Also, be warned: the following e-mail is about as cheerful as listening to The Visitors on a cold, wet Monday morning. If you don't wish to experience the gloom of my mental state (and events relating to it), you may wish to skip this first e-mail.
You have been warned...
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FRIDAY 8th OCTOBER: T MINUS 43 DAYS
Checking my email this day, I get rather a pleasant surprise:
At 06:30 PM 8/10/1999 +1000, Graeme wrote:
>ABBAMAIL proudly presents... an ABBAMAIL fan event: THE ABBA GENERATION: from ABBA to A*Teens. A >weekend convention in Sydney, Australia.2 days of videos, dancing, displays, merchandise, meeting other fans >and generally having a fabulous time! Dates: Saturday, November 20 and Sunday, November 21, 1999 Venue: >The Furama Hotel Central, 28 Albion Street, Sydney Times: Saturday 11.00am-Midnight Sunday 11.00am-6pm >Conference Fee: $100 (price for Advance Bookings only) Fee includes:- * attendance at the event on both days >* light lunch and buffet dinner on Saturday * light lunch on Sunday [etc etc]
During the intervening weeks, Damien, Joel and I discuss the possibility of making a statement on behalf of the Agnetha Armada. We anxiously try to recruit other fans using the internet and personal persuasion/coercion, all to no avail. It's just us for the moment.
We also decide that we mustn't breathe a word to ANYONE over the course of the next few weeks, Graeme especially. Graeme doesn't know what the hell we're doing and is just desperately hoping it doesn't disturb an already packed programme.
SATURDAY 30th OCTOBER: T MINUS 21 DAYS
The Agnetha Armada takes its first tentative steps towards global domination. Damien, my flatmate Peter and I go to Drag Bag to look at the possibility of obtaining wigs and blue eye shadow from here. I put on a "Jade" wig (to look like Agnetha) but frankly, the effect is much more reminiscent of Mike Myers from "Wayne's World" than anything Agnetha ever aspired to. Truly frightening. Then Damien, Crystal (the woman behind the counter) and I discuss the exact right blue eyeshadow to look like Agnetha. We eventually find the last pot of the substance in the shop, and buy it immediately.
Then on we go next door to the Pop Shop. We get some cheap-as-chips tiaras (for Dancing Queen, of course) and look at some cowboy hats. It's off-pay week for all of us, so the cowboy hats (blue, the sacred colour of Agnetha fandom) will just have to wait. And we look at Laser Specs, to give us that Summer Night City feel during the convention.
The three of us then do some window shopping (I spy a tasty graphite-coloured shirt in a shop on Oxford Street) before Damien says goodbye to head off to work. Peter and I go on to Hyde Park and discover a food and wine festival on behalf of people living with HIV/AIDS. We devour some Moroccan lamb cutlets, but purely out of a sense of civic duty, you understand...
TUESDAY 2nd NOVEMBER: T MINUS 18 DAYS
Things take a ghastly turn for the worse. I get a phone call from a close friend I used to work with, and instantly I know that there's something very very wrong. It turns out that a friend and former colleague has taken his own life on the weekend (ironically, the same day Ruzzo died). He just didn't want to be alive anymore and feel the emotional pain he was feeling, so he checked himself into the Sheraton on the Park, ordered some French champagne, and called his best friend on his mobile and said goodbye. Thanks, and have a nice day.
For the rest of the day everything passes in a blur. I was typing data into the database about cardiac arrests, but for all I knew or cared it could have been last week's winning Lotto numbers. I hit the comfort food -- chocolate, very dark, imported from the Netherlands, -- in a big way. It's later pointed out by a sympathetic colleague that I've got a block-a-day habit.
During this hellish time, my friend Peter is marvellous, giving me material on grieving and just generally being there. The next few days are just not nice. I work back late and arrive early to make time to leave early for the funeral on Thursday.
WEDNESDAY 3rd NOVEMBER: T MINUS 15 DAYS
I see my friend's name in the paper, under Funeral Notices. I start to cry. What I REALLY want to happen is for all this horrible episode to "unhappen", for it never to have happened, but sadly life just doesn't work like that.
Another large block of dark chocolate later I can start to function a little...
