Fate
of an Idol
by
Shaun Avery
‘And the winner of Class Idol
2006 is . . .’
The silence started off short and sweet, but as interminable moments
passed by, Mozart – or ‘Clammy Ammy’ as the media
had dubbed him, due to his habit of sweating profusely whilst bashing
out a tune – began to wonder if the hostess hadn’t suffered
some kind of seizure, one that left her standing whilst at the same
time robbing her of her ability to speak. Dragging his eyes away
from her, he looked to his mentor Robert, who gave an almost imperceptible
nod – which was the only encouragement Mozart needed.
‘Wolfgang!’
He didn’t believe it at first; he’d thought the competition
miles ahead of him. But the proof was in the pudding, and the pudding’s
ingredients seemed to be the lights that framed him and the applause
that now surrounded him. It was almost enough to make him feel lost
– a sign of things to come.
He was pushed forward to speak to the hostess, who asked him, ‘Wolfgang,
are you surprised?’
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‘Well, yes. I mean, I’m
. . .they’re all quality acts. I never expected this would
happen, not ever.’
Suddenly feeling guilty, he looked back at the runners-up, expecting
to see jealousy and hate and knowing that he would just crumble
inside if he did. But the good thing about a reality talent show
like Class Idol was the level of camaraderie amongst the participants,
the sportsmanship they displayed, and as such, all he saw was pleased
faces – although, he had to admit, probably none as thrilled
as his own.
He’d have stood there for hours, days, even, a rabbit caught
in the headlights of his own glory and success, if Robert hadn’t
cut across the melee and escorted him backstage. ‘Come on,
star,’ he said to Mozart, and then to the audience said, ‘no
more questions! At least, not yet.’
The funny thing was, Mozart wasn’t a fame seeker at all; he
was in this solely to make music, that was his calling, and auditioning
for and then appearing on a show like Class Idol had only been a
way to advance that. And yet here he was taking part in a press
conference like some sort of celebrity. Madness. If his head had
been screwed on properly, he’d have seen it as a portent of
bad things to come.
‘So, Wolfie . . .can we call you Wolfie?’
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