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Rihanna getting mad after a sound problem while performing in London

Rihanna 777 tour plane late fees 'have cost almost £200,000'
Rihanna has accumulated a bill of almost £200,000 ($318,363) in late takeoff fees for her 777 tour plane, it has been claimed. The singer - whose new album Unapologetic is due out today (Monday, November 19) - has been flying fans and reporters around the world on a specially-chartered plane, and is visiting seven countries in the space of seven days for gigs and public appearances.

"Rihanna delays going on stage, which throws out the whole schedule," an insider is quoted as telling The Sun. "It's a reaction to the fact that every second of her time is accounted for by organisers. She likes to be in control. "Her team have been making frantic calls throughout the night to the airports. Every hour that goes by she has to pay for flight clearance on runways, and also incurs costs of the private airport teams, customs, baggage handlers and security. The tour will end up costing her a fortune." [READ MORE]

‘Rihanna Is Keeping Us From Sleeping or Eating or Going Outside or Using a Bathroom’: an Anonymous Rihanna Plane Captive Speaks Out
Here's the thing: on the surface, it sounded like so much fun.
Seven glamorous cities (or, okay — six and Toronto) enjoying a private plane, intimate performances, free hotels and star-studded after parties with Rihanna.

Even if you're not the biggest fan of her or even of pop music, it doesn't sound so bad. Some of us bragged on Facebook and Twitter. Our friends asked: would there be WEEEEEEED on the plane? Would Chris Brown show up? Are you going to try to have SEX with her?

And we were like, Totally, guys. Totally. I'd be lying if I say I wasn't doing a whole lot of hubristic "U MAD?"-ing to blogger friends and people who made fun of my teeth in high school.

And at first, it all seemed like it was going to go so well. She "interacted" with us on the first day, sloppily pouring champagne into our outstretched plastic tumblers, demanding that we spend the week "partying" with her, and even challenging a sexy young English journalist to a "Zoolander"-style plane aisle walk-off.

Maybe, MAYBE I idly entertained thoughts of Rihanna and me, walking arm and arm into one of those cheap nail salons. We'd wear huge-logo sunglasses and read about her in foot-bath-splashed US magazines, still so giddy from brunch that I tell that dude-with-the-funny-balls-story that even the nail technicians laugh softly while gently removing her previous Swarovski gel pedi.

But after that first, coruscating appearance, Rihanna was gone. And I do mean gone.

I hesitate to say that she looked visibly drunk or generally "on some of the hard shit" during her performances, so let me just say that we came to expect a three hour delay before she went on every night.

She barely does any of her own singing, which isn't a huge pearl-clutcher, but at least Britney danced a little. For Rihanna, just licking her lips during a song constitutes a taxing, elaborate physical routine that deserves a couple of mid-performance tequila shots.

The fans who won seats on the plane from radio and Internet promotions went from feeling a little disappointed that they hadn't seen more of the main attraction to wondering miserably when they'd be able to sleep or go home. That is not something you're supposed to feel when you win a fabulous contest, probably.

The journalists agonized vocally and collectively about how to post anything resembling newsworthy on a daily basis. What do you file when you are rarely allowed outside of buses or planes or hotel "day stays" (read: naps, for those who can take them) except to see some visibly bored Barbadian wearing a t-shirt as a dress doing robotic, indifferent karaoke?

The shows are hilariously rote. "What the fuck is up, Mexico City?" "What the fuck is up, Toronto?" "What the fuck is up, Paris?" "What the fuck is up, [Insert Epcot Center City Here]?" followed by a tight sixty minutes of lip synching and lethargic thigh-slapping.

At least Johnny Cash did his own singing, and when he was too drunk to do that, occasionally collapsed into the footlights to give everybody a little thrill.

The parts we love the best are when she "ad libs," gives a "special fan" an HTC phone (hahahahhahahahah), or pretends like she "just heard" someone request "What's My Name?", which she somehow sings while holding the mic at her crotch, air-chewing invisible Big League Chew and staring into the wings.

Please don't misunderstand: we were mostly all VERY excited to be a part of this. But this was work for a lot of us, and one person was basically responsible for not only regularly keeping us from doing our jobs, but from sleeping or eating or going outside or even using a bathroom. [READ MORE]

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