The Big Lebowski’s Ultimate April Fool.
The beautiful and endearing thing about the film, The Big Lebowski, is how an affable, non-confrontational, and easy going guy, ends up causing so much chaos by only wanting someone to clean his carpet. One bad decision leads to another, and before you know it, the whole thing is out of hand… You might want to bare that in mind.
Holly is fit as fuck. Part porn star, part Uma Thurman. A real head turner, despite all the miles on the clock. Guy was the first to sample her delights and the pub post mortem was like a porno talking book. It wasn’t long before we were all forming a queue. The long hot summer went on through her revolving doors and no one thought beyond the next weekend.
It is Saturday lunch time and we all meet in the Dram Shop. There’s me, Guy, James, Alex and Rich. We are all still hung over from Friday night and coming to terms with that first difficult beer of the day. However, there is a veritable buzzing around the burnished copper topped table as we delicately sip our cold beers. Johnny is still to arrive and the air is thick with anticipation. He had sloped off around midnight, the previous evening, and it wasn’t long before the night club jungle telegraph told us with whom he had sloped. Guy was currently the ‘Holly’ depravity champion owing to an incident with champagne bottle, the cork of which had only been recovered with the help of a bent dessert spoon. However, Johnny’s competitive streak and raconteur’s delivery had us all eagerly awaiting his arrival.
He finally walked in, looking as if he had been beaten up before having slept in a turnip field. “Have a good night, Johnny?” giggled Alex. Johnny took a quick look left and right before closing up into our little booth and whipping out his manhood. ‘Look at the fucking state of that!” Slurps of lager sprayed from between pursed lips as we all cringed. James gasped. ‘Jesus Christ, Johnny, it looks like a fucking snooker ball!” Alex cam back from the loo and looked over Johnny’s shoulder. “Naa, looks more like a beef tomato that's been trodden on.”
Some days later I am trawling files at work, and have come across some paperwork from the local health authority. It was some kind of health and safety bullshit directive telling you what to do if someone slips on a wet floor, or a plane crashes into the building. I note the letterhead and a ghastly wheeze suddenly shoots into my brain. It’s cruel but it’s funny. During lunch time I attempt some basic graphic design paste-up and created several sheets of blank letter headed paper, and an envelope, baring the logo of our local health authority. It’s April Fools Day in a couple of days and by home time the letter is composed.
Dear MR Cole,
It has come to our attention that you have recently had sexual contact with someone who is visiting this clinic for a sexually transmitted disease. Although there maybe no cause for concern, please be aware that some STD’s take up to six months to show symptoms. For this reason we feel it is in your best interests to attend our sexual health clinic and receive a thorough check-up as soon as possible.
Yours Sincerely,
DR Cock-Eau-Vin. DFC & BAR
Johnny is our dear, dear mate, but he is also a bit gullible at times. This will be hysterical. He will read it, panic, and be queuing outside the clinic by 9.30 am…..All for a laugh!!!! I ring Guy, James, Rich, and Alex to fill them in on the jape, and then send the letter.
Enter Lebowski.
I had met Johnny’s dad on many occasions. He’s a lovable rogue we all know as Norm’ and he makes a good living from his own building company. The family is pretty well off and lives in a beautiful house on a cliff top, about 30 miles out of town. Johnny’s family home was all our summers. We would party in a club until the early hours, spend a few hours sobering up back at my place, and then risk the 40 minute drive to the coast. Bonfires were lit and many a Sunday dawn was watched through sleepy eyes and campfire smoke, before climbing the steps up to the house, where upon Johnny’s mum would fuss over us and make everyone a full English. Johnny’s parents were cool, and never battered an eyelid when, having drunkenly decided to burn all our clothes on the beach fire, we all walked over their lawn, through the early morning mist, bollock naked Goth zombies, spinning car keys, and asking if we could have a fry up. Norm seemed totally unfazed to see 6 naked men sitting at his breakfast bar, being served sausage and bacon by his wife, as he passed through the kitchen on his way to play golf.