THURSDAY 4th NOVEMBER: T MINUS 16 DAYS
This is the worst day of my life. No exceptions.
I come in in my nice drab grey-brown suit and black tie, steeling myself for the inevitable "nice suit. Job interview?" comments that I will inevitably get. (And I do, too.) Leaving at around lunchtime (not at all hungry, oddly enough) I jump in a taxi and cross the city to the church where the service is held.
The funeral is horrible, indescribably horrible. One of the worst things about a death of a relatively young person (he had just turned 31) is that there is absolutely nothing that yoou can possibly say that will make anyone feel any better. This is worse than my own mother's funeral, which was harrowing enough. All these people I used to work with -- who I love dearly as people -- who were like a family in a way -- are gathered together in this dreadful occasion. I bumped into one of the secretaries who is known for her straight talk and she asks me how I am. I um and ah, and she says, "Bugger of a way to meet up again, isn't it?". I want to hug her, because that's EXACTLY how I feel.
There were several eulogies at the funeral. Funny the things people are remembered by. I wondered what people would remember me by when I die. The one sight I will never, never forget to my dying day is the sight of his best friend -- the one he was on the phone to when he was overdosing -- giving a eulogy. the poor man was totally wild with grief: he could barely walk or speak, so intense was his feeling. I vowed that I would NEVER commit suicide because I would NEVER want to put any of my friends through that ordeal.
Later that evening (and several blocks of dark chocolate later) I'm with Peter at a sushi bar and we bump into the best friend and another friend who were at the funeral. We talk briefly. I just feel that today, the smell of sorrow isn't leaving my clothes...
FRIDAY 5th NOVEMBER: T MINUS 15 DAYS
I'm back at the office, functional to a certain degree, albeit devouring ridiculously large amounts of dark chocolate. I'm looking for something at this point to fill a bit of a void in my life. Normally it would be my job, but the job I currently work in offers no challenge, no stimuation, no real sense of rewards. Nothing to be found here. It's at this point that I come to a decision: I am going to throw myself whole-heartedly into organising Agnetha Armada activities. This decision, I later realise, is to have serious consequences further on down the track: when things go wrong (and oh, how they DO go so wrong so spectacularly!) it's difficult for me to be totally calm about it. On the other hand, it did give me a certain amount of "drive" to get things done to my complete satisfaction.
After Japanese class, several of us go down to City Night Markets which is nearby (in Dixon Street, the heart of Chinatown). While I'm there I see some cheap ($20, as opposed to paying $50 for rental), but I can't get on the phone to the boys to ask them if I should get them. Oh, well, never mind, there'll be plenty of time later on to get them.
SATURDAY 6 NOVEMBER: T MINUS 14 DAYS
The Agnetha Armada decide to have a meeting at Joel and Damien's place (which makes sense, with two of them sharing a place). It's at Artarmon, on the lower North Shore of Sydney. Despite my occasional bitchy remarks about the area, this is actually a really pretty part of the city, lots of trees and greenery.
We decide to work on getting the movements to Dancing Queen right, which is actually quite tricky, and prepare lists of what needs to be obtained and done. This, it turned out, was quite productive in the long run, it kept us all on track.
The dance movements for Dancing Queen are quite tricky, and it's little wonder Frida stuffed them up. Of course, we watched Agnetha gloating when Frida ::did:: stuff them up, but that night I think we all developed just that little bit more sympathy for Frida.
That night, we watched the film clip to DQ over and over again. Whenever I hear ABBA, I'm happy to listen -- except Dancing Queen! There's one ::particularly:: amusing bit ("you're a teaser you turn them on...") where Agnetha is licking her teeth and acting totally smug about being in front of the camera. We were all to practice that particular look in later weeks.
The pressure was on to get the dance movements absolutely 100% correct. Otherwise, you would be subjected to cutting remarks like, "You're dancing like a Frida fan!", which is a ::truly:: bitchy remark when spoken by an Armada member. Agnetha fans can be quite bitchy when we're together, saying things like, "don't you think Frida dances like a four-year-old watching the Wiggles [a children's TV programme]?"
