glasschild

A lovely little tale told by a wonderful man who goes by the name Pat Orchard.Pat shared the bill with us on our tour of spain in 2000.

 

I'm back! From the Spanish Tour…or 'Spainal Tapas' as I nicknamed it!
I arrived at Madrid very late after a delayed flight from Luton (always Lut-on the flight side of life ....Monty Python copyright).
Having missed my contact I had to spend the entire tour support on a Taxi(dermist) who stuffed his wallet full of my pasetas after
dropping me of at the Hostel 'Nino' . It looked very seedy, the sort of hostel (short for hostage) where they steal your towels.
No sooner had he driven away I realised that my arrival in this back street had been noticed, and I was being eyed by a very
unsavoury person who had melted out of a nearby bar. He was soon followed by others who stared at me whilst smoking and
clutching bottles of San Miguel, (great I thought I'm about to be bottled by a saint). Finally a girl lurched towards me and spoke
to me in gobbaldy gook. "I don't speak Spanish" I said in English.. She continued babbling and grabbed my hand and pulled me into
the bar, her male companions lit more cigarettes, drained their patron saints of blood and followed me into the bar to murder me,
or so I assumed. What sounded like a threat from from Walt Disney's cartoon cat Sylvester was in fact an invite to have a beer.

Beer.

"Cerveza?" (pronounced 'thervaytha') someone asked. Why is the word beer virtually the same in every language except Spanish?
This was indeed a worrying omen for I can usually survive any tour by knowing a few vital words, namely: beer, toilets, ciggies,
beer and 'how old is your sister'

Anyway it was soon obvious even to the paranoid Pat Orchard that these were not Spanish fiends but Spanish friends and I soon
relaxed in their company and enjoyed the feeling of those saintly Miguels slipping down my throat.
They continued to talk to me and I smiled and said 'no compissto', which was a lie for I was now quite pissed o.
However, I eventually started to pick up the lingo, and started to recognise certain words such as 'sound' which they constantly said.
Then followed other word such as 'Hun' (I thought they might have thought that I was German), topba and sorted.
Then the pesata dropped - these were not Spanish people they were ….Liverpuddlians! And that meant they must be the band I was sharing the bill with!

From Liverpool, ladies and gentlemen allow me to introduce the band Glasschild
My ear became accustomed to their dialect which meant that I realised that Cath (Glasschild singer)
finished every sentence with 'Hun' (honey) and that 'sound' meant great. 'Topba' was -Top Bar! And 'sorted' was sorted, well sort of.
At five in the morning last orders were called, don't you just love the Spanish licensing laws, and we crawled back to the Hostel Nino.

Next day around about midday we met outside the Hostel Nino (so named due to the sound of police cars screaming by all night - ni-no, ni-no, ni-no).
We went in such of food, but found only McDonalds, where Cath immediately went into my top ten great 'rock chicks' by being sick right in the middle of the restaurant…it was a portent of things to come. I was indeed in the presence of a great rock band.

Now there are a great many stories to be told from this Spainal Tapas Tour and I shall indeed tell all….but not just yet. For there may be some legal problems in the following weeks and I do not want to jeopardise the verdict….but if the guilty party is reading this, and FRANKly I hope he is, you have a limited amount of time to do the honourable thing!...or else. (The net is a powerful tool in the right hands).

So why have I started this journal and left you in the 'what happened next' mode?...... Well I really want you to check out Glasschild the music and people :

Cath, singer and rock 'n' roll girl of the year.
Ste, songwriter par excellence and cool dude,
Stem, guitarist supreme and the only guitar god who smashed his guitars before playing the gigs.
Mark, bass player, chaotic copper offer..nice!
and last but no way least
Neil, drums (batterie included) and owner of the most infectious laugh I have heard...good work fella.

CHAPTER 2.
I woke up this morning.

Let me tell you something.
Who ever penned the immortal line 'I woke up this morning (Duh Da Da Da Duh)' was NEVER a musician.
If a musician had been responsible for, what is perhaps the most famous, and oft used, cliches of lyricism,
then most blues songs would start more like this,
'I woke up this afternoon
it has to be said
I signed on the dole
then I went back to bed'.

I managed to get some sleep between Spanish closing time and the morning kick-out from el-Nino, but I could have done with more.
No wonder they have the siesta break, you really do need it! If there one thing vital for touring then it is ear-plugs.
I always travel with about 10 or more sets. In case I should be split up from any of my personal belongings
I have them secluded every where; in my coat pockets, my wash bag, my guitar case, my flight case to name some.
So my little yellow foam friends made sure that the ni-no, ni-no of the police cars did not disturb me.
I've used them for years, and although when I first wore them I found them a bit weird, the same way that I have
never got on with wearing sunglasses 'cos I'm forever lifting them up to see what the real unshielded world looks like.
Come to think of it the reason why I never used personal stereos was because I needed aural contact with the real world,
I always imagined when I did use them that there was someone shouting
"Oh my GOD! A runaway truck! Lookout! Lookout! You with the long-hair"
I would of course remove the headphones to hear the final words I would hear
"OH! No. I can't look!"
Anyway I digress; needless to say I managed to get some deep sleep, complete with R.E.M.

So, true to form the tour proper started with both Glasschild and myself tumbling out beneath the beautiful blue Spanish Skies in the afternoon.
As mentioned Cath had already had a technicolor yawn in the middle of Macdonald's ('something I ate' she said; although to me it looked like everything),
and while they were getting packed I sat in the sun outside Nino reading my book.
I was only halfway through page one when I was interrupted by the arrival of a very nice black BMW. This young looking Spanish man got out and pointed an accusing finger at me - it was swollen and still had stitches down its length,

"Kneel!" he demanded.

I began to panic, and in my head I could hear dueling banjos playing. I was not sure how to respond to this person so I stood up to my full height, and then for an added safety measure I grew an extra two inches, and said nothing - but at least it was a tall nothing. He seemed not to care but raising his right hand said,

"Wank!"

Now I many friends of different gender orientation. From these there are a few who would love to go to Madrid, or any other city come to that, and be welcomed by such propositions from a dark and good looking man. But I certainly didn't. I have tried most things in my life; I have even eaten a curried PotNoodle, but having a man interfere with me in broad daylight on a Madrid street was a bridge to far. For a start we hardly knew each other! Time to stop this charade,

"What do you want" I said.

"Me wank, you kneel" he replied, and then carried on "ass wild!".

Christ, now he seemed to think that flattery would get him somewhere. I was very close to running when finally he blurted out,

"You, ass wild kneel, me wank in car or van".

The peseta finally dropped!
"Oh hello" I said. "No I'm not Neil from Glasschild, he's indoors. You must be Frank from the Caravana (de la Musica). I'm Pat Orchard".

"Oh! Crap. Crap Orchard" he said. "Sorry crap but we have a problemo".

"Oh!, a problem oh?" I replied.

I had noticed that Franks eyes were being drawn away from my eyes.
I turned around a couple of times but could not see what was distractimg him.
The peseta finally dropped!
Ear-plugs!
They were still nestled snuggly in their holes.
I removed them and the sound of Madrid hit me full-force like an express train -
the sound of police cars, people, traffic and Frank, who was speaking in perfect English

"Sorry Pat but we have a problem. I need you to drive the tour bus to Zaragoza. Would that be Ok?"

"Yes" I foolishly said. For, from such a small word, I had destined myself to be sole driver of the anti-Christ.

For the next 4000kms.

Ladies and gentleman, in the Spanish corner, allow me to introduce our promoter- the one and only, Frank!

A Pair of Ear Plugs
(I found the only way to get the ones with the string to work was to push a pencil
through one ear and out the otheryou can then push it through the whole in your brain.)