Norm was a big kid at heart and we all liked him for that. Some weeks earlier Guy, Johnny, and I, had got roped into a darts game in the village local, with a pair of local farm hands. Unbelievably we had won. However, the next time we went in the pub we were informed that we were barred. Apparently for smoking dope in the beer garden the previous week. It was a complete lie, but you can’t keep much quiet in a village of 300 people and, before long Norm was on our case about it. We assured him it was absolutely untrue and he believed us. Having then grilled the landlord as to who had perpetrated this scurrilous lie, the local farm worker darts flops had sheepishly admitted that they were behind it (as a joke) Norm then played a joke back. While the leather fisted troglodytes were out ploughing the fields and scattering, he turned up at their cottage in his builder’s truck and bricked up their front and back doors. From that moment on, Norm was legend.
The letter is sent. Addressed to Mr J N Cole, (Johnny’s middle name being Nigel) and we are all eagerly awaiting the panic riddled phone call from Johnny to urge some of us to join him on a visit to the pox doctor.
Now, this is where the Lebowski kicked in good and proper. What none of us knew was that Norm’ was actually John. John Norman Cole, to be exact. MR J.N Cole. What we also had no knowledge of, was Norm’s roving eye and the fact that, in the not too distant past, he had embarked upon an affair with his secretary. Unbeknown to the majority, he was currently on double secret probation from his wife, in a huge effort to avoid her divorcing him.
On April 1st, the morning had arrived. By 8.am Norm was up and out to re-point a chimney at a local farm, and Johnny was bouncing his way, bleary eyed, down country lanes in his mini, heading to his office job in town.
The third fact, of which we had no knowledge, was that as a result of Norm’s recent dalliance, his wife had now taken over as company secretary and was in charge of administering the company post. At 8.45 a.m she had picked up the mail from the door mat and set about opening anything that was addressed to her husband, and looked like it was probably business related…………Like a letter addressed to MR J N Cole baring a Humberside Health Authority logo.
It is now 7pm on April 1st and Guy and I are dossed out in my flat. My door bell rings. I press the intercom to hear Johnny’s voice. Johnny comes up the stairs, clutching the letter and avails us of his news. The blood begins to drain from our faces. Apparently Norm had returned home for lunch, having patched up his chimney, to discover his thousand quid Ping golf clubs, a mass of bent and twisted tubing in the middle of his lawn. The reason they were in this state was because they had latterly been used to re-arrange the body work of his 7 Series BMW. However, to put the cherry on the cake, the contents of his wardrobe had been, somewhat, re-tailored with a Stanly Knife, and his prized Purdy shotgun was a smoldering carcass, atop of the bonfire that was currently blazing away at the end of the vegetable garden.
Johnny made clear the purpose of his visit. He had only taken a few minutes to click that this was a typical ‘Me’ joke. However, his protestations to his mum had not yet convinced her that Norm should not have his dick cut off with a busted dinner plate whilst chained to a radiator. I was to call his mum and assure her on bended knees that this was an April Fools joke meant for Johnny, and not evidence that Norm had been up to his old tricks once again. I undertook my obligation with a dry mouth. Mrs. C was OK and even managed a laugh. She would, they weren’t her golf clubs, suits, shotgun, or 30 grand Beamer.
The Coles being The Coles, their house remained our country retreat. We all remained very welcome and the summer weekends continued with many more beach fires and 7.am fry-ups. However, by the end of they year the two halves had parted for good.
Neither Norm’ or Johnny has ever suggested that the ‘Clap Clinic Letter’ was instrumental in the outcome but one can’t help thinking that it maybe tore the band-aid from a festering cut.
As with The carpet in The Big Lebowski, it all began as an innocuous in-joke between friends. A ten minute giggle and reason to exact a bit of Schadenfreude on a friend you knew would see the funny side of it.