We then decide that, instead of handing notes to the DJ as is usual practice, we make ransom notes. We got some local gay papers (Sydney Star Observer is particularly useful when you are looking for "y"s), blank paper, and glue. Damn, no glue. So we all get into Joel's car looking for glue -- trapsing all over the North Shore. First stop is the local 7-11 at St Leonards -- no glue, but I did get a Snickers bar. Agnetha fans just have to maintain standards. Then on to Kinko's in Chatswood. No glue. Of course, the whole time we're doing this I'm making disparaging remarks about the North Shore (the part of Sydney that Damien and Joel live in), reminding them that we'd have no trouble at ::all:: on ::my:: side of the bridge. Finally, we make a last-ditch effort at some little poky mart in Artarmon. Glue by the bucketload, albeit well hidden. I couldn't believe our luck.
During this time, of course, history was being made -- or more accurately, NOT being made. For those of ou who are not aware, Australia voted on the republic referendum question. We leave the telly on while Kerry Jones appears, larger than life (larger than several lives, really!) being the &^%$#@ that she is. Now, if anyone's read their Kübler-Ross, you'll know that one of the stages of grief is anger. Mine kicked in with the sight of Kerry Jones. Damien and Joel got to see a good dose of me losing my temper that night -- and it was not to be the last time they saw my temper.
Making ransom notes is rather trickier than it looks. There were desperate cries of "has anyone got a 'T'?" and similar flying across the room. You know you're getting desperate when you use a pair of roller skates to form "L"s (courtesy of a Gayskate ad), with one of the roller skates up-ended on its side (look closely Graeme, you'll see what I mean).
We knew at some stage Graeme would be making some bitchy remark about us, so we had an extra ransom note prepared. Looking through the gay papers, there was a headline with the words "Get fucked" in them (in a headline about censorship laws and safe sex education posters), which we decided to cut out and use at a suitable juncture. It has to be said, the ransom note session of the Armada was fun.
SUNDAY 7th NOVEMBER: T MINUS 13 DAYS
Joel's working a late shift today, but I go over to their place anyway to practice line-dancing with Damien. Looking for line-dancing songs, it turns out that P&B is pure magic when it comes to line-dancing. One minor hitch: neither Damien nor I know anything about line-dancing. Joel, who does, is working. So we go searching the net looking for line-dancing instructions and find some (hey, it's not a tutorial but it's near enough to the real thing). Meanwhile, Damien gets a phone call from his father and they decide to tell each other their life stories, for some unknown reason. I get impatient (hard to imagine, I know), go downstairs, and put P&B on. In the 15 minutes while Damien is on the phone to his father, I have 2/3 of a line-dancing routine sorted out. When Damien comes downstairs, I show him what I have. He is duly impressed and fills in the missing 1/3.
Shortly after 11pm, Joel comes home. He's had a bitch of a day at the office and doesn't want to see what we've done until he's had a shower, at least. Damien and I are a bit silly by this stage and scream "YES! I WANT TO BE ALONE!" at each other and burst into hysterical laughter. After his shower, Joel is in a ::much:: better frame of mind and he is impressed with our line dance. I end up catching the last train home to Central that night...
WEDNESDAY 10th NOVEMBER: T MINUS 10 DAYS
Today I get a phone call from a slightly nervous Damien. It seems that he is going into hospital in two days' time, minor elective surgery, but he should still be right for the convention and line dancing. He'll be going up to Orange to stay with his family to recuperate for a few days, then back to Artarmon (his place in Sydney). I'm a little alarmed at this, but he assures me that this is nothing to worry about, and I believe this.
Silly me.
FRIDAY 12th NOVEMBER: T MINUS 8 DAYS
This is the day that Damien goes into hospital. Minor surgery, all will be well he assures me. OK, but I'm still a bit nervous...
After class, I go to the City Night Market looking for the wigs that the boys said I should have got without asking. Oh, no, there are no wigs there. The sales gerbil behind the counter at the wig stall looks like he lives in single-digit IQ land. I'm not happy. I'm not even a little bit happy. In fact, I'm REALLY pissed off. But my Japanese teacher, Kaye, buys a big pink beehive and wears it the rest of the night.
