"Sleep is for economists”, he joked. Latenight traffic was still streaming as Bono slipped away from his minders, beckoning me to follow. I wasn’t sure what he was up to but tagged along as he strode out into the middle of the road, holding up a hand to dramatically halt an oncoming car.
Had I been on my own, I’d have undoubtedly been run over by an irate motorist and left for dead in a Roman thoroughfare. But Bono brought the traffic to a complete standstill. The driver of the car in front of us was practically squealing with delight as a rock star leaned in his window, cheerfully inquiring if he knew anywhere around here we could get a drink. I was then that I noticed the car was full of transsexuals. Before Bono ‘s minders had worked out what was going on, we were squeezing into the back seat to perch on the knees of some hairy Italian ladyboys. Which is how come at four in the morning we were seated at a small table in a packed nightclub between beautiful people of indeterminate gender, drinking complimentary champagne while a scantily clad babe tried to attract Bono’s attention by dancing on the table. “Remind me what’s this rock-star thing all about?” Bono mused, puffing on a giant cigar. “Ah yes. Screaming girls. Fashionable clothes. People playing guitars. Got it!”
And I thought, “Rock stardom couldn’t have happened to a nicer and, frankly, more deserving guy. He’s certainly put it to a lot better use than I ever would have.”
I think that pic is in there actually....
