Sadly it was not the Westlife boys who treated me to an aromatherapy massage, but a lovely woman at York College.
Sorry to disappoint all those who read the title and thought they were going to get a saucy, tell-all account of my wild nights with erm... Kian and Shane, or is it Seamus?
No, Westlife's Love Album was purely the accompanying music playing in the background whilst my knotted shoulders were smoothed out and my stresses were lost in the sweet scents of Jasmine, Cypress and Grapefruit.
Now, I'm not one for manicures and pedicures and facials and thermo-lasing line shrinking treatments of whatever they're called, but I was really looking forward to my aromatherapy massage. A whole hour and a half of doing absolutely nothing but turning over once was very, very appealing.
The sidelights were on, the music was playing - it really was a lovely atmosphere. Then Westlife started on the CD player. The Love Album - thirteen covers of famous love songs (thirteen tracks - a great number for a love album!) every one carefully re-arranged to fit in with the Westlife image.
Just relax and tune it out, I thought to myself, focus on the sent of the oil, or the hypnotic motion of the massage movements, or the polystyrene ceiling tiles. And it was working - until Love Can Build a Bridge came on.
That Westlife image I mentioned is like a formula: they start off sitting on stools or stood moodily behind microphones, sing a couple of verses and a chorus then there's a short instrumental break and it's the big dramatic key change where they all stand up or take their microphones off the stands and belt out the chorus. All the fans start screaming and cheering - you get the idea.
Don't get me wrong, it's clearly a formula that works for them, their record sales and sell out concerts speak for themselves. But I'm not a fan and lying there on the couch trying to unwind I felt all my previously relaxed muscles starting to tense up and my fists starting to clench as that ultra-cheesy moment approached.
And it wasn't just in one song, oh no, they managed to get that big old key change in pretty much every song on the album, the wave-like rhythm of the music made me feel nauseous.
However, I struggled on and found the strength to get through the last half hour without vomiting all over the therapist's lovely white uniform, which would have been a bit of a social faux pas. The woman giving the treatment was just finishing her training but, apart from being in a large hospital-ward style salon, you'd have thought she'd doing this for years.
Despite the best efforts of Westlife to thwart my attempt at pampering I am pleased to say they failed completely. When she was finished it took every ounce of mental strength I had to will myself to move my limbs off the couch. The prospect of driving home was akin to the feeling of having to climb Everest. Not that I've ever tried to climb Everest of course, but I have walked up a big hill in the snow (all two inches of it) so I get the rough idea.
I was then taken through all the possible after effects like headaches and feeling nauseous - maybe Westlife weren't to blame after all - and given an aftercare sheet with all the information I needed in case, for some reason, it all went horribly wrong. To be honest I could have been told that the sky was purple and cats were now the supreme race in the world and I'd have said ok! That's how relaxed I felt.
I got in the car (more threw myself in really) took a moment' to compose myself and put some Meatloaf on the stereo - loud. Now that's bliss!
- by Sara Hawthorn
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