Oh Germany, you lucky, lucky country! As we crawl bleary-eyed out of lockdown and into a musically barren 2021 landscape, Katie has announced a seventh gig in Germany this summer, adding the Jazzopen 2021 festival in September to her existing dates in July and August. In these uncertain times, nothing is set in stone but keep your fingers crossed for her that restrictions ease enough for these events to go ahead. And keep anything else crossed you can think of that we finally get to see her live in the UK again in 2022. It has been too long...

For more information toddle off to HERE

Is Katie a bit of a dreamer? Well, that’s not for me to say, but here is a playlist of her songs that mention dreams. And yes, there are 26 of them. Perhaps if you listen to this playlist in bed you’ll sleep well. Sweet dreams…

Katie's Dreams

1. Better Than A Dream
2. Sometimes When I'm Dreaming
3. Dreams On Fire
4. Scary Films
5. Tiger In The Night
6. Stardust
7. Pictures On A Video Screen
8. Just Like Heaven
9. Downstairs To The Sun
10. Love Me Tender
11. Piece By Piece
12. Deep Purple
13. A Love Like That
14. Shy Boy
15. Twisted
16. The Closest Thing To Crazy
17. Kozmic Blues
18. Wonderful Life
19. A Time To Buy
20. Moonshine
21. Toy Collection
22. English Manner
23. Bridge Over Troubled Water
24. This Year's Love
25. Looking For Clues
26. Turn To Tell

Listen to Katie's Dreams on Spotify via the link below:

Play on:

I don’t think anyone has noticed, but just in case you have, yes, AllAboutKatie is a little quieter this year. There are several reasons for that. One is that I have now returned to full-time work and so have less disposable free time to spend on it. Another is that we have caught up with Katie in terms of her back catalogue, for regular features such as Track Notes and Lyric Cards. Finally, Katie herself is between albums at the moment and not touring due to Covid restrictions so there is very little news to report.

This combination of factors has resulted in the reduced flow of new content for the time being. But, rest assured, AAK remains alive and well and is going nowhere and whenever anything newsworthy occurs in Katieland it will be reported here! AAK remains the number one source for all things Katie!

Another album you may have missed... (see them all HERE)

A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night Harry Nilsson

Many of Katie’s fans live in hope of her releasing an album of Great American Songbook covers. After all, she’s a big fan of the GAS and whenever she’s tackled it in the past she’s smashed it right out of the park. So surely it is just a matter or when rather than if? She’ll probably be thinking she won’t do it until she can do it justice. but we all know she could do it in her sleep right now. Guess we just have to remain patient and hopeful. At least we have a few gems to glitter in the darkness, such as Stardust and Deep Purple. But as I cast a wistful eye at Bob Dylan’s Triplicate on my shelf–the old growler’s triple album of GAS covers–I can only wonder if I’ll live to see an offering from Katie keeping it company.

Anyway, you might be thinking, restless lot that you are, what all that has got to do with my latest recommendation for an album you may have missed? Well, dear reader, do let me explain. The thing is, if you are going to tackle the Great American Songbook you should probably be aware that it has been done to almost immaculate perfection by Harry Nilsson. Who he? He was an American singer-songwriter who hit the heights in the early seventies. His version of Badfinger’s “Without You” gave him a UK and US number 1 in 1971 (coincidentally, the same track Katie sang on her television debut!). You may also have heard him sing “Everybody’s Talkin”, made famous in the movie Midnight Cowboy. Nilsson was also known as a drinking buddy of John Lennon and Ringo Starr.

A Little Touch Of Schmilsson In The Night is neither Nilsson’s most successful nor most critically-acclaimed album. Yet it is a stunning piece of work. His interpretation and delivery of some GAS classics is absolutely second to none. And he is backed up by breathtaking orchestration that constantly morphs and misleads you into thinking you’re in a different song entirely. It is done in such a cleverly considered way that the entire album flows like an elegant maze through the Songbook, revealing dead ends you know you’ve seen before and then leading you down an alternate path. It is just a sonic delight from start to finish, and I personally don’t think the GAS has ever been represented better. Yes, artists like Sinatra and Fitzgerald were amazing, but it is the utter cohesion of the songs on this album that are a constant delight. And it also leaves me wondering why Harry Nilsson wasn’t a bigger star, although perhaps his reluctance to tour was a factor in that, and maybe also some dubious song choices on his other albums. He died in his fifties, but left behind a decent body of work, and this is one album I don’t think will ever sound dated.