 

CHAPTER 3.
HOW MANY LIGHT BULBS DOES IT TAKE TO CHANGE A MUSICIAN?

"Rock and Roll" I shouted.
And we hit the road.
Foot hard down on the pedal and a top speed of 80km/hr.

As I drove the anti-Christ through Madrid I could hear Glasschild sorting out what was to become their home for the next three weeks.
I settled in to the driving seat and edged the bus on to the motorway on route to Zaragoza and our first gig.
Zaragoza is pronounced ' Tharwagowtha'. Its as though the whole of Spain had has its cities royally opened by Jonathan Ross.
In fact the Spanish language was indeed corrupted by an old royal family whose king had the most outrageous lisp.
The courtiers were all to frightened to mention this and rather then correct the king would actually copy his pronunciation,
thereby from that moment on cursing all bar staff in Spain to be showered with spittle by foreigners trying to say beer (Cerveza -'thervaytha').
This is the historical fact that inspired the famous "Weleese Bwyan!" scene in the Monty Pythons 'The Life Of Brian' film.
I know you don't believe me so check it out for yourself.

Anyway where was I?
Oh yes.
Our first gig. A venue called Morrisseys. I hoped it was going to be more fun then the whinging singer from The Smiths.
They were a great band, no doubt about it, but Morrissey was a miserable sod wasn't he. I remember the album Meat Is Murder
and thinking how ironic that a band should consume mile upon mile of recording tape, whose main ingredient for the gelatine base
is a product from cow bones, and then come out with a pro-vegetarian statement such as Meat Is Murder.
Well sorry to tell you this Stephen but too most of us Meat Means Two Veg. If God hadn't intended us to eat animals he would not
have made them from meat in the first place. No, he would have made them from shaped pieces of Tofu, thereby making sure that
hardly anyone would want to eat them at all. Now don't get me wrong, I really care about the treatment of animals and would gladly pay much, much more if it meant that there living conditions were good and their slaughter as humane as possible. But I cant be a hypocrite about this.

I eat meat.

End of story.

Well not quite. The end of story is this: after I have typed this Tapas entry, I have to go to Tesco on an errand.
You see, even though I have a fridge and larder full of food, it is useless for my guests tonight.
The reason? They are vegans! Have you ever attempted to cook for vegans?
Basically you buy food, throw it away and boil up the packaging it came with! Anyway, they are real good friends so
I intend to make a very special salad. Its unique ingredient? The leaves from the Venus Flytrap plant. Let's see how they deal with that.
A vegetable that eats meat!

A Typical Vegan

Anyway I digress.
Where was I?
Oh yes.
Here I am driving down the Motorway to the gig. I decide to check out the dashboard.
First I require to flick the ash of my ciggy so I pull open the ashtray and it comes away in my hands and falls to the floor broken.
I try turning the radio on but the switch snaps of and falls to the floor where it snuggles up to the ashtray.
The last light is fading and noticing that more of the passing traffic have turned their headlights on I decide to do the same.
Except the switch I push carries on through its channel and with a cracking sound disintegrates and falls through the back of the
dash on its way to rendezvous with the ashtray and radio knob. Just as I start to get paranoid that these wayward bits of plastic are
ganging up on me I notice that ahead Frank is pulling off the Motorway into a service station.

"You'd better put your headlights on Pat" he suggests.

I tell him that I thought they were and we both come to the conclusion that something's broken (what's new eh?). While I'm outside he pulls on the lever to release the engine hood then he joins me and together we stare at a mass of oil and dirt, in other words the huge old Fiat Diesel engine. We both stand there in a concentrated knowledgeable silence, which is what men always do when confronted with something that they are supposed to know about, but actually know sod all about. Bravely I suggest changing the bulbs and on so doing hey presto! they work - but only on full beam.

"That will do" says Frank

"Rock and Roll" said I.

And we are back on the road.

"I can't see with your lights blinding me" complains Frank.

Its only 20k since we left the aforementioned service station and we've had to pull of again. I was glad about this though 'cos I was being flashed by drivers coming the opposite way who were also getting blinded by my lights! So I suggest the second most important, (after earplugs that is) item you should have on tour. Gaffa tape. So we cover the headlight lens with the tape and it cuts ninety percent of the light down, there's not enough for me to drive safely by but I will follow Franks trailer lights.

"That will do" says Frank

"Rock and Roll" said I.

And we are back on the road.

Four hours later Zaragoza appears and on finding Morrisseys we pile into the bar.

"Thervaytha?" ponders Ste ."Yeth-I-fink-I'll-hav-a-thervaytha-ta" he says, and the barman reaches for a towel to dry himself down.

So I watch the band getting their gear set up. And I feel a loss for days when I too was a rock and roller with Veni Vidi Vici. But there are some advantages in being a solo player. For a start you get to keep all the money! But it has its draw backs. For instance every one expects me to play John Denver's 'Annie's Song'. They think I'm an old folkie, but I'm not…..am I?
Don't sound checks take for ever?
So while I'm waiting I decide to get back to my book.


I'm halfway through page two when Frank beckons his finger at me. Its even more swollen then before and it looks very infected.

"Pat we have a problem with the light", and carries on "this time it is the one in the tour bus"

"Maybe the fuses?" I offer.

So its outdoors into the darkness with a torch in hand. I shout
"I'm going in" as Frank opens the bonnet. Click, click, click goes the torch but nothing, nothing, nothing is the response.

"Maybe the bulb" says Frank.

So I change the bulb and the torch works and finally I locate the main fuse which I change and hey presto! as quick as a cliché - nothing. The anti-Christ interior is still in darkness.

"Maybe it was just the bulb ", says Frank.
So I change that bulb and finally there was light, although its glowing real weird, not quite as bright as a candle.
"That will do" says Frank
"Rock and Roll" said I.


And its back to the venue where Glasschild are still sound checking.

"That will do" says Frank

"Rock and Roll" said I. And glasschild troop of to the bar to give the staff another free spittle shower.
I take to the stage for my sound check but were running very late, (the audience are actually waiting inside the venues bar). I only get to tune the first string when;

"That will do" says Frank

"Rock and Roll" said I.

A Tour Bus


The Anti-Christ

CHAPTER 4.
Our souls need music

What would you do if a really, really good friend gave you a demo tape of a song they had written and it was absolute crap?
Tricky eh? Why I've bought this up is because I am about to watch Glasschild perform for the first time and I am hoping that they will do the business.
Not to say my opinion means much in this world but I have been on tours before with bands and musicians (who shall remain nameless),
and its miserable to realise that the band you are going to have to hear every night is awful and its also hard work to lie about such matters.
Worse even then this is if you like the musicians and do not wish to hurt their feelings.
This then is my muse, for in the short while I had known the members of Glasschild I knew that I was on tour with a bunch of warm,
funny and friendly crew, and I had no wish to knock their music.

So should you ever have a friend offer you a tape of their recordings and their 'Hit' song has a silent 'S', or their 'Rap' song has a silent 'C', here are a few statements that might save your embarrassment and their feelings:
1. "You couldn't write a better song then that!"
2. (If they then play you another one!), "Well I'll be damned, you've done it again!"
3. "I don't care what anyone else says that is a great song!"
4. "Of all the songs I've heard that is definitely one of them!"
5. "Words can't express the emotions that that song has resurrected!"
6. " Phew!" ( this should be accompanied by an all-knowing nod of the head).

