Barefoot Pilgrimage by Andrea Corr

Author:Andrea Corr
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2019-08-12T16:46:00+00:00

(© Hayley Madden/Shutterstock)

Oh if only we could’ve written the H word, then we wouldn’t have to sell it door to door.

However. Now I’ve got the heebie-jeebies. I’ll come back to that later.

But there were countries that adopted Forgiven, Not Forgotten, and us indeed, like we were their own. Spain, France and Australia. The latter interests me, now that I’m watching from the moon, and see a younger Gerry and Jean, strongly considering emigrating there. I am time travelling to a Christmas present. Two first-class tickets to tour with us in January. Cairns, Sydney, Melbourne. People queued up at an exploding in-store signing, to get their autographs.

Ouch now.

I am so grateful that we did that.

The UK, our next-door neighbour, eluded us though. Searching for our CD in the record stores only to find one (here it is!), cobwebbed and crying ‘Mama’ in the folk section. Obscure radio stations like hidden cavernous underworlds, which had you questioning whether you had indeed died in the ‘Manager sole survivor’ crash that John darkly joked about. But we were in the nowhere between Nirvana and Britney Spears.

And, it must be said, this was another time of terror. A time in which English buses were blown up by the Irish. Understandably, we were not so popular.

Oh, and then there was that radio gig when despair and resignation (the first and only time I’d ever heard John admit there was a chance we wouldn’t make it till our second record) led to tears streaming down faces, please stop, painful, ab-inducing laughter.

Our record company had organised a radio showcase in London, enticing guests there with bottomless free drinks. It must be thirsty work being jaded, because it was a nightmare. Literally. Crazed angry drunks, like the cast of the ‘Thriller’ video, yelling through our set. We couldn’t get off fast enough. We made it to our dressing rooms with ‘never again’s and ‘that’s it’s, only for Sharon to arrive in last with ‘Someone just puked on me!’

We had an inkling, then, that they didn’t quite like us, but I was yet to be convinced. We were in the van ready to leave and I saw a skinhead woman and her boyfriend making their way towards us and I recognised them from the gig.

‘Oh look … fans!’ I said, rolling down the window and turning up the volume on their contorted faces.

It wasn’t something a fan would say.

We skidded off to their Doc Martens kicking the van.

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