So back to the bar where my Japanese teacher is making friends with everyone there. She wants to sing "Please Please Me" at the karaoke bar. Several Lemon Ruskis later, I get in the spirit of things (or more aptly, the spirit of things gets in me) and I end up singing Dancing Queen with three strange women. Lemon Ruski is evil. It makes you believe that when you sing Dancing Queen, if you don't sound like ABBA you at least ::do:: sound like Steps, and that any dance moves that you do at a karaoke bar is every bit as good as Steps'. Later that evening I decide that it's a good idea to escort Kaye to a taxi. When she starts making conversation with the gangs of Aboriginal youths that prowl Central Station late at night, my decision is confirmed ("come OVER HERE").
Lemon Ruski is truly evil. Juice of Satan, in fact.
TUESDAY 16th NOVEMBER: T MINUS 4 DAYS
It's another one of those email days: Joel, Damien and I are all sending each other emails. Joel is in a panic about the cost of all this -- how much ::is:: all of this going to cost? Damien sends off a similar message and I fly into a mixture of panic and rage. After all the effort that I've gone to, are we going to just throw the whole thing away?
I go for a short walk to cool down. It's then I decide that 1) rationalisation is in order. Let's focus on the core things and discard the peripheral things. 2) I decide that whatever happens, the whole Agnetha Armada thing is all about having fun. If any of us are worried about finances, then it's not fun. So let's all just relax and see what we ::can:: afford, and take it from there. E-mails bounce back and forth, deciding what must remain and can be discarded (oddly enough, Damien and Joel are far less savage with cutbacks than me, so we reach a compromise very quickly).
One of the agreed discards, though, is to cancel hire from Drag Bag. At $50 a wig, it's way too expensive. We agree that if I do find the $20 wigs, I will buy them, but not the $50 hire ones. So I have to make a potentially difficult call to say that all the effort in finding three identical blonde wigs must now come to nothing. Shit happens.
So I rang Drag Bag and Crystal's voice at the other end of the line was quite hesitant. She was saying that there was a problem in obtaining the wigs that we were after. "Wait! Relax! I'm calling to cancel the order!" The relief in Crystal's voice was palpable. This worked out well for both of us, which neither of us was expecting. The rest of the phone call proceeds cheerfully enough and I say goodbye. At least SOMETHING was working out alright, even if it ::was:: only the cancellation of a wig order.
Oddly enough, it was about now that the tide was to FINALLY turn in our favour...
THURSDAY 18th NOVEMBER: T MINUS TWO DAYS
Today's payday. Noramlly relatively uneventful, until I notice one of my colleagues (who's normally of a fairly laidback character) crying out "woo-hoo". It turns out we all have a one-off $1000 bonus, courtesy of an Enterprise Bargaining Agreement.
Instatnly I'm on the phone to Damien. "Tell Joel that money is no longer something we all need to worry about". I'm taking this as a sign, even though I don't normally believe in such things. The stress of how on earth we are going to get everything together in time is starting to wear me down just a little.
It's a day of sending emails to each other: Damien, Joel, Peter (my flatmate who is not an ABBA fan) and me. I get the Armada pictures that Joel and Damien worked on and take them out, saved to disk, to the shop out at Parramatta (miles from civilisation!) to get them done. I get to the shop and get told: no, we don't transfer from disk. I call Peter from the counter to make sure that I haven't gotten muddled. No, indeed, I had been told on the Saturday that I could get them taken off disk for a $5 surcharge. Frantic phone calls all around. I get on the phone to Damien and I won't repeat the language of the conversation, except to say that the sky in Parramatta was just that little bluer that night.
I find a Kodak shop in Church Street (the main street of Parramatta) to get the materials on disk printed off. The nice man there is extremely helpful -- or maybe I just have the look of a man who will brook no dissent at this stage. Similarly, I go back to the t-shirt shop and the man there is extremely helpful. He's seen me get upset once, he had no intention of going back for seconds. His wife hides.
Normally it takes about two hours from whoa to go to get double-sided t-shirts done. I only had one-and-a-half hours and three t-shirts to do, but I wasn't taking no for an answer. He suggested I wander around for a bit and come back at quarter to nine. (The shops all close at 9pm on a Thursday night in Sydney.) I do so, looking for cowboy hats and wigs. Believe me, you KNOW you're hitting rock bottom when K-Mart and Priceline in Parramatta ain't got what you want. So this is what ABBA fandom has dragged me down to...