Well I needn't have worried. For it was obvious that as soon as Glasschild took to the stage they could perform and play
up their with the very best. I wasn't to know it then but by the end of the tour I would realise that they were the best band
I have had the pleasure of touring with. This is not a statement I make lightly either, for I have toured, supported and played
with acts as diverse as Johnny Cash, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Spiritulised, Rage Against The Machine, Annie Lennox, Des Ree,
Randy Crawford as well as many of the Indie (for Indie read Indistinguishable) bands who have been on the same bills as me at various festivals.
Do you know that not one night did I leave the venue early to go to my hotel and get some horizontal refreshment,
(and believe me there were many nights that I should have), because the band were captivating.
The songs grew on me with every hearing and the band morphed into a chimera of sound, movement and (stage) presence.
Yep! They are that good. So once again Isay check them out on http://www.Glasschild.co.uk

Suddenly it Clicked

After the last of the bar staff had wandered of in search of a shower and bed, myself and Glasschild took another
Saint in hand and went in search of paradise. Well, not really. We went in search of the anti-Christ that Frank had
parked somewhere quiet so the band could get some shut-eye in peace, I was then to go to my Hotel but as I did not know
where it was I too followed them to the anti-Christ. It was an absolutely freezing night. And apart from the slurred Liverpiddlian
voices there was nothind to be heard through the still night air. Nothing that is except a clicking noise that was constantly coming
from the direction of the anti-Christ. I thought to my self that it sounded like a large cigarette-lighter being coaxed to do what it should, namely light.
Funnily enough that is what it was. Well, kind of. For it was Frank trying to light the Butane Gas heater in the bus.
Anyone who has ever tried to light a normal household central heating boiler will know how difficult this is.
Basically you have to push a button in to allow the gas to come out and then push it further to ignite the gas.
The click is the result if the flint or electronic device trying to cause a spark, which in turn will light the gas.
If this fails, and invariably it always does the whole procedure has to be started again….push..hiss of gas..push…click..is it alight..no?
Start again!

"It (click) was working (click) last time (click) I (click) used (click) it (click)" said a very fed up Frank. He had obviously been pushing that button a long time which meant his cut finger was even more swollen then before.

"I will (click) have (click) it (click) working in a (click) moment" but the band were oblivious to his promise or the temperature of the anti-C anyway as a result of the warming effect of copious amounts of consumed alcohol.

And so are conversation carried on with this background clicking,

"Hey that's (click) my (click) bunk Stem!

Where's my (click) beer!

Any (click) one for (click) a (click) ciggy.

Finally I heard Ste, who was outside the anti-C, ask;
"HAS ANYONE (click) GOT (click) A (click) LIGHT!!!!

Suddenly I had a premonition which became almost immediately a fact: I thought if Frank has been pushing that button for half an hour
or more then there must be a lot of gas somewhere and if he SHOULD get a spark there will be an………here my thought were interrupted
by an ear-splitting explosion. All our ear drums were convcaved as the sides of the anti-C were convexed. We staggered out of the
smoke filled anti-C into the freezing Zaragoza night. Coughing and spluttering my ears, head and eyes cleared to see very cool dude
Ste standing there with an unlit Fag in his mouth.

"Hey Pat", he said removing the Marlboro from his lips, "a bit of the bus just blew into the air"

Sure enough he was right, for a search resulted in the top part of the metal chimney and cowling from the Gas boiler being found twenty meters away!
I thought about this new omen. What with all the various dashboard controls commiting hari-kari on the journey here and now the chimney choosing to launch itself into the night I decided that to follow suit, "I'm off to the hotel Frank" said I. "Pardon" said Frank.
I don't think his hearing ever has recovered. For to this day he still cant hear me when I ask him for the money that's owed to me,
(but that dear surfer is a chapter still to come).

 

 

Rock and Roll Death Reversed

Eight hours later I returned to the anti-Christ and on opening the door I am exposed to a site that I would see every morning, oops!, I mean afternoon.
First I would see Neil's' bleary eyes staring at me (for his bed was in direct line with the door); incidentally, I always imagined that by opening the door I had woken him up and thus the bleary look, but the truth was that he had only just got to sleep! I was to find out much later that he had turned into a kind of Mother Hubbard and had to wait for the last of his wayward children to return 'home' before he could lock the door and sleep himself.
So after acknowledging his puffy eyes I would look around the detritus in the anti-C. A mass of legs, fag ends, empty bottles, half eaten food,
and a bundle of clothes that would move by itself and, grunting, would reveal itself as being Mark.

"Mornin'" said Neil

"Ughh" said Mark

"Hey Pat, the bulbs aren't working again" said Ste

"Look Ste" I replied, "I'm going to show you how to fix this fuse yourself. Get into the drivers seat and pull the lever to open the bonnet"

On saying that I clambered outside and waited for the bonnet release to happen…and I waited ..and I waited. I could see that Ste
had had a heavy night on the beer and that he was having trouble finding the right lever to pull. He looked sick to say the least,
and if his face had a slight green hue to begin with the excertion was turning him into Kermit the frog.
Finally with a desperate pull he shot back into the drivers seat and in his hand he held a lever,
not just the lever but the wire that went with it and some contraption that was joined to that.

"Ste!" I shouted through the windscreen. "That's not the lever! That's the bloody choke you've pulled off!"

He looked very guilty, and very green. And then greener still.

He then did a rock and roll death in reverse! Forget about Jimi Hendrix, Phil Lynot and the rest of them who choked on their vomit, Ste, with all the grace of a dying swan, VOMITED ON HIS CHOKE!

What a band!

Rock and Roll!

CHAPTER 5.
STAGE STUCK

'F***!!! hell' Neil cursed, 'my bass drum just keeps slipping, I need a carpet....'

My...... mind .... drifted .... away ....... as I heard these words. Distant pre-tour memories of another world came flooding in.
A world of, amongst other cosy delights, carpets.........and fitted-carpets at that - the resting place of a cat, my cat:
Thomas - stretched out in front of an open fire and the sounds of a bare footed girlfriend, my girlfriend: Catherine, padding around doing 'fings'

'What youre doing Cath..?'
' Oh..you know..just 'fings'

....it seemed such a long, long time ago.....aah! bliss.

Anyway where was I ..oh yes there I am. Going down the road of tangential thought...dum tee dum..
No! Hang on that is not where I was!
Sod the road of tangential thought, it's down memory lane I intended to travel...So back to Spainal Tapas...

Neil was right. His kick drum was moving, (for any non-musos reading this when I say a kick drum I mean the big one - the one on the floor! - the one that has the bands name on! - yes thats the one!
('Saw a wicked band last night down the Empire', 'Yea? What were they called?, 'Yamaha', 'Yamaha?.Oh yea! I've seen them! They're great! Not as good as Pearl though')).

It is a common problem for drummers who have to find a way to stop their drums from shifting ahead of them every time they kick the pedal, a problem exasperated should the stage be slippery .
But why it was moving: now that was the mystery!
For, dear reader, at this concert/venue/dive/s***-hole there was no slippery stage. There was no stage, period. The 'performing area' was a small area of floor in the corner. It hadn't been cleaned since the Spanish Inquisition and had various layers of puke, beer, urine and what looked like after-birth deposited on it.
If Neil had wondered why no one went to his help it was because we couldn't.
We were all stuck!
The floor was sticky. Very, very sticky.
In fact I would go as far as to quote from 'Blackadder' and say it was 'as sticky as 'sticky' the stick-insect that had just got himself stuck to an extra sticky sticky-bun'.
I realised then why flamenco dancing had developed the way it has. All that stamping of feet was necessary to avoid getting welded to the floor. And the castanets playing was just a very quick Morse code saying '---...help!..-.someone---... clean .-.--.the..--..f#cking..-.-.-floor!!

A Kick Drum

A Sticky Bun

You were all right as long as you kept moving. Stand still for an instant and it would take enormous effort for you to break the seal of congealed nastiness that lurked at floor level. So we kept moving. I busied myself trying to help Neil with his drums whilst the Glasschild went in search of beer, beer, ciggies and a laundrette...they found the beer and ciggies. There are NO laundrettes in Spain. Just shops were you take your dirty clothes and, in exchange for money, get dirty wet ones back. Minus a sock.

