Chester had been invited to the conference several days earlier (*someone*, *somewhere* thought we sounded important) which had prompted the reaction of "Shit, you’re kidding!" I was there to represent the Australian community of rather large nosed Bragg fans and Tabitha came along to ensure I did not carry out my threat of asking the Braggster for 3 hours of his time and a tub of jelly. We arrived back at the Hotel and ran off to the loo for a final nervous piddle. On our entry the Big Billster was spotted in the hotel bar surrounded by freakishly tall publicity women so Tabitha and I put into action Plan 23A: *try to look nonchalant in the presence of a famous person*. Somehow, I get the feeling that the impromptu scarves and Jackie O sunglasses could have made us look foolish.

We sat in trendy wicker chairs with other press people who were desperately trying to look as though they did this type of thing every day. Coming to think of it, they probably did. Eventually we were all ushered through to the door of a tiny press room. Too scared to pick up a press kit, I poked Tab in the ribs and pulled her hair till she did. We sat in the “keen but not *pathetically* keen” third row and read over the press handout. Unfortunately, most of the questions that Chester had prepared were answered in the first paragraph of the handout and our one remaining question “We’ll give you one hundred bucks if you tell us Michael Stipe’s home phone number” now seemed oddly inappropriate. Tab and I eyed one another nervously and sunk back into our plastic chairs hoping that we wouldn’t be forced to utter a word.

BILL ON BRITPOP: “I’ve come to the conclusion with Oasis that it’s not actually about the lyrics, that I should stop listening to the lyrics cause that’s just a distraction. They’re not actually a lyrical band, they’re about what it sounds like... and if you turn ‘em up loud they sound great. I’ve not seen them live but I’m sure that live, if you close your eyes and then open them again that they’re still in the same spot as they were when you closed them…” “And Blur, I can’t work Blur out at all I’m afraid. I’m more of a Pulp man myself. They’re lyrically very good and I can deal with that kind of Jarvis character, you know, I went to school with a lot of guys like that…Morrissey…you know…same sort of tradition. If I had to plump for any of the three of them to be an enduring band I’d go for Pulp.”

The proverbial fat girl of unusual height donning a freakishly bulbous loaf of hair sat smack in front of me so I settled into a “no its OK, I don’t need to swap seats” 170 degree lean. Had I done the wrong thing by accepting a chance to meet Billy? It turned out to be too late for an escape as Mr Bragg waltzed through the door while I was running out.

I sat back down behind the human boof, nestled my head back into the plastic chair beside me and gazed at Billy. (Oh Bill, the champion of the romantic and ideological misfit. The guru of the proboscisly enhanced). I began to take mental notes of the events as my hands were too sweaty to clutch my splintered pencil.

SHOCK #1: The Billster was going grey. No, I’m being kind, He is Grey!

SHOCK #2: The media gathering which we had imagined would be a small, personal question time over lager and crisps, was in fact a large, impersonal, who-can-yell-the-loudest -and-take-the-most-pictures -with-their-noisy-camera, press conference.

SHOCK #3: The International Socialist Organisation were there. Now my dabblings with the ISO date back to my time at Uni when they bribed me to sign on the red line by plying me with cheap cider. From then on, I was hi-jacked every weekend for the duration of my degree, and forced to stickytape banners onto old wooden rulers. I thought I’d escaped from their clutches forever. Silly me. I hid my face beneath an old paddlepop wrapper that had stuck to my feet and tried to look normal.

How can I possibly explain what followed? Well, Chester, hitherto determined to make a rip roaring impression on both Mr Bragg and the Industry Press at large ended up huddled together, one clutching the press releases, the other clinging to her walkman and didn’t even breathe louder than absolutely necessary, let alone ask a question. The ISO totally dominated the proceedings from the beginning when they thrust a copy of the "Socialist Worker" into Billy’s hand and asked monumentally boring questions about Tony Blair. The peroxide haired and black velvet clothed oh-so-cool representative from Triple J slipped in the ol’ "Generation X" questions while everyone else moaned.

If you’ve ever been to a Billy Bragg concert, well, you know that the guy can talk, and I mean REALLY talk. He’s funny, he’s clever, he’s sappy, he’s got a great accent, he’s generally endearing. Well, keep in mind that this is what he’s like when he’s talking to his fan base. With the press he’s altogether different, wary, overly cautious and straight laced. One can’t help but be a little disappointed by this, especially considering that the conference was obviously laced with several hard core fans.

It all ended and most of the journo’s loitered about to discuss who was going to get an interview with Elastica. I turned to leave, disappointment all too evident on my face, but Tabitha stopped me. "Go get an autograph" she urged. I walked up to the man himself, whispered "Could you sign this for me please?" and handed my photo over. Billy signed it, gave me a wink and a hearty "Cheers" and life suddenly seemed more worthwhile.

Following (and above) are some extracts of the conference recorded on Chester’s Soviet issue walkman;

 I was 21 years when I wrote this song.
 I’m 22 now but I won’t be for long.
 People ask me when will you grow up to be a man,
 and all the girls I knew at school say:
 "Hey Bill, you look pretty cool pushing that pram."

Amber Carvan