In the middle of all this aimless, fruitless wandering I discover this clothing store that is pure 100% Oxford Street in THE BASEMENT OF WESTFIELDS fer Chrissake! Great clothes, boppy dance music, I even look at a few things. Obviously if I was growing up gay in the Western Suburbs (which I was, two decades ago) this would be Mecca.
Back to the t-shirt shop at quarter to nine. Not ready yet, sir, could you come back in ten minutes? It's then I see the magic word "CAFÉ". The beast could be placated with caffeine, so I ask for some tea and cake. "We only have caramel torte, sir" "Caramel torte will be just fine, thanks." Why didn't I think of a calming cup of tea earlier?
Then just as all the shops are closing, it's two minutes before nine, and the t-shirts are coming off the press. They'd better damn well be good. The man behind the counter holds them up for my inspection.
They're brilliant.
You know that interview where Frida says that the first time she heard Dancing Queen, she was in tears because it was so brilliant? Same thing. Joel and Damien had refused to let me compromise and get the design on white t-shirts -- and the decision was the right one. I'm on the phone to Damien, in a much happier frame of mind. (In case you're wondering why I always phoned Damien and not Joel, Joel had yet to pick up his mobile phone at that stage.)
It's late by the time I return home from the wilds of Parramatta. What an adventure! But it was all worth it...
FRIDAY 19th NOVEMBER: T MINUS ONE DAY
'Tis the day before the ABBA convention and all through the house...
I had a job interview at 10am for a position where I work. So I duly wore my suit (this time, no black tie) and went through the motions of pretending to be interested in a job where I work (hell with fluorescent lighting). Yet the whole time, my uppermost concern was obtaining the ONE item that the Armada needed to do its job preperly: wigs. It must be the first time I went through an interview obsessively worried about wigs.
Meanwhile, the boys pick up cowboy hats on the way home from the airport. Finally, something's going right...
Later in the day I telephone my father, as it's his 80th birthday that day. I chat with my father briefly, and soon he gives me a few more grey hairs in the course of the conversation ("Yes, I'll come down for Christmas and drive down the Pacific Highway [the most dangerous road in Australia] for about 10 hours" "Dad, you are 80 years old and have cataracts, do you REALLY think this is such a good idea??!!").
I get the news that I don't get the job. No real loss. I feign some emotion or other and leave early to pick up wigs. Damn. No wigs at the City Night Markets.
I go to Japanese class that evening, obsessing about the wigs. I was hoping that Damien was right, that somehow the wigs ::would:: be there, despite all the earlier trouble. Two hours of class seems to take an eternity, but I grip with Japanese verb forms and soldier on.
Finally class ends and I zoom down to the markets. I scan up and down, looking for wigs. Finally, as if by a miracle, I spy the wig stall. "Do you have any of these in blonde?" "Yes" "I need three" "one, two.....three!" Speed dial to Damien. "Damien, we have wigs." I hadn't even handed the cash to the sales assistant, and I'm on the phone to Damien. "I'm on my way to Artarmon" I'm on the verge of tears by now -- you'd've thought I'd've found the Holy Grail!
During all this, Stephen Humphries and I are playing telephone tennis. "Sure, let's meet up when you're in Sydney!", not expecting to be obsessively hunting down wigs at this stage. At Artarmon, I take Damien some Chinese food to go (satay something-or-other, how very Dutch immigrant) (but it didn't rain, the day before I came to the ABBA convention). I quickly put my wig on so that when he greets me at the door he sees the effect. He laughs. Taking one look at him, it's obvious that he's not going to be up for any line dancing, and with Joel not getting home until after midnight, there's not much happenning with him, either. The line dancing will just have to wait until next convention.
