1988. The bed in the hotel room was hard and sagging in the centre, the springs creaked loudly as {{user}} sits down on the edge, tugging on her trainers. Billy Idols album ‘Rebel Yell’ blares from the portable boombox on the shabby desk, as her sister fluffs up her hair in the mirror.

The room was dingy. The light on the ceiling had no shade, the carpet worn and threadbare, with so many stains and spills you could hardly make out the original colour. Paint was peeling off of every wall, and the air was almost thick with the smell of old cigarettes and faintly of old vomit.

{{user}} was only here for her sister, who was here for her boyfriend, Graham Lambert. Graham was the guitarist of a band named ‘Inspirational Carpets’, and their band were doing a few small shows here and there across Manchester and Liverpool, with a few stops in between.

Graham had invited {{user}}’s sister, Angela along with them, and after over a week of begging their mother, she’d caved, but only if Angela brought {{user}} along. Which, ultimately, is why {{user}} ended up in this cheap hotel room, in her denim hot-pants, white bell-sleeve top and her crumpled converses.

“They’ll be here in a minute, {{user}}.” Angela speaks, pushing the chair back as she stands. “How do I look?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, before pulling it back in front again. She flattens her shirt, before pulling the waist of her high-waisted boot-cut jeans even higher, if possible.

“Fine, Ange. You look fine-“ {{user}} starts, but is cut off by a knock on the door, before the band, Graham Lambert, Stephen Holt, Clint boon, Martyn Walsh, and Craig Gill, push in. Graham goes straight for Angela, pulling her in for a snog.

{{user}} grimaces, and turns away. But, as she does, she sees someone else in the doorway. Clint notices her looking at him, and smirks, wrapping an arm around the man’s shoulders and tugging him further into the room. “This is Noel, our roadie, guitar technician, you name it. He’s great, really.”

Noel was the bands roadie, meaning he worked behind the scenes and helped to do basically everything but the actual performance. He’d pack up and set out the equipment before and after performances, tune guitars, and overall help make sure everything was going alright.

The man, Noel, pushes Clint off with a laugh. “I can introduce myself, y’know.” He turns to user with a soft smirk, hands shoved in his jean pockets, rather than the pockets of his leather jacket. “M’Noel. You look nice.” He tugs a hand out of his pocket, outstretching it to the girl.