Listen to A Little Touch Of Schmilsson In The Night on Spotify via the link below:

Play on:

Eric, the cabbie, was taking Bad Katie to school. She had accepted, mainly out of boredom, an invitation from her old headmaster to give a talk and mini-concert to the girls at the school where she had her fondest memories of mischief-making.
“Can’t imagine you ever being at school,” mused Eric.
“Why, Arnie?” said Bad Katie. Arnie was her pet name for Eric, who she had indeed become to regard as something of a pet. “Because I’m so elegant, refined and sophisticated?”
“What?” said Eric incredulously. “Have you even met yourself? No, it’s just I’d expect you were expelled on the first day.”
“How very dare you, Arnie! I’ll have you know I was a model student, loved and admired by everyone. I was perfect!”
“You mean prefect?”
“That too. No, it was only when I got to Brit School that I turned a bit rogue. There were some bad influences there.”
“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, eh?”
“You have to be a chameleon to get on in this world, Arnie. Change and adapt to your circumstances, go with the flow, ride with the tide.”
“Very philosophical, ma’am. Not much flow at the moment though, I’m afraid.”
They ground to a halt in traffic. Bad Katie opened the window and gazed wistfully at the park opposite. Then her nose began to twitch involuntarily. She instinctively looked to one side and spotted a policeman walking along on the pavement. “Ooh,” she said to herself, and quickly fished out a plastic takeaway container from her bag. “Oi, copp… I mean, officer!” she called out.
The policeman checked the traffic was in no danger of moving, then approached her. “Everything okay, Madam?”
“Oh yes. I was hoping I’d catch one of you lot… I mean, one of you fine boys in blue. Here, I’ve baked you some chocolate chip muffins. Just a little thank you for the sterling service you provide!”
“Oh thank you, Madam. We aim to please. That’s most kind of you.”
Bad Katie winked at him. “You’re whelks. Keep the tub, I had an Indian last week. Reuse and recycle, that’s the way forward!”
“Indeed it is Madam. Thanks again!”
The policeman stuffed the container into his jacket pocket and went on his way. Eric looked suspiciously at Bad Katie in his rearview mirror. “Not like you ma’am, being nice to a copper.”
“Pay it forward, Arnie, pay it forward.”
“You didn’t offer me one. I’m partial to a nice choc chip muffin.”
“Not those ones,” said Bad Katie, grinning.
“How come?” asked Eric. “Oh god, you haven’t poisoned them have you?”
“Arnie! What do you think I am?”
“Well….”
“But I did use laxative chocolate for the chips. A whole bar in each muffin.”
“Ma’am, you are one *bad* lady!”
“Heh, heh.”