One joke letter. 50 grand’s worth of damage and a marriage down the pan.
Ooops.
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Saturday, 10 March 2012
In Bed with Ben E King.
We are stoked up and wide eyed. We have spent the last week crash rehearsing the new songs but non of us are sure we really have much idea what we are doing. What mattered was that our mad cap and fast talking manager, Tracie, has organized a showcase for us in front of David Ambrose, head of London Records, and at this precise moment we are trundling down the motorway in a battered orange transit van, full of what might be. Our destination is the pretentiously named Barrington Sound Clinic in Brixton South London.
The last year has been quite an experience. Paul and I had known each other since we were fourteen. We had grown up together from then on. We had smoked our first joints together, jammed our first songs, and popped our cherries along the way. 18 months ago we had put together our first proper band and, like something out of a film, immediately got signed up by a pretty happening independent label. We had so far released three singles and all of them had scraped into the independent music chart. God knows how?
A few months previously our status as local legends had been interrupted by the arrival of Tracie LaMorte. She was a stick thin ball of energy with a big mouth and a blue wig, and we immediately bought into her story. She had managed several acts we had heard of, and even one who were now a big noise in the States. For a bunch of wide eyed ninteen year olds, what more was there to know? We needed to think big, she told us. Do you want to be a big fish in a small pond or do you have the mettle to break out and take it further? We slavered like Pavlov’s dogs and told her we did. She then informed our record label they could go f*** themselves and that we would not release anymore material on their poxy label. This then led to two years of litigation but that's another story.
Right now we are traversing the roads of South London, drinking home brewed pear wine, and about to turn into the yard of the Barrington Sound Clinic. For the next 3 days we are to rehearse our show and then perform it like we are at Wembley stadium. The audience will consist of one person. David 'Flakey Dave' Ambrose. The man who signed the Sex Pistols and Duran Duran to EMI, Sigue Sigue Sputnik to Phonogram,(for which he was sacked) and Fine Young Cannibals to his current home of London Records. Ambrose was something of legend, not to mention an enigma. Prior to becoming the worlds greatest hit and miss A&R man, he had played bass in The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Rod Stewarts' pre-Faces band, Steampacket, and also a brief stint in Peter Greens early Fleetwood Mac. Paul and I had met him the previous week at his office. During the chat Tracie had called up.
Her foghorn gob could be heard from the handset reminding Ambrose to take us for lunch. Ambrose then bundled us into the boot of his car and took us to his house in Fulham, where upon he handed us a loaf of sliced bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a spoon. Tracie had warned us he made Syd Barrett look like a lightweight.
The Barrington Sound Clinic didn't quite live up to its swanky name.
We found ourselves in a railway goods yard a few blocks from Brixton tube station. It comprised of several railways arches that had been converted into shabby rehearsal rooms, and one much larger arch that housed a recording studio. Everything in it was held together with black gaffa tape.
We are greeted by Jack Barrington, the proprietor. He's mid fifties wearing a Fred Perry and the requisite 'Sarf Landan' gold chains and sovereign rings. He is pleasant enough and accompanied by two policemen. It transpires that Jack's Mrs had recently had her hand bag snatched so, as you do in Sarf Landan, Jack had borrowed a coal truck and reversed it into the front of a local cafe where the bag snatcher was known to frequent. Over the next few days we came to realize that Jack was President of the local Self Preservation Society and, as such, he was afforded this kind of naughty misdemeanor without much more than a cursory word in his 'shell like'
Jack shows us to our rehearsal arch and informs us that Tracie had asked him to book us some local accommodation. However, seeing as how we are 'Total f***** no-marks who I ain't never 'eard of, not neva,' we will have to doss down in the rehearsal room.
It is all fine. It all feels like a great adventure. Within an hour we are set up and making a noise. We decide we need some beer and I go over to the main studio arch to find Jack and get some directions to the nearest off-license. As I enter I am greeted by someone. He is a black American guy, probably in his mid fifties, and clearly a bit the worse for wear.
