White Honky Afro

Adam Clayton isn’t happy. I don’t need all this again, he thinks.
“I vant we go disco,” Bono repeats in his camp Teutonic voice.
Clayton hadn’t enjoyed U2’s ‘irony years’, not one bit. He looks around at the rest of the band who deny him eye contact. I’m alone, he thinks, there’s no chance unless I can win them over.
“I vant we go disco.”
“But we’ve done that already, we can’t look back, we should be moving forwards,” Clayton tries to reason.
“I vant…”
“Yeah, yeah I hear you,” Clayton interrupts, “guys, anyone else not feeling this?” Edge and Larry both look at their laps. “C’mon guys, help me out here a bit.”
“I VANT WE GO DISCO,” Bono yells, a broad grin spreading across his face. If only I could see his eyes, Clayton thinks, then I’d know if this is just a wind up. He knows better than to take anything at face value any more, especially after the whole Macphisto debacle.
Bono scrambles up onto the boardroom table with the aid of his P.A. “I VANT WE GO DISCO,” he yells, stamping his feet.
“No,” Clayton says, a wave of braveness rushing through him, “NO, I vant we don’t go disco.” For a moment it feels as if all the sound has been sucked out of the room. Bono fixes Clayton with a stare. “I’m not backing down on this,” Clayton states, “I’ve done everything for this band. Who was it that everyone used to call ‘White Honky Afro’? It wasn’t you was it, no it was me.” He’s on a roll now and can feel years of petty annoyances rising to the surface. “I’ve taken my punishments, when you demanded I wear the same pair of trousers for the whole of The Joshua Tree tour I didn’t say a word, I just did it. Jesus, I even got engaged to Naomi Campbell as penance for that drug bust. I’ve given this band everything.”
“I vant we go disco. I vant we go disco. I vant we go disco,” Bono chants.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I vant we go…”
“Bono,” Clayton pleads.
“Paul, please…” Clayton immediately covers his mouth, but it’s too late. Edge and Larry both look up at him with shocked faces. Outside the world falls silent. Bono lowers his glasses and points to the door.
“I’m sorry, I got carried away,” Clayton pleads. Bono’s P.A. rushes across the room and opens the door. “It won’t happen again, I vant disco too,” Clayton feebly attempts. Bono’s finger remains pointing doorwards.
Adam Clayton knows it’s all over and with shoulders hunched walks out of the boardroom door for the last time.

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