Mr. Stenkelbaum, the headmaster of the school, gripped his lapels officiously and gazed out over the top of his half-rimmed spectacles at the sea of young females before him. “Now then girls, we have a rare treat for you this morning. First lessons will be cut short because we have a special visitor, none other than one of our most illustrious alumna, Miss Katie Melua.”
There was a general low chorus which could either have been “ooh” or “who?”
“In a moment, Katie will perform a couple of her songs for you, but first I thought it would be nice if she could give you an inspirational overview of her career so far and some reflections on her time here at the school, so please give a warm welcome to our very own Katie Melua!”
One or two whoops and whistles from the back of the hall punctured the generally polite applause as Bad Katie strode on to the stage, grinning impishly. “Hi everyone!”
She was greeted with a with an overwhelming wave of indifference as hundreds of gormless faces tried to work out if they were better off listening to some random old woman rant on than missing a history lesson. But a tough audience never fazed Bad Katie.
“Thanks, Mr. Stenkelbaum, for letting me loose on your young ladies,” she said, winking at him. Then she faced the pupils. “Do you still call him Old Stinkybum?”
The hall erupted into laughter, apart from a rather unamused Mr. Stenkelbaum. Even the teachers standing along the sides of the hall were struggling to remain passive.
“In a minute, I’ll do a few songs for you. Before that, Stinky wanted me to talk about life as a successful musician. Well, I can tell you–it’s bloody brilliant! You don’t have to work, you get tons of money, and you even get your own slaves called roadies.”
There was a general murmur as the girls looked wide-eyed at each other and giggled, clearly liking the sound of this career choice.
“But you shouldn’t see it as a career choice,” said Bad Katie. “The thing is, it’s easy for me to look at you all and think I was once just one of you, but in truth I wasn’t. I was talented, intelligent and gorgeous. Some of you may be lucky enough to tick one of those boxes but my bet is most of you are none of those things.”
A general air of unease descended amongst the audience.
“Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re special. You’re not. You’re all bang average. Most of you will become mums and housewives and have an utterly tedious life bringing up your own sprogs. None of you will end up being me. You might as well get that through your tiny skulls now.”
A few bovine boos began to reverberate around the room. The teachers started fidgeting nervously.
“Now I’m sure there are lots of things you’d like in life. But you can’t have things just because you want them. I’m sure you’d all love to tie up Old Stinky and throw eggs at him. Life doesn’t work like that. You can’t sit around waiting for good things to come to you. If you want something, you have to make it happen!”
The teachers began applauding wildly. Their clapping had been a pre-arranged signal for her to begin her musical performance, but having just heard something vaguely positive they’d decided to quit while they were ahead before the mischievous Miss Melua could cause any more unrest amongst their minor madams.
Mr. Sidebottom, the music teacher, appeared from off stage and sheepishly handed Bad Katie her guitar.
“Oh,” said Bad Katie. “Well, I did have a few more pearls of wisdom to impart but maybe later, eh? Time for some music. And if you really do want a career in music then you should pay attention in Mr. Sidebottom’s classes, though to be honest he had sod all to do with my success.”
Mr. Sidebottom stared sombrely at his shoes.
“Anyway, in a moment, I’ll sing a few of my hits. They may have been from before some of you twiglets were born, but the cheques are still rolling in, heh-heh. But I want to begin with a special song I wrote on the way here today. It is called ‘Ode To Old Stinky’.”
Mr. Stenkelbaum put a palm over his face…

Bad Katie sat in her manager’s office with her feet up on his desk. She was surreptitiously trying to carve her initials with her heels.
“So, how was your trip to your old school?” said Sumit.
“Oh, you know, usual stuff, applause, adulation, sycophantic comments. Bit dull and uneventful to be honest.”
“Is that right? Well, I heard you caused something of an insurrection!”
“Uh? What are you on about?”
“A hundred girls tying up the headmaster and pelting him with eggs. Wherever would they get such an idea?”
Bad Katie threw her hands in the air. “Nothing to do with me. That was long after I’d left.”
“One of the girls said that Katie told them if they wanted to tie up the headmaster and throw eggs at him then they had to make it happen! So they did.”
“Well I can’t help it if my words get taken out of context.”
“Hmmm. Anyway, I’ll go and fetch the coffee. Do try to behave yourself, you’re not at St. Trinian’s now.” He got up out of his chair.
“Ooh,” said Bad Katie. “You’ve got a new seat cushion!”
“Yes. My daughters made it for my birthday.”
“Aw, sweet. What’s the green blob in the middle?”
“Oh, it’s meant to be a cactus. Their idea of a little joke.”
“An actual cactus might have been funnier,” said Bad Katie.
“Unlike you, they know where to draw the line!”
Bad Katie shrugged. Sumit headed off to the coffee machine. As soon as he left the room she fished a whoopee cushion out of her pocket, inflated it, and slipped it underneath his seat cushion. Then she sat back down and got her phone ready to video the action. “Heh, heh. The girls are gonna love this…”

“Here you go Z, I made you breakfast,” said Bad Katie, handing her brother a bowl of blueberries.
“Erm, they’re blueberries,” said Zurab.
“And? You love blueberries. Knock yourself out.”
“But, they’re just blueberries. Nothing else. No yogurt, no honey, no granola…”
“Do I look like a chef?” barked Bad Katie.
“Okay, okay.” He popped a handful of berries in his mouth and chewed sullenly for a moment. “They taste a bit funny.”
“They should be blueberry flavour.”
“They’re a bit… fragrant.”
“I expect that’s because of the washing.”
“Washing?”
“Yes, it says on the pack you should wash before serving. So I popped them in the washing machine on quick cycle.”
“Sis! They mean rinse them under the cold tap.”
“Sod that. There’s hundreds of the buggers, I’m not washing them individually.”
“You just tip them into a colander and rinse them.”
“Oh well, if you’re such a bloody expert you can cook your own breakfast next time.”
“Hardly cooking, is it?”
“Ungrateful little sod.”
Zurab nibbled a few more berries solemnly. “You used fabric conditioner, didn’t you.”
“What? I don’t know, don’t ask me technical stuff. I’m a superstar, not a maid. I just did what I’ve seen mum do. Cup of white powder, half cup of pink liquid. God knows why. Like cars–I know I have to put petrol in when it beeps at me but don’t ask me what it does with all that petrol.”
Zurab shook his head forlornly and put the bowl down.
Bad Katie rolled her eyes. “Oh come on then, grab your coat, let’s go get chicken dippers from Kensington Fried Chicken.”