“Hey Bro, if you going for liquor, man, get this nigger a bottle of Tunder-blunder yeah?”
It is the first time I have ever heard a black man call himself that and I don't quite know what to say. I just nod and assume he is talking about Thunderbird wine. Twenty minutes later I am back with the goodies and hand the guy his wine. He has kind eyes and skin like creased leather. He doesn't pay me back for the wine though, and I'm not really sure if I should ask.
At 11pm Jack comes marching in to our arch and tells us how it is. He will leave the main door open so we can get some fresh air, but lock the prison style security gate at midnight. This means we can we still have access to the toilets and coffee machine situated in the corridor just outside our rehearsal space, but we can't get out of the building. He will be back each morning around 9am. I ask Jack about the black guy who was sitting in the studio foyer.
“You mean Ben?”, he says.
I am non the wiser.
In the course of the next two minutes we discover that the big studio arch across the yard, is currently occupied by a South African vocal group called Ladysmith Black Mambazo. They are here to add their voices to a film sound track. The little American dude with a penchant for 'Tunder-Blunder' is non other than 24 carat soul legend Ben E King. Ben has been flown in by the record label to act as executive producer, albeit this has so far amounted to him getting pissed everyday from about lunch time onwards. However, we are impressed to be in such hallowed company.
The next day we get down to work. By 8pm we have played the songs 30 times, smoked lots of cigarettes and drunk a case of Stella. It's time to get some food and stock up on supplies before warden Jack locks us in for the evening. Around 10 o'clock we are sprawled out in the various moth eaten sofas and skinning up for the umpteenth time today, when a friendly Afro-American face appears around the door.
“You got any Tunder-blunder?
It is Ben E King. Our faces light up. He seems a very warm guy with a huge personality. It is hard not to to slip into fan mode and start questioning him about his life and music.
In no time at all Ben has drunk most of our beer. His laugh is infectious and the time just flies by. Finally he struggles to his feet, the slightly drunken mood having resulted in him offering to produce our album. Before too long Ben E King stretched tall and let forth a tired yawn 'I better make tracks' he says. We thank him for popping by and feel stunned that such a luminary of music should want to come and spend an hour with a bunch of nobodies that Jack ain't 'eard of, not neva. He gives us all an embrace, and wanders off to the door as he offers his last goodbyes. We all settle back and crack open another few cans to savour the moment, when Ben's broad Harlem tones come booming from the corridor beyond the rehearsal room.
'What the hell is this?'
We all look at each other with raised eyebrows before getting to our feet and going to look. Standing in the corridor is Ben. He has opened the large sound proofed door that leads to the yard. However, his exit is blocked by a large iron security gate straight out of Pentonville nick. Time had most definitely flown. So much so that that Jack had locked us in for the night and gone home.
Within about 30 minutes Ben E King has accepted the inevitable. He was stuck here until Jack unlocked the security gate in the morning. “You got any more Tunder-Blunder?”
In an effort to lighten the mood we decide to do what we had done the previous night. Jam lots of songs and play stupid tour games.
Ben seems happy to join in, he makes several humungous joints, and makes further in-roads into the booze stash. The first game we play is a band favourite and seldom fails to raise some hilarity. We don't know it yet but tonight is going to be a classic.
Everyone is given two Rizla papers. On the first you write a style of music. Jazz, punk, soul, flamenco, whatever takes your fancy. On the second you write a subject. It can be absolutely anything at all. The more stupid, the better. The papers are then scrunched up and placed in two plastic cups. Each person takes a Rizla from each cup and has 15 minutes to compose a song in the style of, and on the subject, they have selected.
Ben E King, soul legend, has got 15 minutes to compose a rap tune about drain cleaning. We all don instruments, in between stoned giggles, and pick up a cod Run-DMC groove. Go Ben!