Anyway I cross-dress, I mean I digress..

So eventually the gig started.
I kicked off and the place was packed! I did my usual show, echoed guitar, tapping the face board to make drum sounds, pretending to play bottle-neck by using a full San Miquel with my mouth trying to get at the rim as I played up the fretboard! However on this gig i did a new stage routine. It involved me leaning at near impossible angles to the ground without falling over. Like those round bottom kids dolls, where no matter what you did to them they would still come bobbing upright. This unique skill was, of course, due to the fact that I was super-glued to the floor. I couldn't have fallen down if I had wanted too! So I ended my set to rapturous applause and happily squelched my way though the crowd and towards the bar in my bare feet. My shoes I had had to leave stuck to the 'stage' and my socks had disintegrated with every step there after.
It was then Glasschilds turn.
Cath had no problem. She is a great little performer. Very energetic running and jumping around the 'stage'. Sometimes falling off it! The rest of the band played rooted to the spot, unable to break the quagmire below there feet. Only Mark on the Bass guitar had taken as an omen the sight of my boots stuck to the stage. So he perched on his amp and ,with utter coolness that only the young and good-looking can achieve, played his instrument beautifully whilst looking at the audience with his 'I hope you appreciate that demi-semi quaver slur you peasants' look...
However, and at last we come to the real crux of this Spainal Tapas entry dear reader, there was one other who started to move. Imperceptibly at first, a millimetre or so at a time, and then with every bass drum beat a centimetre, and another and another. Unknown to us Neil had started to leave the venue...
Glasschild were kicking, and they had arranged their set list so as to have a gentle start, then they got manic and finally they ended the show with a couple of solo acoustic numbers.
Just as well they had.
For by the end of the show Neil had disappeared.
So as the remainder members played the gentle acoustic numbers to finish all eyes were upon this trail that had scratched itself into the filthy floor.
It looked like an enormous snail had gone in search of a midnight snack..

That, then is the end of this entry.
Well not quite.
You see after the show we went to a restaurant then onto a club and then back in the anti-Christ we devoured jazz cigarettes and finally, at about 4am someone decided to take a joint out of there mouths or part a San Miguel from there lips and asked..

'Where the f#ck is Neil'

I pointed out that during the incredibly fast and powerful song of theirs called Baa Baa he had accelerated very fast and he had disappeared through the crowd and, as I was told later, had shinned a bouncer as he shot out of the club.
The bouncer had shouted 'Inglis Cont' at the figure of Neil and drums disappearing into the night...
We discussed what we should do and decided that nothing was probably the best recourse.
So we did nothing, and by doing nothing I suppose we did do something. But then again that something was nothing...

Anyway I undress.

No I don't mean I digress.

I undress.

Then I crawl between the sheets in my hotel/hovel room....and I dream.....
a dream of Africa, and I dream the sound of distant drums. Maybe it was a throwback to my childhood days in Zambia.
Or maybe it was Neil's hitting of the skins.
For, and this is true dear reader, as I drew the curtains in my room for a brief moment I am sure that I had a fleeting
glimpse of Neil and drum kit moving across the town square.....

 

CHAPTER 6.
We came in search of Paelladise and found....
Cheese sandwiches.

I have never been able to eat a cheese 'sandwich' since experiencing the 'Spainal Tapas' tour. You may have heard the expression, 'The Rider', used in rock 'n' roll books and films, and you may have a warped definition of about what a "Rider' is. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but a 'Rider' is not being driven to the gig in a stretch-limo, nor is it where a rock idol is floated towards the stage; borne on the raised arms of his devoted fans. It is not, (deep regret here), having a young, beautiful and naked-as-the-the-day-she-was-born groupie riding your 'tower of power' in your dressing room whilst you bask in the glory of a distant encore.
Nope, none of these.You want to know what a rider is? I'll tell you.
It's a cheese sandwich.
Not even an attractive one at that. So even the most the most desperate and ugly performers (i.e. Jazz musicians) would not want to 'slip it a length'. Although if they were to succumb to such a perversion they would not be breaking any laws as most of the cheese sandwiches we came across, (please excuse that unfortunate pun), were older then the age of consent, i.e. at least16 years old.
If you think that touring foreign countries means experiencing exotic food bought to you by erotic waitresses, then let me put the picture straight. For sadly the usual scene was of six starving English musicians staring forlornly through a glass window at what, for all intents and purposes, looked like a museum exhibit:

circa 18th. Century.
Food (believed to be a sandwich, possibly cheese).
Latin name: rider-non-existico

We are English musicians.
We know what a cheese sandwich tastes like.
An English-man called Lord Sandwich invented the bloody 'sandwich' for Christ sake!
(I wonder if Lord Sandwiches' wife was Lady Table....just a thought)

Anyway I salad dress, I mean I digress
Now where was I?
Oh Yes..

Real rock stars have 'riders' that are as long as the Gettysburg Address.
They demand everything imaginable (and some things that it would be hard-pressed to imagine).
But Glasschild and myself weren't like that. We would have loved to have been, but we were not famous, and therefor, wielded no power, so we couldn't be. Complaint aside, we had been quite happy on our liquid diet for the first week or so. Then one day someone removed a Marlboro from their lips or pulled a San Miguel from their mouth and said..

"You know...I'm f#cking starving!"

"So am I " whined a pile of clothes on the bed, (on delving into the clothes we found the source of the pitiful voice. It was Mark. He had been shriveling away inside his coat and was so weak now that he couldn't fight his way through the layers of clothing and back to the real world).

"Look at him", said Cath, "the poor sod looks near to death."

"Wouldn't surprise me" said Ste, "he has his Bass amp so f#cking loud."

"No, not deaf: Death" said Cath.

"Pardon" said Neil, who, being bought up well by his parents, was only apologizing for burping.

"I didn't say anything" replied Stem, thinking Neil was talking to him.

"Any skins?" replied Cath. "I gave you the Rizlas earlier".

"What'd you say?" queried Ste to Neil.

"Day? Oh its…Thursday...I think", replied an even more confused Neil.

"I'm thirsty as well, so I think I'll have a drink too" said Stem.

"Drink to who?" asked Neil

"Did someone just hear an owl?" said the pile of clothes on the bed.

I listening to this weird and confused conversation as I drove the anti-Christ, I felt like I was in charge of a motorized Tower Of Babel.
Something had to done. And it had to be done fast food.
I mean its not often that we demanded anything on this tour so we were hardly going to break the bank in requesting the occasional proper meal.
A gentle chat with Frank, our promoter, was required………

"Hey Frank. Everyone's getting real run-down you know. I think it would buck up our spirits, give us energy and be a nice gesture if you were to treat all of us to a special meal, you know, something hot and Spanish."

"Ess OK Pat.. I have been thinking to do this, and tomorrow we play a gig in Hellin and there I will take you all to a special restaurant where they make the best, (..don't you dare say a cheese sandwich or else!...), really the best, (I held my breath).......... Hamburger! ...In the whole of Espania!

"Hamburger!" I exploded. "A f#cking hamburger? Listen Frank, hamburgers are not what I classify as food, they are seldom hot and they are definitely NOT Spanish! They come from Hamburg in Germany, thus - Hamburger. If they were Spanish they would have come from Madrid and been called f#cking Madburgers."

"Not necessarily so Pat", countered Frank. "What about Frankfurters eh? They no come from Frank do they... and erm? Jamaican Patties Pat, what about those?"

I calmed myself down and tried to bring the conversation back to some normality.
"Let me be frank Frank, (Doh!). Does the word, or concept, Paella mean anything to you?"