“Look,” said Sumit. “I’m going to fetch the coffees. Promise me no pine cones, super glue or salt waiting for me when I return?”
Bad Katie held her hands up and smiled sweetly at him. “Nope, nothing like that at all.”
He looked at her suspiciously for a moment then left the room. Bad Katie took her feet off his desk and ran round to the other side if it. She quickly logged in to his laptop, having easily guessed his password, and had a quick fiddle around before returning to her chair, putting her feet up and checking her social media on her phone.
A few seconds later, Sumit returned. He sat down cautiously, half-expecting something unfortunate to happen, and almost seemed surprised when it didn’t. “So, things are quiet again at the moment?”
“Yup,” said Bad Katie. “Sod all happening. I’m bored shitless to be honest.”
“No musical projects tickling your taste buds then?”
“Well, I flirted with an idea for a musical…”
“Really?”
“Yeah, about a family of tap-dancing meerkats that find fame and fortune touring Europe. No one would take it seriously though.”
“Wonder why,” muttered Sumit.
“I had the plot outlined and the songs would have been a doddle but then I realised meerkats can’t actually sing and act and we’d struggle to find a bunch of tiny humans to play them instead.”
“They could have been normal humans playing giant meerkats,” suggested Sumit.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Bad Katie. “Giant meerkats indeed. Leave the creative stuff to the professionals, eh?”
“Oh. Right,” said Sumit. “Well anyway, if you are really bored, I did have an enquiry from the BBC asking if you’d like to guest on Saturday Kitchen.”
Bad Katie raised her eyebrows. “Really? Have they forgotten what happened last time?”
“Probably. That was a few years ago and they have different presenters and production crew now. Besides, they are desperate. Even Rick Astley turned them down.”
She folded her arms and gave him a stern look. “So why would I want to do it then?”
“Exposure? Gets your face on telly, chance to worm your way into the nation’s consciousness.”
“Nah, I’m already a national treasure.”
“Hmmm, well, they pay a lot more than they used to.”
“Book it.”
Sumit rolled his eyes. “Right. Let me just confirm the day for you.”
“Saturday?” suggested Bad Katie.
“Very droll,” said Sumit. “The date.”
He logged in to his laptop. “What the…”
Bad Katie suppressed a snigger.
“Katie, why is my computer wallpaper now a picture of Mike Batt in a mankini?”
“Is it really?” she said innocently. “Whatever floats your boat, Sumit…”

Bad Katie was in a taxi on her way to the television studio. The taxi stopped at some traffic lights that had just turned red. A moment later, a policeman on a bicycle rolled up alongside them. Bad Katie wound her window down.
“Morning, Miss,” said the policeman.
“I know,” said Bad Katie. She fished a little box of drawing pins from her coat pocket. “Ooh, what on earth is that in that tree?” she said, pointing upwards to the side of the road.
The policeman looked up, whilst Bad Katie dropped a handful of drawing pins around his bicycle tyres.
“Can’t see anything, miss,” said the policeman.
“Oh. Think it was a squirrel,” said Bad Katie, and smiled at him.
The lights changed to green and the taxi pulled away.
Bang! Bang!
“Heh, heh, heh,” chuckled Bad Katie.
“What have you got against policemen, ma’am?” asked Eric, the cab driver, who Bad Katie insisted on calling Arnie.
“Long story, Arnie. Long story.”
“We’ve got a good few minutes yet,” said Eric.
“Not now, Arnie. I’ve got to text a Georgian restaurant about a delivery…”