“I'm a Dynorod boy with ma steam clean jet!
“I ain't found a drain that I can't clean yet, C'Mon!
The finale to the evening is a magic moment. On the way to London we had been listening to Prince and, during the previous evening, we had just about nailed a half decent rendition of 'Never Take the Place of Your Man' Ben knows the song and, after writing out the lyric for him, he gives it both barrels. Prince would have wept with envy.
Four young nobodies are locked in a South London railway arch at 3 a.m with Ben E King, and performing a moment that was lost to the ether of history. Can't believe we didn't bother to tape it.
At about 8.45 a.m I am roused by the sound of locks clinking and our resident Frank Butcher look-a-like ordering someone to shift their 'effing' car out of his parking spot before they cop for a thick ear.
I look out across the room from the relative comfort of the moth eaten draylon sofa. Ben E King is dead to the world and snoring like a road drill, spread eagled under a blanket in the middle of the floor. All around him are empty cans...All apart from the one he is still holding.
Jack Barrington thumped open the door and strode in with a greeting of 'Slop Out, B Wing!' He sees Ben E King comatose in the middle of the floor surrounded by empties. 'What the bloody 'ell is he doing in here?”
Ben E King hauled himself to the upright, took a swig on his room temperature Stella, and rubbed his chops as he looked at warden Jack 'Shiiiit, Man, you locked me in here last night.”
Jack Barrington gave an exasperated shake of the head and hauled Ben E King to his feet. C'mon soppy bollocks, fuck off out of here before you make any more mess.”
It's 6pm and Flakey Dave Ambrose has been and gone. We were non the wiser as to his opinion on the band, as he had just sat staring at the floor for the whole hour he was there, muttering the phrase 'Wizards and Queens' (?) Tracie assured us that, as long as he hadn't started howling like a dog and pulling out his hair, he probably liked us. Suddenly, there was the sound of much huffing,clanking,and swearing. A size nine booted open the door, almost flattening the blue wigged gob monster behind it. In stumbled our resident soul legend, carrying a case of beer and several bottles of wine. 'OK, who's for a slug of Tunder-blunder?'
David Ambrose never did sign us and Tracie LaMorte turned out to be every bands worst nightmare. However, we didn't really care that much. They really were just the side show, when all said and done.
The last year has been quite an experience. Paul and I had known each other since we were fourteen. We had grown up together from then on. We had smoked our first joints together, jammed our first songs, and popped our cherries along the way. 18 months ago we had put together our first proper band and, like something out of a film, immediately got signed up by a pretty happening independent label. We had so far released three singles and all of them had scraped into the independent music chart. God knows how?
A few months previously our status as local legends had been interrupted by the arrival of Tracie LaMorte. She was a stick thin ball of energy with a big mouth and a blue wig, and we immediately bought into her story. She had managed several acts we had heard of, and even one who were now a big noise in the States. For a bunch of wide eyed ninteen year olds, what more was there to know? We needed to think big, she told us. Do you want to be a big fish in a small pond or do you have the mettle to break out and take it further? We slavered like Pavlov’s dogs and told her we did. She then informed our record label they could go f*** themselves and that we would not release anymore material on their poxy label. This then led to two years of litigation but that's another story.
Right now we are traversing the roads of South London, drinking home brewed pear wine, and about to turn into the yard of the Barrington Sound Clinic. For the next 3 days we are to rehearse our show and then perform it like we are at Wembley stadium. The audience will consist of one person. David 'Flakey Dave' Ambrose. The man who signed the Sex Pistols and Duran Duran to EMI, Sigue Sigue Sputnik to Phonogram,(for which he was sacked) and Fine Young Cannibals to his current home of London Records. Ambrose was something of legend, not to mention an enigma. Prior to becoming the worlds greatest hit and miss A&R man, he had played bass in The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, Rod Stewarts' pre-Faces band, Steampacket, and also a brief stint in Peter Greens early Fleetwood Mac. Paul and I had met him the previous week at his office. During the chat Tracie had called up.
