Well...we duly arrived in Manchester, famished and craving alcohol, chips, fame and the chance of (self) exposure (in that order). Having located the gig and hooked in with the Splodge troupe, we swerved the soundcheck - it would've made precious little difference as we'd had no rehearsals and weren't playing our own instruments anyway, Arthur having procured (also for safety's sake, see Part 1) the loan of Colin Gould's faintly serviceable but inexpensive bass guitar - and we found a nearby B & B where, as self-elected tour manager, I booked us in for the night.
We returned to the gig - Manchester Polytechnic, where I recall the wall of the student union where we played was appropriately emblazoned with a larger than life version of Dennis The Menace - and drank as much as possible by blagging, ligging, poncing off the punters and endeavouring to share Splodge's rider, not an easy task as there were about eight of them and about enough alcohol for a respectable punk trio. We duly knocked a rudimentary rockin' punk set out without too much ado, a little bit of flying sputum and the odd missile but nothing unexpected, and half swaggered, half staggered back to the aforementioned B & B, fairly faintly drunk and even more faintly elated, having successfully elicited that evening's paltry £50 fee. Dear Dan, now a much more seasoned tour veteran than myself, had at that time never been on tour but had been regaled by Arthur, Rat, myself and others with tales of on tour demolition, carnage, etc. On entering the landlady's lounge, we collapsed exhausted into her armchairs and in ran her large hound, which was as 'faintly' friendly as we were 'faintly' drunk. As soon as her back was turned, Danny gave the poor beast a good punk kick on its rump with his size eleven Doctor Marten boot, necessitating the use of my not inconsiderable placatory negotiating skills to enable us to stay the night there, once the dog's howl alerted the landlady to what had occurred. I can't remember what I said to the woman, but the fact that we were still on the premises the next morning means I would've put Kofi Annan to shame!
Talking of knocking things out i.e. our set, the only other incident of note was when Arthur was caught by the chambermaid in the morning in flagrante but hardly delicto, as it was only with a magazine, and not a groupie! We then ate as much inclusive breakfast as possible for the combined reasons of hangover hunger and economy, then Arthur hit upon the novel idea - probably to deflect attention from the aforementioned J Arthur incident - of trying to launch Dan into the Guinness Book of Records by challenging him to brush his teeth continuously for one hour for the princely bet of £2! I am still laughing now remembering Dan asking, in a muffled voice thorugh a mouthful of Colgate foam, how long was left, as Art & I loked at our watches and giggled. Dan duly achieved his aim and objective, but informs me that Arthur still owes him the £2! After recovering from this hilarity, we set off for Piccadilly station and the rattler to Sheffield, another Polytechnic gig, where we were shortly to realise why The Damned always said they hated students...whilst it was quite an adventure being on tour with no van and minimal tour support, something told me it was going to be a long night - how right I was...
By the time we reached Sheffield Polytechnic, my body, nerves and brain were crying out for alcohol, not least because I wished to quell the unease about the previous night's B & B having been a luxury we probably couldn't afford again that night. Whilst Charlie Harper could probably tour the world being accommodated by fans, I wasn't that well connected and was thus suitably apprehensive, as it was even bloody colder oop North than it had been in London. I abandoned Arthur and Dan backstage and set off for the Student Union bar, in search of cheap libation. There I ran into Fred, the Splodge keyboard player, who was a lovely stocky, wacky feller and a good drinking partner. As we stood there chatting and slurping, we were approached by the spokeswomen for the nastiest, most militant bunch of butch man-hating lesbians you ever saw, who told us their mission for the night was to prevent Splodge performing as they had been (unreliably and innacurately) informed that Splodge used strippers as part of their routine, which they perceived as degrading women. Bolstered by my peacemaking achievements the previous day, and backed by Fred, I tried to both reason with them and point out they had been misinformed. This went down about as well as a porterhouse steak in a vegan restaurant, and the feminists let us know that, if we were intent on proceeding with the show, they remained just as intent on stopping it.
Fred and I gave up the verbal battle and went back to the dressing room, where I informed the lads of the physical battle that was doubtless about to ensue. Arthur was just as incensed as I was, if not more so, when I told him of the 'demo'. "Right," he said, "that's it!" By the time we took the boards, we'd had a fair few and Arthur had (a) stripped down to T-shirt, Y-fronts and Doctor Martens and (b) found a dog-eared copy of Playboy or a similar publication (probably the same one he'd been reading that morning when rudely interrupted by the chambermaid) which he could blatantly leaf through as we walked on. The 'ladies' were all grouped down the front in battle formation and heavily armed with e.g. cut glass ashtrays. I strode up to the mike and announced: "Good evening! I'm sorry we're a little late coming on, but I had to pop home and untie the wife so she could get on with the ironing!" Within a few seconds we knew how the Hungarians must've felt when the tanks rolled in in '56 and, within a couple of numbers, so much beer had been thrown along with the accompanying glasses and ashtrays that the stage was awash, causing Arthur to slide ungraciously to the deck mid-song where he just lay there, battered, bruised and drunk, but also cleverly realising that most of the missiles were now flying over, not at him. Dan of course had the kit for protection although, bless him, he did intervene by coming out from behind it and winding the lovely girls up further.
Somehow we escaped without serious injury and retired backstage to locate the young punk fan who'd kindly told us earlier that we could stay round his house for the night. It soon transpired that he'd left out one vital piece of information, namely that he resided not in Sheffield, but about eight miles away (I'd always thought it was in Bradford but modern technology tells me that's about thirty-two miles away so, after consulting Arthur, I think it must have been in nearer-by Rotherham). Well, after about an hour and a half's route march through the icy Yorkshire night carrying bags and instruments - our young fan, bless him helped out - all four of us were completely sober and ravenous, so the dear young chap took us to a local late night curry house where we were the only non-Asian customers, and where we ate one of the best, cheapest curries I've ever had outside India, or come to that even Tooting! Feeling a whole lot, well slightly, better we walked the last couple of miles to the young feller-me-lad's mama's house, where she wasn't too pleased to see him at what was by then about 2am and even less pleased to see us, his new punk heroes, swiftly informing him that no, we couldn't stay there for the night.
"Don't worry," said youngpunkfan, "my dad will definitely let you all kip there."
"Great," said I, "is it far?"
"About a couple of miles," said youngpunkfan.
Our hearts sank, but we had precious little choice, and off we set. His dad, it turned out, liked his music too, and was quite honoured to have us, apologising for having only a couple of tins of beer that we could all share, and eager to tell and show us how he'd helped his son paint his punk leather jacket up with the names of his favourite bands. The flat was cold and barren but youngpunkfan and dad were as hospitable as theycould be, and I remain eternally grateful. In the morning we put some funds in to purchase some food and all cooked and ate some breakfast together, before being pointed in the direction of the station and trains to Norwich (for West Runton and its well known Pavilion), a tortuous journey by train, even in these days of online info, but a proper minefield back then...
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