"Pile a" he repeated, obviously trying to grasp its meaning. "Oh! You mean like a pile a cheese sandwiches?"

"No I f#cking don't! I mean one of those bastards!", and on so saying pointed at a big menu board outside a restaurant which had
'Paella' written in large fluorescent letters.

He looked visibly shocked;

"Paella?' he cried, "Paella? Do you know how much money ees Paella?. Ess very expensive for so many people.." he thought for a while and then suddenly looked up and with a triumphant smile, "anyway, you hava to tell them the day before if you wanta Paella...ees impossible for them to make so quickly!"

To be fair to Frank he was telling the truth. I had tried to get Paellas before.
Not on this tour, but when on holiday in Spain. Catherine and myself had begun to realize that you had to give a lot of notice if you wanted to eat Paella.
This seemed crazy as it meant you had to guess whether you would be hungry enough later/tomorrow to want Paella.
It started me wondering why do they need so much time to make Paella? After all its only bits of fish mixed with rice.
And when it does finally arrive the prawns still have their heads, legs and bodies attached; mussels are still locked in their shells and crab claws
still encase meat in there dissected limbs...
ITS NOT AS THOUGH PREPERATION IS TOP OF THE 'MUST DO'S' WHEN IT COMES TO PAELLA IS IT?!

Let me tell you something....the English invented Paella!
Its true I tell you...
OK so we found that picking up individual grains of rice with fingers was a problem and thus use sliced potatoes instead, but the basic ingredients are still the same:
Proteins and carbohydrates = Fish and Chips.
At least we have the decency to remove the head and innards of the fish and peel the potatoes.
You see its quite straight forward. If you come to England we assume, sooner or later, you'll get hungry. As Fish 'n' Chips is a dish that tourists like to eat we actually prepare and have it cooking ready for when people are hungry!.
So why don't you forget all about this advance ordering, having to leave a deposit, name, room number and shoe size, and just make some Paellas.
You make them.
We will eat them.
I promise

And finally one last but poignant point.

What do you always notice when you find Paella listed on a menu?
Give up?
OK, I will tell you. There is always a *. Thats right a *.
And somewhere in the small print of the menu that * donates this
"Paella - for two or more persons only"

I find this sad.
Do you realize there are probably Spanish people who have never tasted Paella.
Never!
And the reason?
Because they are so ugly that nobody has ever asked them out to dinner.

One day you will be dining in a Spanish restaurant and you will notice a solitary ugly person staring through the glass at the framed menu.
His, or her, eyes will light upon the Paella, but just as quickly they will see the * which says, (to them anyhow),
"Go away. You are on your own, probably because you are ugly, or boring or you like jazz, so No Paella for you.".
And you will see them shuffle away into the night back to their bedsits or mums house or wherever they will eventually commit suicide.
Just as well really 'cos I hate eating in restaurants and seeing someone at a table eating on their own. It makes me sad; odd numbers always spoil parties.


Paella

A Madburger


A F***ing Cheese Sandwich

Anyway I'm depressed, I mean I digress..
Where was I
Oh yes. The saga of the sodding sarnie...

(THE NEXT NIGHT)
I can still remember when those succulent sizzling big half-pounder Cheese-Burgers that Frank promised nearly arrived. I say 'nearly' because on the tray was a note saying, 'Ess sorry but no burger meat, all sold.' I opened my bun to find the note was correct. There was indeed no meat between the roll.
Just the cheese was left. AAAAAARGHH!!!

This tour was killing me from the inside out. I had indigestion and constipation due to the cheese, and yet still seemed to be suffering from malnutrition....
There was only one thing left to do as the situation was becoming desperate.
I pulled the anti-Christ into a lay-by.
Switched off the engine.
I arose from my driving seat to face the frail remnants of what was once Glasschild.
A hush ensued.

"I'M GOING IN!" I proclaimed to the amazed Liverpuddlians.

"I'm going thin as well" whined a Mark from somewhere beneath a pile of clothes.

"Defiantely deaf", muttered Cath.

CHAPTER 7.
I'M GOING INN! (ALIEN RE-VISITED)

On board the anti-Christ there was a refrigerator. What lurked within the fridge was anyone guess.
I had attempted to open it once but something moved inside as soon as the light went on which startled me so I slammed the door.
This blew a gut-wrenching stench into my face and I stumbled out of the bus gasping for air..
"never, ever go in there, something's alive yet smells like its dead", I warned the bemused Glasschild who looked on.

And so it had remained, tightly closed with a flight case pushed against the handle..just in case what ever was evolving in there was working on how to get out.

But times were desperate now and I faced the congregated Glasschild.

"Look, if we are going to survive this tour of (S)pain then we are going to have to buy our own fresh food and cook meals in the anti-Christ. So find some tool or something to protect yourself with. We have to open the fridge to clean……."
I had no chance to finish the sentence as suddenly Glasschild burst into life. Immediately weapons of all sizes and shapes appeared, flick-knifes, motorcycle chains, pick-axe handles, Stanley knifes, mace gas, and a small thermonuclear missile that Ste carried with him.

"Just in case" he said with a manic glint in his eyes.

Listen, dear readers, if you are ever in spot of 'trouble' there can be no better crew to face it with then with Liverpuddliens.
On route to a gig at Southend once I stopped at a motorway service station in Liverpool. In my hurry to dash to the toilet/bathroom/bog
I slammed my car door shut thereby locking myself out of the car. I stood there frozen with disbelieve as I stared at my keys which were
hanging in the ignition. There were a lot of people passing by on their way to the entrance of the service station and amongst them
I spied the uniform of an R.A.C man, (emergency car mechanics for my foreign friends).
Quickly I shouted,
'Excuse me can you help open my car door, I've locked my keys inside".

To my amazement the R.A.C. man carried on walking and muttered,
"sod off, its my lunch break mate",

yet everybody else turned en-masse and said in unison,
"no trouble hun, it'll be open in a jiffy."

I watched in amazement as a little old lady got to work with her knitting needles on the drivers' door.
She seemed in competition with an elderly vicar who had climbed on top of the car and through the partially
opened sunroof was attempting to lasso one of the doors locking buttons with his rosary.
At the near-side front passengers door a teenager was using a screw-driver which he had jammed into the keyhole.

"You should do it like this", said his girlfriend working on the passenger door behind him, where she was busy using a school-ruler which she had slipped down between the glass and door frame.

"Bingo" shouted a blind-man who, using his white-stick to jemmy the off-side passenger door, was the first to gain entry to the car.

"Lucky Heather" said an old gypsy hag as she waved a tiny bunch of dried Lavender wraped in tin-foil under my nose, all the while her other hand was busy pushing a very small child up the exhaust pipe. I could hear him as he had somehow squeezed through the cassette tape opening and landed inside the car, "Duck it!" he cursed as he fell face first into the gear stick.

"Backs!" shouted someone who was walking through the crowd with what looked like four Ford Escort wheels.
A large guy with a four-pack of special brew jumped onto the bonnet and slurred,

"Stop pissing about and do the job properly", as he kicked in the windscreen, showering glass over the two Jehovah Witnesses' who were removing the windscreen wipers.
The gypsy woman was now disappearing through the mass of people, in her arms her small oiled baby had my car stereo,

"Radio GaGa" he gurgled happily.

After what seemed an eternity, yet was only three minutes, the crowd of 'helpers' melted away and I stood staring at what was left of my Ford Escort, a set of keys lay on the ground surrounded by a pool of oil. The only item they hadn't nicked was a cassette entitled, '"Umm Nice! That's What I Call Jazz Volume 2 (Many)'

Anyway, I egg 'n' cress, I mean I digress.
Where was I?
Oh yes...........