Stephen Humpries and I FINALLY talk on the phone. Where shall we meet? Stonewall, sometime after 11:30. For those of you unfortunate enough not to have met him, he's a truly wonderful person, lots of fun -- obviously, being blond and attractive hasn't gone to his head. :-) (Now, if he could only have taught my ex that...) We talk about job prospects in Sydney and how Sydney compares with Auckland (I think Sydney wins) and what he would do if he got here. We then go to the Midnight Shift for a few more drinks before the ravages of hunger hit me -- I've been running on adrenaline so long that I was forgetting to eat. So we go to the Californian Café and play the obligatory ABBA videos that we play when ABBA fans gather there (Dancing Queen and TACOM). We then say our good nights and I give Stephen directions to the convention for the following day -- it's been such a good night, I hope the weekend lives up to my expectations. (In case you're wondering, no, I wasn't worried about turning up to the convention with a hangover -- I don't get hangovers! :-)
SATURDAY 21ST NOVEMBER: T EQUALS ZERO. WE HAVE LIFTOFF!
The day for the convention FINALLY arrives. This sweaty obsessed fan has had one ::dreadful:: dose of insomnia the night before, and I awake a little late. Phone call from Damien (I shudder to think what our phone bills will be like!) and he and Joel are still in Artarmon. No rush, I think to myself. We agree to wear our t-shirts, but concealed under jackets.
We meet in the foyer (how ever did we survive without mobile phones???) and get into the life with the mirror together. Naturally, we all sing "Eagle" and undo our jackets, ready to make an impact on ABBA fandom.
John McKechnie was at the door to let us in -- he saw the t-shirts and burst out laughing. From one of the hardest hard-core Frida fans I know, I take this as high praise. We accept our nametags and walk in.
Fiona Metcalfe is behind a stall with Graeme, who says something. For several minutes, Graeme is his usual manic self and completely fails to notice our uniform. Suddenly, it gels, and he reacts. He's pleased. Sometime later, we're seated and the three of us -- Joel, Damien and I -- are in a row at the front. Graeme asks "are there any Frida fans present?". The Armada has truly conquered. "Just wait till this evening" I think to myself.
The Armada are then escorted to the shrine (yes! what a brilliant touch! thank you Graeme!) and photographed.
We get the obligatory technical hitch out of the way early on in the convention when a projector fails to work. Oh, well, shit happens. I was at Home nightclub and the sound system failed, so it can happen to anyone really.
I'm completely converted to the A*Teens, which surprised me. I particularly like One Of Us, even more than the original. Graeme is right (oh, HOW it hurt my fingers to type THAT!) -- you do need to ::see:: them, and that yes, everything has been done with class. The filmclips are rather awesome. I don't much care for Mamma Mia, but then again, it was the biggest selling single in all of Sweden last year, so it's only my opinion versus that of the Holy Land, really.
Shelley Benson (née Bamford) was definitely a highlight of the convention. She had us hanging off every word, and I desperately wanted to ply her with chardonnay and get ::all:: the dirt. John McKechnie said that this could be arranged. John, I am holding you to that. At the end of her talk she asks us to gather round and show us her memorabilia, including a signed note from one much-younger Graeme Read. I ask "is she the Andy Ball of Graeme Read fandom?", and a new metaphor has entered the average sweaty, obsessed fan's vocabulary (sorry Andy!)
Out on the balcony for the mandatory cigarette and chardonnay break, we all get talking again. Shelley's husband Shane arrives, and she asks (while standing next to me), "does anybody work in the pharmaceutical industry?" Oh, my. So of course I pipe up, to be ushered in to her husband who it turns out I used to work with. I chat with Shane, catch up on ::more:: gossip/dirt (two for the price of one?) and do some serious networking ("oh, so you're looking for CRAs in cardiovascular? Cardiovascular is my specialty...").
Meanwhile, Damien's wound from his operation is playing up, getting worse, not better. Graeme mentions it to me and I ask him to leave it with me. God knows, he's got a convention to run, a medical emergency would be way too much on top of it. I go out on the balcony with the Joel and Damien and locate a 24-hour medical place. Great, no problem. We go there and it's closed, has been for several hours. I am not a happy little vegemite at this point. So we drive up to St Vincent's Hospital Emergency department -- you guessed, the place I was when Patrick had his accident. What is it with me accompanying ABBA fans to the hospital, that one in particular? It takes an eternity to write a prescription for an antibiotic, but at least the nurse says to Damien that he doesn't have a fever, so we got in nice and early. Nice to know we're doing the right thing for once. Over to the pharmacy to get the prescription filled (and chat/network with the pharmacist behind the counter. Am I a networking slut or what??!!) before going back to the convention.
