She stole our hearts flying above the crowd at the Olympics opening ceremony. Now Nikki Webster is trying life as a poppet pop star. By Claire Halliday.
Sunday. 1.15pm. At Highpoint Shopping Centre in the midst of Melbourne’s suburban sprawl, I’m due to meet Nikki Webster for an interview in the middle of her publicity tour. But she’s proving hard to pin down. “Nikki’s just backstage getting ready,” says Nicole Hart, the publicity manager from Nikki’s record company. She’s going to ask Nikki if I can come back and say hello. She disappears.
Pre-pubescent girls line the cattle-pen-like barricades designed to keep them in orderly control. A security guard says they’ve been here since before 11am. Little girls with freckles, floppy fringes, pink polar fleece and Spice Girls T-shirts.
Ross Dicesare and Sophie Gatward from radio station Fox-FM take the stage to hype the throng into a pre-Nikki giggle-fest.
By way of proving Nikki’s apparently meteoric rise, the Fox crew tell the gathering about the recent Jeans for Genes fundraising day (for the Children’s Medical Research Foundation) where a pair of her jeans, painted by artist David Boyd, sold for $22,500. In company with Jennifer Aniston and Kylie Minogue, Nikki’s pants fetched the highest bid. The fans scream out that they know purple is her favourite colour and that water is her favourite drink. Some seem disappointed by the announcement that Nikki will only be signing album covers and that the posters they’re clutching in Chupa Chup sticky palms (Nikki’s favourite flavours are cherry and pineapple) may not get a look-in.
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