"Prepare yourself…I'M GOING IN.."

So saying I opened the fridge door.
Immediately I was head-butted by a bulging carton of rancid full-cream milk. Before the blood from my shattered nose ran into my eyes, temporarily blinding me, I saw that a viscous looking Chiozo sausage had gone straight for Stes' jugular.

"Cath the blade" he screamed, and Cath, kicking away a live yogurt that was trying to pull her into the fridge, threw him the Stanley. With a few deft slashes he made mince meat of the sausage and rushed to help Neil who had been cornered by two rabid bits of cheese.

"The veins! Go for the blue veins", he screamed and just in time Ste and Cath managed to obliterate the cheeses with a motor cycle chains. Together we found Stem who was turning blue, spaghetti was wrapped around his neck like a pasta Annaconda. Ripping with bare hands we managed to pull away the murderous strands. Stem collapsed life-less on the floor,

"I'll give him the kiss of life" said Neil rushing to his side.

"Its all right, I feel much better now" said Stem quickly recovering and backing away from Neil.

"Mark! What about Mark!" I shouted, for I realized that during the battle we had forgotten about the weakened and emaciated Mark who lay buried in his clothes.Frantically we pulled away at his clothes.
Too late!
There was something covering the whole of his face.

"What is it?" asked a horrified Cath.

"Dunno" said Ste, "But before the sausage got me I remember seeing Mark look at one of those eggs in the door tray. Suddenly one just opened and, well this thing, looking like a cross between a lobster and a Spanish omelet, flung itself over his face"

"What shall we do, we cant just leave that on his face" said Cath.

"I think it's an improvement" said Neil

"Seriously" I said' "we are going to have to try to remove this thing from his face. Ste, give us the Stanley".

So saying I took the blade from Ste and very, very gentle cut one of the lobster-like fingers that was clasped over Marks face. In an instant there was a strong burning smell and a white liquid oozed from the cut. It melted the clothes and proceeded to burn its way through the bed, and began dripping onto the floor.
"God, if that breaches the hull well be sucked into space!" screamed Ridley down the microphone in her space combat-suit. She then actvated the air-lock and dissappeared into an escape space-lifeboat.

"Who the f#ck was that" said Cath

"Dunno" Ste replied, "but I do know that that bloke from that shite band the Verve was wrong when he said the drugs dont work. He should try this gear..wicked stuff.

He then passed an absolutely confused Neil a carrot, one end was black where Ste had been trying to light it,

"It must have Vinegar acid for blood, what a defense" said someone .We all snapped back to reality and rushed out of the anti-Christ to peer under the chassis, expecting the worse…but nothing happened. We went back and looked below the comatose Mark was lying and followed the flow of the acid-vinegar blood. The 'things' blood had dropped through the bed straight into one of Ste trainers.

"There's you answer", said Ste, "nothing in this universe could survive a second in my Nike's, even my Odour-Eaters committed suicide by devouring themselves."

Then from above us we heard a voice.
"I'm f#cking starving"

"Mark!" we all shouted as we spun round. "You're OK, thank God for that". We were all relieved to see that the 'thing" had fallen away from his face and was lying limbs akimbo on the floor.

"Must have been his breath that killed him" said Ste dryly, for he needed a drink, as did we all.

"Well done everyone, that was a dangerous situation there, but we prevailed. To celebrate lets clean up this mess and I will go and buy some beers and a take away meal. Anyone have a preference?"

"Actually I really feel like a Chinese" said Mark……

So ends this omnibus edition of Spainal Tapas. To finish I want to let you know that the phrase 'I'm Going In' took on a life of its own. It was cried out before anyone would enter a very ripe and overflowing toilet on the anti-Christ. Or when we had to go under the bonnet again to fix the engine. It was used when we would first venture into the night's venue, or if someone wanted to be brave and peel back the bread from yet another cheese-bloody-sandwich to see just what the hell was in there.

I had my own version............... 'I'm Going In' was quite simply a short hand for

'I'm Going Insane!!'

CHAPTER 8.
ITS MY PARTY AND I'LL DRIVE IF I WANT TO

 

Sometimes life can sometimes be very, very sad.

Today is disintegration day.
The anti-Christ was making a brave attempt at Hari-Kari.
Teeth shot off the gearbox, screws tuned anti-clockwise as though turned by the invisible hand of Beelzebub himself,
handles came away when pulled and knobs disappeared into the dashboard when pushed.
Worse of all was the exhaust.
Or, to be more precise, lack of it.
I had noticed that on straining to go up hill that a loud farting noise would appear, but for the first hundred miles I put this down to Neil who occupied the co-pilot seat. Eventually a Glasschild slinked through from the rear and whispered in his ear and he was gone. But the farty sound remained. So it was not Neil then. Deciding I had been wrong in my presumption, I removed the earplugs from my nose (see how useful they are!) and stuck them in my ears. In silence the road ahead moved as though watching a film with the sound turned down.
And I felt alone and lonely.
I started to think of my father.
I always did on his birthday.
Which was the same day as my birthday.
Today.
Funny to think that once I was his birthday present.
Somewhere between that day and today the family imploded and went there separate ways. I would not see my father again for nearly twenty years. Finally we would meet, awkward and stranger like and we would start to build a relationship, but too soon he would die. And with him would die my dream of being able to get the family together.
All together.
In the same place.
At the same time.
I imagined a photograph of Dad, Mum, Gerry, Alison, Mandy, Eddy and Me.
We would all be smiling.
We would all be happy.

The saying goes that the camera never lies. I guess that's why the photo never materialised.

It just wasn't to be.

My last words to him as he lay dying were,
'Don't feel guilty Dad.. there's no blame …shit happens..'
Or they would have been, if I could have got them out. The last words he actually heard from his son was;
'Hey Dad, we've won the ashes!'
He loved cricket; and I hid behind humour. Perhaps it was for the best.
Nor would I see my sisters for twelve years or more. Both had gone through their own private wars..one had survived, the other had not.
Oh! she returned from the front. But she was shell shocked..damaged, and to this day has nothing to do with any of us, for reasons only known to her.
It breaks my f#cking heart to think of her.
Parted from the rest of the family I was sent from our home in Zambia, Africa, to the Devon seaside town of Exmouth, in England.
There, over the years, I would watch my mother falling from me. Flailing and drowning in a sea of anti-depressants, Barley Wine and loneliness.
I could do nothing for her.
I was only a kid.
Helplessly I watched the slow motion movie of her demise.

Years later, as a man, on holiday on the Spanish island of La Gomera, I entered a viscous sea to help save a man who was clinging onto the very last rock that kept him from being dragged out into the Atlantic Ocean. Hundreds on the beach watched this man trying to survive.
Only I entered the foaming fury to help.
Its not that I am a hero, or any braver then any of those who stood transfixed by unfolding horror.
Its just that I had witnessed such a sight before.
The are only so many times that you can watch somebody drowning
I couldn't help my mother.
But I could help this stranger.
I was now a man.

My brothers, me?
Yes we got through it all I suppose.
But the wounds are still there.
In one I see it in his eyes. A haunted look that sometimes appears from a million miles inside. (I saw this same look in Kurt Cobains eyes in the MTV Unplugged video. There's this moment that sends a shiver down my spine, watch the video, you'll find it).
The others pain is in his wanderlust, that's not to say that he doesn't love his worldly rambling, or that such travelling isn't good for him, but his itinerary was written a long time ago.
Me?
I spew it all out in my songs.
I'm a miserable sod in my songs I know.
But outside of the music I am deemed to be 'a laugh'.
People say I am funny. I am not complaining. Imagine being a person who is known for his hilariously funny songs and stage show yet off-stage is as miserable as sin.
I am always eternally grateful that I am not a comedian. They are usually so sad and screwed up.