“So Katie,” said smarmy TV chef. “Is it true, I hear you once did a concert in the ocean?”
“About half my life ago, yes. Get with it, grandad.”
“You must have got pretty wet!”
“It was under the sea, not in it, caper nuts.”
Smarmy TV chef laughed nervously. “Did you sing sea shanties? Heh, heh.”
“No.”
“Oh. Right, well..”
Bad Katie picked up a fork and began tapping it impatiently on the glass table. “Where’s my breakfast, I’m *BLEEP* starving.”
“Er yes, just coming… Here we are Katie!”
Smarmy TV chef placed a plate in front of Bad Katie. “Tuck in Katie, and don’t hold back!”
He turned to face the camera. “So, I’ve made Katie braised donkey livers with charred baby shallot gravy, swede and turnip mash, feta crumbs, and a spinach, fennel and garlic puree.”
There was a retching noise behind him. He turned round in time to see Bad Katie spit a mouthful out on the floor. “You okay there?” he said, grinning awkwardly.
“That’s gross. Tastes like a tramp’s underpants.”
“Erm…”
Bad Katie beckoned to someone off camera. A delivery boy walked sheepishly up to her with a large, shallow box.
“You ordered pizza instead?” said smarmy TV chef.
“Not pizza, you melon ball. This is proper food. Khachapuri.” She opened the box, grabbed a slice of cheesy bread, and began munching furiously.
“Have to admit, that does look good…” said smarmy TV chef.
She gestured for him to try some.
“Oh my god. That is so good,” said smarmy TV chef.
“Innit though?” said Bad Katie.
“I almost forgot the wine!” said smarmy TV chef. “Our expert, Quentin, has chosen a cheeky Australian chardonnay with hints of bilberry and ginseng, and creamy overtones of macadamia nut.” He poured some into Bad Katie’s glass.
She looked at it suspiciously, then took a sip. She instantly pulled a face like a demented lizard. “Ugh. What’s this? Rat’s bile?”
“But… it’s supposed to be a bargain at only seventeen pounds a bottle from Waitrose,” said smarmy TV chef.
Bad Katie beckoned the delivery boy back. He returned with a dark bottle.
“This is proper wine,” she said, emptying her glass over the donkey liver. She filled her glass with the new wine and took a hearty glug of it. “Ah. That’s more like it. Kindzmarauli.”
“Didn’t know they made wine in Georgia,” said smarmy TV chef.
Bad Katie scoffed at him. “We invented the stuff, you blubbery oaf!” She poured him a glass.
He stuck his nose into the glass and inhaled deeply.
“It’s for drinking, not sniffing,” said Bad Katie.
He took a sip. And then a mouthful. He looked at her quizzically. “Actually, this is rather good.”
Bad Katie rolled her eyes. “Of course it is, you f…”
“and sadly that’s all we have time for this week!” said smarmy TV chef. “Big thank-you to our studio guest, Katie Melua. See you next week, bye!”
Smarmy TV chef drained his glass in one go and turned to the delivery boy. “You brought any more of this?”

“Well Katie,” sighed Sumit. “I think you may have got yourself on the BBC’s blacklist again.”
“Isn’t that racist?” said Bad Katie. “Anyway, it’s their loss. Serves them right. It’s supposed to be a food show. Mule kidneys, or whatever dross they tried to serve me–that isn’t food. Good thing I had the foresight to order my own or I’d have starved.”
“Hardly,” said Sumit. “What about the stuff in your dressing room you asked for in your rider? Monster Munch, Wotsits, Crunchies, Curly-Wurlys, Jaffa Cakes and a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts?”
“Got to have snacks. You can be in those places for hours, waiting around, people fussing over your face and so on.”
“Yes, well, you know Offcom have already received complaints, mostly about you telling the host what to do with that courgette.”
“Oh, he asked for it. I’m sick of people asking me to change the lyrics to Nine Million Bicycles because they think it’s wrong. I mean, who has ever actually gone round counting them anyway? And it wasn’t even my song. Ignorant bunch of wallaby-worriers.”
“Still,” said Sumit. “On the bright side, at least you’re trending on social media and you’ve already got two albums back in the top twenty sales on Amazon.”
“Whatever. Anyway, do I get a coffee or what? I’m parched.”
Sumit gazed at her wearily. “Very well, but no tricks this time, okay?”
“Why do you always think the worst of me?” said Bad Katie.
“Because I know you,” said Sumit. He left the room to fetch the coffees.
Bad Katie grinned. She got up and loosened the height adjuster on Sumit’s chair. Then she sat back down and put her feet up on his desk and began checking her phone. “Oh I do love being me,” she muttered to herself.

