He’s coming. I can see him shrouded by guards in black, but I want to get closer. I want to touch him. I’ve got all of his merchandise: his posters, clothing, screen savers and CDs, but it’s not enough. He’s awesome, and he’s my idol – not because I want to be him – but because he’s someone who vocalises and transmits my love, struggles and pain with the rest of the world. Now, he’s coming near me. I can’t stop my heart racing. He’s here. It’s him. My friends are shouting from behind the barriers, but I’m quiet. Security is still around him, but I can reach him as he passes. I do. I’m feeling him; the man on my poster; the man on my screen saver and the voice in my heart. I’m touching him, and he smiles at me. A wide-toothed smile. Then, he walks away . . .
I love him.
Short Bio: Philip Adams is a father of three who writes in his attic to escape the responsibilities of family life, and to escape from his four children and their pop-ravaged music.