install her in a seat by the window. She looks out at the seafront, and then at me.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she says.
“I knew you would,” I say. “Too late, though.”
After the gig we reconvene at the same bar some time after midnight.
“I thought the sound was excellent tonight,” one wife says.
“And a very good crowd,” says another.
“I want to go home,” my wife says.
“You’re going to Bury,” I say. “Wheels turning, 10 o’clock.”
The next day, my wife somehow manages to divert the wives’ van to Manchester to visit a museum, a detour that meets with a mixed reception on board. The only time I see her that day is during the gig, four songs after the interval, when the lead singer thanks our wives and the lighting man shines a spot on to their row. My wife is caught frozen, crouching, halfway to her seat from the bar.
The next day a group lunch is cancelled because the motorway is shut in both directions, with us on it.
“Animals in the road,” I say, scrolling through traffic reports. “It doesn’t say what kind.”
The wives’ van goes to the hotel, while we head straight to the venue: the Sage Gateshead. I send my wife a text that says: “We have three dressing rooms, and they all have pianos in them.” I receive no reply.
That evening the wives colonise one of our spare dressing rooms. None of them, I notice, is my wife.
“Where is she?” I say. I’m told she’s still in the hotel. Then I’m handed a phone featuring a recent exchange from the WAGS ON TOUR WhatsApp group.
“What time are you coming to the venue?” the first text says.
“I’m never coming,” is my wife’s reply. But she does eventually turn up, and is much merrier by bedtime.
“The wives think I’m fun,” she says.
“Are you sure?” I say. “By teatime they all seem pretty pissed off with you.”
“Touring is boring,” she says. “You don’t do anything.”
“You don’t do anything,” I say. “We unload, set up, play, break down and reload. And we finished three crosswords in that traffic jam.”
“The driver likes me,” she says. “I’m a lot of fun in the van.”
By the time we get to York it is snowing hard and there is nowhere to hang about but the venue – the next motel is outside Pontefract, 40 minutes down the road. My wife continues to complain, but everyone has adopted my strategy – treating her as if she is having the time of her life, but is able to say only the opposite due to a brain injury.
The drive to the hotel that night is scary; snow has settled on the motorway and visibility is poor. As is our custom on the last night, everyone assembles in my room to drain half-bottles of dressing room wine, eat vending machine food and debrief. My wife is not expecting this.
“What is he doing?” my wife says, pointing at the accordion player, who is sitting on the floor eating a sandwich and drinking a beer.
“It’s a tradition,” I say.
“We’ll be gone by four at the latest,” the bass player says.
“Oh my God,” my wife says.
“Welcome to showbiz,” I say.
“I’m never coming on tour again,” she says.
“I think we’re all agreed on that,” I say.