Bad Katie’s manager returned to his office with two cups of coffee and warily put them down. He looked around nervously, trying to assess if everything was just as he left it. Bad Katie was watching him with a bemused expression, her arms folded, her feet planted on his desk as usual.
“Something wrong, Sumit?” she asked innocently.
“There’s always something wrong when you’re around,” he jibed.
“How hurtful! After all I’ve done for you!”
“After all you’ve done to me, you mean.”
Satisfied he seemed to be in the clear, he sat down and rubbed his hands purposefully. “Right young lady, what’s the latest from Katieland? I see you’ve booked some studio time next week. What’s cooking?”
“Oh, just a little lockdown side project. I’m recording an album called ‘Katie Covers Bob Unplugged’. Should be able to whack it out in a couple of days, with my talent.”
“Who the hell is Bob Unplugged?”
Bad Katie rolled her eyes. “Dylan, you elongated nugget.”
“Oh. Well, maybe on the album cover you should put ‘unplugged’ lower down, as a strap line.”
“Ah yes, I’ve thought about that. I’m going to recreate his ‘Infidels’ cover. It’ll be me, but with dark sunglasses and a false moustache and beard. See if anyone notices.”
Sumit looked dubious. “I’m sure having ‘Katie Melua’ in big letters across the top will give people a clue. They’ll probably just think you’ve let yourself go a bit.”
“Bloody cheek. I’m a master of disguise, you know. I nailed Charlie Chaplin for the Mary Pickford video. And you should see my Winehouse.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Your loss.”
“I’ll live.”
Bad Katie shrugged, then necked her coffee before getting out of her chair and having a good stretch. “Well, my stomach is asking questions my mouth is struggling to answer. I think a Grand Big Mac with fries, onion rings and chocolate shake should keep it quiet for a bit.”
Sumit groaned. He opened his desk drawer and looked miserably at his soggy egg and cress sandwich wrapped in cling film. “Sod it,” he said. “I think I’ll join you!”
He tried to get up from his chair, but couldn’t move. “What the…”
Bad Katie put her hand in her pocket and tapped the little bottle of superglue appreciatively as she fought to suppress a guffaw behind her mask of fake concern.
“What’s the matter Sumit, you getting old?”
Sumit pushed against the chair arms with all his might and sprung to his feet, accompanied by a mighty ripping sound. He turned round to find a big circular patch of his trousers had decided to remain on his chair.
“Oops!” giggled Bad Katie.
“KATIEEEE!!!!!”

Sumit decided to pop into the studios to see how the recording was going. “Hi Katie, just thought I’d drop by and see how you were getting on with the new tracks.”
“Smashing it, as usual. Only a couple more to go.”
“Wow, that’s great. Erm, should I even ask why there’s a man on the floor and you are standing on his chest?”
“A man?” said Bad Katie. “Oh, you mean the roadie. Well, thing is, the microphone was set too high for me, left like that by whatever selfish beanpole was in here last.”
“So, er, why didn’t you just lower it?”
“Couldn’t be arsed, to be honest. Besides, it is probably covered in manky germs. And my roadie kindly offered to help.”
“I suspect he probably meant to lower the mike for you, not to be a human platform.”
Bad Katie shrugged. “Whatever. Sure he doesn’t mind.”
Sumit looked down at the poor roadie, who gazed back at him through soul-less eyes. “Are you all right mate?”
“Yeah, great,” wheezed the roadie, through gritted teeth.
“See?” said Bad Katie. “He’s loving it really. Gets to admire me all day.”
“Please tell me you haven’t been standing on him all day,” said Sumit.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bad Katie. “We had a half hour break for lunch.”
“Katie, you can’t treat roadies like furniture. They have rights you know. You may find the roadie community blackballs you.”
Bad Katie chuckled. “Actually, I made a fairly similar threat to him, which is why he isn’t complaining.”
“To be fair, mister,” strained the roadie. “She does pay me well.”
Sumit looked at Bad Katie with surprise. “Do you?”
She winked at him, and whispered “Course not. I just told him that. He hasn’t got the wit to check.”
Sumit rolled his eyes, then lowered her microphone six inches. “There you go mate, now you can have the rest of the day off.”
Bad Katie stepped off the hapless roadie and glared at Sumit. “Honestly Sumit, you have no sense of fun!”
Sumit looked down at the roadie. “Go on mate, scarper before she finds another use for you.”
The guy looked at him helplessly. “I don’t think I can move!”
Sumit grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet.
The roadie rubbed his back, wincing. He looked nervously at Bad Katie. “Same time tomorrow, Miss?”
“Of course!” said Bad Katie. “I’m sure I’ll find something to do to you.”
She caught Sumit’s questioning eye. “I mean, for you to do.”
“Very good, Miss,” said the roadie, and he trudged slowly away.
Bad Katie grinned. “I love being me.”