So it was a blue sad driver who silently drove the anti-Christ through the foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada…..

So the road carried on.
Occasionally someone would come and sit at the front next to me. Almost as soon as they had come they were gone, the reason I put down to the black veil that was surrounding me this day.
Ahead, across the Spanish plain, the road stretched for miles in a continues straight line….tempted I decided to see just how much speed this baby could manage. It could manage about 120 kph…not exactly a Harley Davidson.
'She'll no take anymore Captain' said Scotty….nah, not quite. It was Cath coming up the aisle towards me. She pulled a Marlboro light from her lips,

'Hey Pat hun', said she, 'something just shot of the bus',
and with that she turned away and sauntered back to her usual position' which was stretched out on the rear sofa, fag in hand reading a book. I used to look at her through the rear view mirror…she made me feel like that chauffeur in Stingray, she was 'mi Ladi Penelope'

I waited a while then blurted out;

'Will someone one please explain..WHAT fell of the bus!'

Along came cool dude Mark to the rescue;
'It was nothing Pat, just a bit of the roof, no problems, sound-like.'

I eased the bus to the side of the road.
I switched of the engine.
A hush ensued, or did whatever a hush does.

'Look fellow cursed musos, it may be sunny, warm and dry at the moment but that is only because it is sunny, warm and dry at the moment. Later, it will be dark. That means it wont be sunny. That means it wont be warm. And in case you have forgotten how the f#cking rhyme goes I'll remind you! THE RAIN IN SPAIN FALLS MAINLY ON THE PLANE!, and then you are going to be aware of THAT F#CKING GREAT HOLE ABOVE YOUR HEAD!!

I pointed to the roof hatch, or rather to where the roof hatch used to be it had been left open, so like an umbrella in the wind it had finally decided that an easy life would be to give in and bugger off.
I felt guilty about shouting, they weren't to know the demons that were going through my head that day. I continued in a quiet voice;
'We will have to go back and find it'

Isn't it funny when you try to retrace you steps? Surprised at how the miles have shot past unnoticed just like the days of your ever-so finite life. The saying, 'You don't know what you've got 'till its gone' really did not ring true now. None of us knew what we had and now it was gone, even a fool would know that would make finding difficult to say the least. To say the most IT WOULD BE F#CKING NEAR IMPOSSIBLE!.
By looking at the gaping hole in the roof we could conclude that the missing item was square. We also agreed that it was flat. Being a sky-light it was made of clear plastic.
I looked out at the dusty plane.

'OK! We have to find something square, flat and see through. Great, just bloody great.'

So it was that for the next hour we, Glasschild and I, walked in line up and down desert, looking for our square, flat, invisible thingy. Trucks thundered by and would honk their horns at Cath, who still retained her majesty and looked, for all intent and purposes, like one of those 'waif' models walking down a catwalk.

Finally there was a shout;
'Found it!' we all turned to see Neil in the distance holding up his empty hand…as we got closer to him we saw that in fact he had,
'I nearly pissed on it' he offered.

So dear reader, once again we made the gig. We did the sound check. We performed. We ate our cheese sandwich and we drunk, and we drunk and we drunk.

One last thing…the reason why they left me alone at the front of the anti-Christ was because they had been making this......

........................My birthday card!

I was very touched. For a bunch of hard Liverpuddlians they were real good to this soft southern bastard!

Sometimes, life can be very, very beautiful.

CHAPTER 9.

Ex-Huast.
R.I.P
(Rest in Pieces)

Part of the anti-christs exhaust
that we left behind to the confusion of the locals.

I was exhausted
Ste was exhausted
Cath was exhausted
Stem was exhausted
Mark was exhausted
Neil was exhausted
Frank was exhausted
Maiti was exhausted
…worse then all this the anti-Christ was ex-hausted.

Its exhaust had now become an 'ex'.

The last bit had detached itself with a shearing sound as it dived headlong onto the Spanish motorway, 'such is life' I heard it sigh as it fell away.
The sound had now risen to a level that reminded me of that moment I was stopped at a train crossing in Acton London. A freight train screeched, banged and rattled past as a stationary ambulance put its sirens on full blast, to let the cars know that once the gates opened it was needed at an emergency. Above Concorde was banking to starboard on its approach to Heathrow and in harmony a road menders jack-hammer smashed out its rhythm. A BMW with its body panels bulging with every bass beat from its 2000 Watt speaker system entertained a crusty who kept shouting 'Big Issue' in my ear, his dog on a string barked dementedly. To finish it off I could hear Catherines voice in my head, reminding, 'don't forget the milk'.
It was, to say the least, noisy!

I looked in the rear view mirror at Glasschild who were all ashen faced and huddled on the back sofa, as far a way as possible as they could get from the blowing exhaust, which had steadily being creeping up the entire length of the anti-Christ.
Ahead Franks BMW signalled that we should pull over, I followed him over to the hard shoulder. I could see him talking to someone on his mobile as he strolled towards the bus. He came into the bus..
'We have a problem…we have to go to the next venue to do some promotion as they have changed the venue. First we must get of this motorway and get some food, so you follow me OK?'
Before any of us were able to reply he was back in his BMW and I slammed the bus into gear and, with the sound of a Panzer Tank, accelerated to catch up.
'I thought we had two days off now' said a Glasschild.
'Yeah, so did I' someone else replied.

going.....

Promotion….oh yes I remember promotion.
When I was offered this tour I originally turned it down o the basis that there was not enough time to promote it properly. However, Frank had allayed my fears by explaining that there had been a lot of promotion for Glasschild as the main act and, although I may be a late addition to the tour, all would be well.
It seemed to make sense so I agreed.
However, I knew that the promotion was suspect the day I was awoken from a dream in Salamanca. My room window open onto an alley from where in the distance I could hear this awful racket that grew closer and closer. A screeching, tinny metallic sound that sounded like a cross between a soundtrack of an old Chinese film and a party political broadcast on behalf of the Mongolian Green Party. However there was something strangely familiar about it. As the volume grew to ear splitting level I tuned into the message, now obviously in Spanish, that was being blurted out. It went along the lines of,
Blah, blah, blah,blah,musica,blah,blah,Glass-a-child-a,blah,blah,blah,Pat-a-Orcid-a,blah,blah,cheese-a-sand-a-wich-a.blah,blah……..
then I was mortified.
I realised that that screeching sound was my song Sirens Call being squeezed out of a rusty megaphone by means of the microphone that Frank held up to a plastic tape recorder, He was driving around the town promoting tonight's gig. I felt a mixture of admiration for his efforts and sadness for the futility of the exercise. Anyone hearing that awful sound would hardly bee impressed to check it out.
In fact I was wrong.
The person who did turn up as a result from the 'promotion' was really nice. I couldn't understand much of what he said although I did get the impression that he was a fan of old Chinese movies and, if the flyer he passed me was anything to go on, was canvassing for some Mongolian political movement.

I followed the BMW as it pulled off the motorway onto a minor road that, as quickly as it started to climb began to narrow. It was about ten p.m and the last light had long gone in search of those who had to get up for breakfast. We had been driving for ever, or so it seemed. I guess that Frank was as tired as any of us. Maybe that was why he didn't check his rear view mirror. If he had he would have realised that I was having great difficulty getting enough power out of the anti-Christ to clime the steep road, or track as it had now become.
The smell of burning clutch and exhaust fumes was sickening. All the while I was trying to keep the speed up so we did not stall whilst guiding it through an ever narrowing gap between stone walls and the ever numerating buildings of the village. I was real scared that we would stall…I did not know if the handbrake could hold this anti-Christ at such a steep incline. She was very heavy. Imagine a near vertical bus with 6 musicians, one P.A. System and a full septic-tank!
Then, we came to the top, and like a ridiculous cartoon animation, scraped the sump on the peak of this mountain and immediately stated to go down hill. The descent was as every bit as steep as the ascent we had just managed. My heart was in my mouth as I tried to hold back the weight of the bus. The smell of burning clutch and exhaust fumes was now replaced by burning brake-pads and exhaust fumes. Then, just when you thought things could not get worse, the road ended. I slammed the bus brakes on and ripped the gear stick into reverse. I chose a big wall and aimed for it, deciding that if all else failed then at least we would not go over the cliff. The anti-Christ squealed and slid towards the wall … it stopped just inches away from it.

