I was sitting in the lobby of a Wolverhampton hotel glugging coffee with my first cigarette (smoking KILLS) and staring out the window.
There was a building across the carpark that said Fran on it. The tourbus was obscuring the 'chise' bit but it spooked me out nonetheless. We are going to Stafford today. I was born in Stafford 26 years ago.
So cut to 11.37am, us all sprawled out at the back of the bus and Nora's mobile ringing from within her backpack. The sun was shining. The streets all wet, sparkle.
Nora handed me the phone. It was Colin. Colin is one of our managers. We have two. Ian, our other, was on holiday sitting in a swimming pool drinking booze. Colin was calling to tell us that 'The Man Who' had gone to number 1. Rather than trying to describe what happened next Nora took this photo.
We arrive at Weston Park in Stafford in good time today. There are the usual interviews to do. Colin and his wife come down. We are number one. It looks as though by the time it all sinks in we won't be number 1 anymore. This is cool though.
The best bit about today was when we told the crowd that today was a very special day for us and about the chart position. 20000 people screamed and cheered and whooped and went mental. It was a cool moment.
Then we played 'Happy' and jumped off the stage and ran round the side and was jumped upon by all the security guards who thought I was a maniac with a mission to kill 'The Godfather of Soul' who had just got out his limo.
Standing at the side of stage after the show and after being freed by the 'Guard' a bloke came up to me and congratulated me on a fine performance. Then he ran onto the stage and moonied the crowd. The 'Guard' dragged him off, trousers at the ankles, past us. He was shouting "I did it...I did it!"