Nora the makeup artist made the last few delicate dabs to Bad Katie’s face, then took a step back to admire her handiwork. “Wow. That’s bloody impressive, if I do say so myself.”
“Well,” said Bad Katie, “the beard and moustache are spot on, and the shaggy wig looks the part, but the eyes give it away. There’s no hiding my stunning golden jewels. Not remotely like Bob’s squinty, world-weary pigeon eyes.”
“Oh, of course they’ll be hidden, silly, you’re forgetting the glasses!”
Nora fished a pair of completely black sunglasses out of her pocket and delicately applied them to Bad Katie’s face.
“Yesssss!!!” squealed Bad Katie as she stared in wonder at the mirror and saw Bob Dylan staring back at her. “Awesome!”
“Am I good or am I good?” bragged Nora.
“Okay Nor, don’t get too up yourself. The nose is passable but not a hundred per cent. Keep working on your game.”
“Oh,” said Nora, slightly deflated. “Well, it’s good enough for your photo shoot anyway.”
“What photo shoot?” said Bad Katie.
“For the album cover. I thought that’s why you wanted this makeover?”
“Yes, yes, it is. But I’m not forking out for some pretentious wally with an overpriced camera just for an album cover. I’m going to take a pic myself, in the mirror.”
“I could take it for you,” said Nora enthusiastically. She grabbed her phone eagerly.
“Don’t be a lumbering heifer,” said Bad Katie. “It has to be done with style, flair, panache, skill, perception and spatial awareness. There’s only one of us possesses all those attributes and it ain’t you babe.”
“Oh,” said Nora.
There was a tap at the door. Sumit entered. “Hi Nora. Oh, hi Bob, didn’t know you were in town! Don’t suppose either of you have seen Katie have you? I was told she was around here somewhere.”
“Er, no man,” growled Bad Dylan in a raspy voice. “like, who’s this Kady lady anyway, man?”
Nora sniggered.
“You okay Bob? Sounds like you’ve got a cold or something,” said Sumit.
“Yeah man, I’ve got like a cold… something. Bummer, ain’t it?” said Bad Dylan.
“British climate for you! Get some vitamin C and you’ll be good as new in a day or two. Right, I need to find Katie.”
Bad Dylan guffawed and took off her sunglasses. “I’m here, you dithering numpty!”
“Oh my god!” said Sumit. “Nora, you’re a genius! How have you done that?”
Nora smirked at Bad Katie.
Bad Katie stuck her tongue out at her. “Actually, I think you’ll find it is my vocal talents that sealed the deal.”

“Hats off to you, Katie, you’ve done it again!”, said Sumit. “Another top ten album.”
“What can I say?” said Bad Katie. “You’ve either got it or you haven’t. And I’m dripping in it.”
“Yes, well, a little modesty wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Modesty schmodesty. I’m not going to apologise for being awesome.”
Sumit looked at the CD on his desk. “Katie Covers Bob, Unplugged. It really is brilliant work, young lady.”
“I know.”
“Just a pity Dylan is suing us for copying his album cover.”
“Oh, he’s dropping that,” said Bad Katie.
“Really? How come?”
“I phoned him yesterday and cut a deal.”
“Deal? What deal?”
“I’m sending Nora over to work her magic again. He’s going to appear as me on his next album cover.”
“Sweet merry Jesus in a jumpsuit,” said Sumit. “That I have to see.”
Bad Katie chuckled. “Innit?”
“Okay, I’m going to fetch the coffees. Please sit there quietly like a good girl!”
She gave him her best ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ smile.
He scowled at her and left the room. Bad Katie jumped out of her seat and sprang into action. Moments later she had carefully taped a stink bomb underneath one of the castors of his chair. She sat back down and rubbed her hands gleefully. “Heh, heh, heh….”

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