Page 9 of Going Solo

“Name?” Felicity sounded impatient. I’d made her repeat herself. This was off to a terrible start.

My voice squeaked out of me like I’d swallowed an accordion. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“And where are you from, Toby?”

I said Colchester, and the home crowd cheered.

“You seem nervous, ástin min.” That was Johanna Thorsdóttir—the compassionate voice on the panel—throwing out her much-loved Icelandic catchphrase to please the fans. “Ástin Min” was the name of her hit Eurovision song. Apparently, it was a term of endearment that meant “my love,” but it could have been an Icelandic brand of tinned herring for all I knew. “Deep breaths,” she said, her piercing blue eyes offering reassurance. “Everyone in this room wants you to succeed.”

The crowd clapped. I took a deep breath, pulled my hands from my back pockets, and shook them out. In the corner of my eye, I saw Cole standing at the side of the stage. He gave me a thumbs up. God, even his thumbs were fit.

The music started. My voice croaked on the first note, and I felt my throat close over. I only had one shot at this, so I coughed, found my voice, and gave it my all. The next ninety seconds were a complete blur. When I was done, Johanna responded first.

“We could hear the nerves at the start, but once you hit your stride, you delivered an anthem. Why did you choose ‘Firework’?”

“It’s about personal acceptance, innit, and I find that empowering,” I said, exactly as I’d rehearsed in my bedroom mirror. “Katy Perry dedicated it to the It Gets Better campaign, which is all about supporting the LGBTQ-plus community.”

“Are you a member of the LGBTQ-plus community yourself, Toby?” Johanna asked.

“Non-practising, babes, but yes,” I said. The audience laughed.

“Well, you did them proud, ástin min.” She hit the button for the big green tick, and I dared to hope.

Robbie criticised my ropey start, my vocal range, and my “lack of broad appeal”—which wasMake Me a Pop Starcode for too gay, too brown, too fat, or too ugly. With my Ultra Rich Sunny Honey Bali Bronze Spray Tan, I was arguably a full house.

“You’re not a pop star, mate.” He pressed his button, and a big red cross appeared above his head. “That’s just how it is.”

I felt my dream slipping, and my heart rate doubled. The crowd booed. At least they were on my side. Sometimes the judges kept you in if you were a crowd-pleaser. But had I done enough? My nerves couldn’t have been more wrung out if a nineteenth-century laundry maid had fed them through a mangle.

“You’re a real entertainer, there’s no doubt you’ve got charisma,” Felicity said. That was worryingly non-committal. There was a long pause while she riffled through some papers. “I want to see what else you can do,” she said, looking up, as a big green tick appeared above her head. “Congratulations, you’re coming to London.”

EXCLUSIVE: Pop star pub brawl!

Johnswagger’s big Essex night out

In Colchester for “Make Me a Pop Star,” the show that rehabilitated his career, Robbie Johnswagger wasted no time getting rock and roll royally smashed the minute the cameras were off.

Luckily, The Bulletin’s cameras were still turned on, so our snappers captured the moment the ageing rocker was chucked out of the Quickly Whippet Inn on Colchester High Street. (See pictures.)

The Bulletinunderstands Johnswagger got into a heated discussion with members of the pub’s house band over the artistic merits of “Junkyard Mongrel,” Johnswagger’s first solo album after he split from iconic ’80s rock band Buzzsaw. A pub regular told us that an “utterly wankered” Johnswagger—apparently not a fan of constructive criticism—threw the first punch.

“The whole band piled in to support their mate,” our witness said. “The drummer whacked Johnswagger around the side of the head with an ice bucket. Old Robbie looked like it didn’t even register. He’s hard, I’ll give him that.”

The fight only stopped because Johnswagger stepped back to line up a punch and slipped on a cube of ice. He was knocked out cold for a few seconds, which gave the bouncers time to shirtfront him and throw him out into the street!

ChapterSix

On the Tuesday afternoon after the audition, as my summer vacation got off to an early start, I was helping out at the salon. I was sat at the reception counter, bored out of my mind, amusing myself by watching to see what a little kid in the street did with the enormous booger he’d just picked out of his nose, when my phone pinged.

Cole:Hey, can I run my song choices for London by you?

Heat flushed through my body, and I jumped up to open the salon door and let the breeze in. The little kid looked up at me, spooked by the sudden movement. The booger was gone, the offending finger now firmly gripped in his mother’s hand. Parenthood wasnotfor me. Cole and I had swapped numbers after the auditions, but I hadn’t expected to hear from him. I mean, I’d hoped I’d hear from him. I’d visualised it, prayed to Madonna about it, and sent two pairs of underpants to the laundry basket trying to manifest his presence in my bedroom at night. But I hadn’t expected it to work. Spending last summer sitting by the pool in Benidorm readingThe Secrethad really paid off. My hands were shaking so much, I could barely type.

Toby:Course babes!

“Shut the door, Toby!” Aunty Cheryl called across the salon. “I’ve spent twenty minutes gluing tiny gel penises onto Gemma’s nails for her hen do, and you’re letting dust in.”

Aunty Cheryl was nursing a three-day hangover. Along with half the other mature-aged single women in Essex, she’d spent the weekend scouring the pubs of Colchester, unsuccessfully trying to land a shag with Robbie Johnswagger—something that apparently had been on her bucket list for some time.

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