We need to apply eyeshadow and wigs before entering the disco, and we need to all do it together. Ace of Base play, so Joel is instantly released to dance to that while Damien and I prepare. Or more accurately, Damien goes to the toilet and my anxiety peaks at new levels never thought of before.
I attempt to apply eyeshadow. The effect is rather like a 4-year-old raiding Mummy's makeup box. It just ain't pretty. So I wipe it all off and start again. Damien pops downstairs to get something when Joel comes in. He applies the eyeshadow effortlessly "you don't work in Rocky Horror for over a year and not acquire some skills". Indeed. Damien also misses out on a slight altercation between Joel and me:
Joel: "Oh, did we get wigs after all, did we? No, I'm not wearing a wig, it'll mess my hair." Steve: "YOU'RE WEARING THIS *&%&^%ING WIG RIGHT *^&*ING NOW, OK??!!"
--- some time later ---
Joel: "These wigs are FABULOUS!" Steve: "::So:: glad you like them!"
Damien returns. Eyeshadow applied, wigs on, we march out in single file to wow the convention goers. And wow them we do. We've also got a little twist: you know how people pass little notes to the DJ to request songs? Well, we have ransom notes requesting Agnetha songs. Graeme wets himself when he sees them. Just as well we didn't get our P&B line-dancing routine off the ground: P&B isn't there! If there's ever another convention...
We danced. We laughed. We had the time of our lives. We drank blue eyeshadows, and the Frida fans developed their own drink (looked like swamp water, but give them points for effort). But the Agnetha Armada have made an impact, and one that will not be forgotten in a hurry. We all gather round to dance to "We Move As One" and Club ABBA ends. A few of us go downstairs more more drinks and more company -- we see each other so rarely that we all swap addresses. I promise to hold an Australia Day party (January 26th) in my new place, wherever that will be. We then all file home, ready to party again the following day.
What a day that will be.
Sunday 21st November T PLUS ONE DAY
I got to the convention an hour late. This was not at all my fault, it should be understood. I'm blaming Agnetha, and Ian Marks (long-suffering partner of "the" Ian Cole). The previous night at drinks (after wayyyyyyyyyy too many blue eyeshadows) I asked him when the convention started the following day. He said "ten, but let's make it eleven or even twelve". In my foolish drunken state, I didn't realise he was joking. A nasty case of irony deficiency on my part. So I re-set the alarm for later.
So I was awoken by my mobile phone on Sunday morning. Damien was calling. "Steve, where are you?" [incoherent morning voice]: "Ugh?" "Steve, where are you?" [pissed-off and slightly sinister voice by now]: "In bed. Why?" "Steve, the convention's started, we're eating breakfast with pastry and tea" "Ugh. OK. See you in half an hour or so."
A quick shower, put on a black t-shirt, black jeans (over black underwear), black socks, black shoes, black leather jacket, black sunglasses and I was on my way to the Furama, a short walk from my house. I am not a morning person at the best of times, and the beast had not been placated with caffeine. I'd missed a few videos (mostly Frida, apparently) but I was not going to function until I had had at least six cups of tea. And Damien was there to count them. Screw being self-conscious about my 12-cups-a-day caffeine habit, I've attended ABBA conventions in a state of caffeine withdrawal, and believe me, it ain't pretty.
Graeme brought out a special video while we were going into the quiz: ABBALLET. By the opening bars of "Slipping Through My Fingers", I was quite literally rolling around on the floor. I will never ever listen to this song in quite the same way again. Just what the hell were they thinking when they did this? If Shelley Benson was a highlight, this was definitely a lowlight, but a ::hell:: of a lot of fun!
The quiz proceeds relatively uneventfully in comparison. We call our team "The Then again, just about anything would except an epileptic fit. Graeme foolishly remarks that he could join the A*Teens, and I helpfully point out what that would require (liposuction and a time machine). Graeme seems unjustifiably upset by my helpful remark, calling me Hitler's stunt double. Sweaty, obsessed kraut indeed! (If you didn't realise, I have a German-Australian background and my surname is correctly pronounced "yah-spur". So now you know.)