White faced we all got out of the bus. I was reminded of that end scene from 'The Italian Job'.

Looking back up the track I could see franks tail lights disappearing into the darkness. I was very pissed of! He seemed oblivious to the trouble I was having following him around this mountain village. It might have been easy for his BMW to turn around on the edge of this cliff, but the anti-Christ was as long as the road was wide….or was it?
'I've got an idea' I said to Glasschild who were lighting up and knocking back yet more San Miguels.
'I reckon that I could slowly inch this thing around so that it is facing the way we came', I pointed back up the track. 'If no-ones on board, and we unload some stuff off the bus to lighten its load, I just might be sable to get back to the top'.

And so it was that half-an-hour later we had the anti-Christ facing back up the track. Glasschild were all clutching various items as I climbed aboard.
I made a silent prayer and put my foot down on the accelerator.
As the bus started to clime I began to lose control with the steering as it became very light. The result of the a very full septic-tank shifting its foul contents towards the back of the bus meant that the centre of gravity had shifted to a point where the front wheels were beginning to lift. Due to the angle that the bus was travelling its headlights were absolutely useless and their beams disappeared into the inky blackness like searchlights. My eyes frantically scanned through the windscreen for any clue of where I was going. I have never, and will probably never again, drive in such a dangerous steep incline with such little control over the steering or such lack of vision. It was a hair raising drive yet somehow the anti-Christ and I emerged triumphant at the top of the track again.

It was a very relieved Devonshire musician who pulled up and turned of the engine.
It was a very peeved Liverpuddlian musician who, pulling a wet and bent ciggy from his mouth, staggered from the toilet uttered the immortal war cry of 'F#ckin' C#nt!!'

In my burst of adrenaline to try to get the bus up the track it never occurred to me that someone might actually be sitting on the toilet. I had noticed various Glasschild members in the wing mirrors and really thought that every body had disembarked.
Well the long of it was that Ste had been caught short.
As the other members of Glasschild emerged like the army of the dead from the blackness of the track a few sniggers started and, along with cries of 'effing' hell what's that stink!', all eyes turned towards Ste, (mind you all our nostrils turned away from him…quite a feat, try it some time!).
Poor old Ste let us know what a harrowing time it had been for him. He had pushed his arms and legs out so as to brace himself against the walls as, as in his words,
'The f#ckin' bus seemed to turn itself into a rocket.'
As the septic tank contents flowed backwards they then exited from whence they had come, i.e. back out the toilet pan from which Ste was hovering a few inches above.
'We really got to start eating summut, there was hardly a solid in there. Just as well that my fag wasn't lit cos that stuff was f#cking pure alcohol.. could have gone up like Guy-f#cking-Fawkes', he carried on.
Further inspection revealed that a sizeable foul slick had poured back through the bus, saturating a number of boxes of 'Shabby Road' CD's.
I was so grateful that I did not have to sleep in the bus that night.

going.....

Mutiny

How did we get to the Mediterranean Sea? I hear you ask.
We mutinied.
When we eventually found Frank he was encamped in a lovely little restaurant in the mountain village. All eyes turned towards us as we entered, I could feel the accusations burning in my head, 'So you are the Inglese bastardos with the Panzer Tank eh'
To be fair Frank had ordered a lot of food and drinks for every one. However, if he thought that this would soften us up to his new plan of 'promotion' then he had miscalculated. We had all had viewed these planned days by the sea as a kind of a Holy Grail. If the next gig had had a venue change then they would have to deal with that without us driving around impersonating a Mongolian Chinese film fanatic or visiting radio stations etc.
To be brief here I shall sum it up by saying that I informed Frank that when we were back at the motorway I would be taking the bus southwards…towards the sea. It was his job to go on into the interior and sort out the 'promotion' for the next gig.
He didn't like it, or me, come to that - but someone had to be the spokes-person and that role had grafted itself to me.
But he could see in all our faces that we were done for.
Exhausted.

He didn't put much of a fight up.
I guess deep down inside he also wanted a break by the sea, and poor old Maiti who was carrying his child, certainly needed one.
And so it was that at midnight a black BMW and a Panzer tank disguised as a tour bus turned south on the motorway and started down the mountains towards the Mediterranean Sea.
One by one I noticed Glasschild falling asleep.
I felt a real and deep affection for these musicians.
Here they were trusting me as I eased the bus down the mountain, around hair-pin bends and on towards the sea.

The drive down, although nothing like the village bob-sleigh run, was still quite hairy. I guess we travelled down hill for about two hours at least. In my mind I was thinking about how hard it was going to be to get back up this range. I decided then that the only way I was going to be in this bus coming back up this hill was if the exhaust had been replaced…and if that was not the case then Frank could drive the sod and I would commandeer his BMW. At dawn we found the sea, we drove around a while and then parked up under a palm tree.
Frank disappeared to find a hotel room.
I did the same.

The next couple of days were absolute bliss.
There is nothing so lovely as a sea-side resort town out of season, except a sea-side resort town out of season when the sun was shining.
The weather was glorious.
We ate well, drank even better, made mobiles from driftwood.
With real tenderness I watched Cath stretch her limbs in the sun, like a beautiful bird unfurling its wings for the first time.
'This is so great hun', she cood, 'I've never seen the Med before, sound like..'
Hearing her say that suddenly made the whole journey worthwhile.

Two days later a fresh looking Frank approached a fresh looking Pat.
In my head I was rehearsing a speech about him having to drive the anti-Christ because of the exhaust, or rather 'cos of the lack of the exhaust, when he interrupted my train of thought.
'OK Pat. is time to get the exhaust fixed' he said.
So a little while later I the Panzer Tank started to crawl through the industrial region of a nearby town. Even though I could not read Spanish it was perfectly obvious that we had passed many 'Quik-Fit' type exhaust centres.
Why then didn't we stop at any?
Every so often we would follow him into some dusty work yard where he would talk to some greasy mechanic, both of them would walk around the anti-Christ before the mechanic would stop wiping his hands on an oily rag and point some directions.
Then we would be on the road again….
Eventually there was a variety in this behaviour when Franks hand started to shake another mechanics oily hand and he came towards the bus..
'OK', Frank said, 'now we have someone to fix the exhaust…everyone out of the bus'.
Fix it?
Fix the exhaust?
How could you fix an exhaust that wasn't there I wondered……

The answer was not long in coming.
For I was astonished to see Frank unloading parts of an old rusty exhaust from his BMW's boot.
He had, unknown to any of us, being picking up as many of the bits of the exhaust as possible as they dropped off!
The reason why we had been driving around all these industrial sites was to find a welder who didn't think it crazy to try and fit it all back together.

As I watched frank laying all the pieces of the exhaust out in the dust I was reminded of a documentary with Richard Attenborough.
To all intents Frank could have been the proud archaeologist who was showing of the fossilised bones of a new Dinosaur…

Exhaustosaurus.

Once again I found myself admiring the man.
With all his faults Frank was a survivor, and he deserved to make it as a promoter.
You couldn't fault the mans tenacity.

...gone

copyright Pat Orchard