We break for lunch, after our team lost at trivial pursuit. Obviously, I'm not a guru and I just don't qualify for those saffron robes just yet. Damien tells me that he's feeling better today, which is very reassuring to know. I feel vindicated, that all the running around yesterday was the right thing to do.
Then as we're breaking for drinks, we get to watch the ABBAMANIA video. It opens with Denise van Outen [spelling?] who looks and sounds for all in the world like Paula Yates with a hair-do. I can't say Paula Yates with "class", because then she would simply cease to exist, rather like the way matter and anti-matter collide to leave nothing behind. Steps come on singing LAYLOM and it's nice but certainly not inspirational. Then B*Witched are on singing something or other. Whatever it was, it left a ::huge:: impression on me, can't you tell? Sorry, but I can't help the feeling that a lot of this is musical processed cheese, with all the songs sounding almost identical. Are Steps, B*Witched and Westlife really all the same band with different outfits? The only reason I could tell that it was B*Witched and not Cleopatra was the skin colour, to be honest.
Madness come on singing $$$. ::Now:: I am impressed. I was never a huge fan of either Madness or the song (I liked both well enough, but was never a fan) but this cover version WORKS! Madness didn't try to be ABBA -- as if anybody should! -- so they injected their own touch into the song. And you could tell they were genuinely having fun with it. The drummer (I think) was just about falling off his seat with laughter, and when the lead singer threw piles of banknotes around was a brilliant touch. They know how to entertain, and do it so well.
On came Culture Club with Voulez Vous. I'd been particularly intrigued to hear this, as I'd heard such mixed reports about it. "Would it be brilliant or would it suck? Would they fall into the trap of trying too hard to sound like ABBA, or would they put their own stamp on it and make it their own?" I wondered.
It blew me away. Completely.
By now, the stress and strain of the last few weeks, the running around organising for the convention the obsession about wigs, t-shirts, plus the upsets in my personal life (particularly the grief associated with my friend's suicide) all kick in abour right now. This song, watching this song, has made all that worth it. It's blown me away that I haven't been blown away for 20 years.
I burst into tears.
By this stage, I'm down the front away from everyone else, soaking up this song like blotting paper. You could tell: Boy George "got" this song, he has "lived" this song, and it's his just as much as ABBA's. I imagine that when they were asked which ABBA song they wanted to do, Boy George said something like, "It's Voulez Vous or nothing. I won't consider doing anything else."
Suddenly I feel a need to tell someone what's happening, to try and explain it and perhaps make sense of it all. I talk to Ian Cole briefly, then I feel an urge to hug Graeme and thank him for all this. For those of you who know me, or are at least familiar with German-Australian culture, will realise that for me to go up to someone and hug them is totally out of the ordinary. I'm not sure if Graeme realises just how loopy I was at that point, but I was wayyyyyyyyyyy off with the pixies.
Some other band came on afterwards and sang some other ABBA song, and I vaguely remember seeing Stephen Gately at some point, but my mind was scrambled eggs by this point. I don't even have clear memories of Westlife singing IHAD. I have only hazy memories of helping pack things away (not because I was on the team helping pack things away, but it was my ever-so-small way of saying "thank you" at that point), seizing the sign for the Agnetha Shrine (I think I'll put it on my bedroom door!) and having drinks with Graeme, Ian x 2 and John McKechnie afterwards, before walking home in a daze.
Was it worth it? Was everything that I put into attending the convention worth it? Not just the convention fee (in truth, a very minor sacrifice compared with other costs), but the $$$ for the Agnetha Armada paraphernalia, the endless phone calls, train trips to Artarmon, the organising, the stress, stress and more stress getting the Agnetha Armada into existence.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
You get out of these things what you put into them. I'd put a lot of effort into making sure I enjoyed myself, and that other people would too. And I was more than amply rewarded -- I had a terrific time, one of the best weekends of my life, and I feel that my investment was well-made. If you go with an attitude of having fun and meeting people to an event like this, you will.
Well, if you've made it this far in reading my posts, congratulations! Go reward yourself, you deserve it. Go make yourself a nice blue eyeshadow (or a Fridori, if you're that way inclined...)
Cheers,
Steve J, Sydney, Australia