Her foghorn gob could be heard from the handset reminding Ambrose to take us for lunch. Ambrose then bundled us into the boot of his car and took us to his house in Fulham, where upon he handed us a loaf of sliced bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a spoon. Tracie had warned us he made Syd Barrett look like a lightweight.
The Barrington Sound Clinic didn't quite live up to its swanky name.
We found ourselves in a railway goods yard a few blocks from Brixton tube station. It comprised of several railways arches that had been converted into shabby rehearsal rooms, and one much larger arch that housed a recording studio. Everything in it was held together with black gaffa tape.
We are greeted by Jack Barrington, the proprietor. He's mid fifties wearing a Fred Perry and the requisite 'Sarf Landan' gold chains and sovereign rings. He is pleasant enough and accompanied by two policemen. It transpires that Jack's Mrs had recently had her hand bag snatched so, as you do in Sarf Landan, Jack had borrowed a coal truck and reversed it into the front of a local cafe where the bag snatcher was known to frequent. Over the next few days we came to realize that Jack was President of the local Self Preservation Society and, as such, he was afforded this kind of naughty misdemeanor without much more than a cursory word in his 'shell like'
Jack shows us to our rehearsal arch and informs us that Tracie had asked him to book us some local accommodation. However, seeing as how we are 'Total f***** no-marks who I ain't never 'eard of, not neva,' we will have to doss down in the rehearsal room.
It is all fine. It all feels like a great adventure. Within an hour we are set up and making a noise. We decide we need some beer and I go over to the main studio arch to find Jack and get some directions to the nearest off-license. As I enter I am greeted by someone. He is a black American guy, probably in his mid fifties, and clearly a bit the worse for wear.
“Hey Bro, if you going for liquor, man, get this nigger a bottle of Tunder-blunder yeah?”
It is the first time I have ever heard a black man call himself that and I don't quite know what to say. I just nod and assume he is talking about Thunderbird wine. Twenty minutes later I am back with the goodies and hand the guy his wine. He has kind eyes and skin like creased leather. He doesn't pay me back for the wine though, and I'm not really sure if I should ask.
At 11pm Jack comes marching in to our arch and tells us how it is. He will leave the main door open so we can get some fresh air, but lock the prison style security gate at midnight. This means we can we still have access to the toilets and coffee machine situated in the corridor just outside our rehearsal space, but we can't get out of the building. He will be back each morning around 9am. I ask Jack about the black guy who was sitting in the studio foyer.
“You mean Ben?”, he says.
I am non the wiser.
In the course of the next two minutes we discover that the big studio arch across the yard, is currently occupied by a South African vocal group called Ladysmith Black Mambazo. They are here to add their voices to a film sound track. The little American dude with a penchant for 'Tunder-Blunder' is non other than 24 carat soul legend Ben E King. Ben has been flown in by the record label to act as executive producer, albeit this has so far amounted to him getting pissed everyday from about lunch time onwards. However, we are impressed to be in such hallowed company.
The next day we get down to work. By 8pm we have played the songs 30 times, smoked lots of cigarettes and drunk a case of Stella. It's time to get some food and stock up on supplies before warden Jack locks us in for the evening. Around 10 o'clock we are sprawled out in the various moth eaten sofas and skinning up for the umpteenth time today, when a friendly Afro-American face appears around the door.
“You got any Tunder-blunder?
It is Ben E King. Our faces light up. He seems a very warm guy with a huge personality. It is hard not to to slip into fan mode and start questioning him about his life and music.
In no time at all Ben has drunk most of our beer. His laugh is infectious and the time just flies by. Finally he struggles to his feet, the slightly drunken mood having resulted in him offering to produce our album. Before too long Ben E King stretched tall and let forth a tired yawn 'I better make tracks' he says. We thank him for popping by and feel stunned that such a luminary of music should want to come and spend an hour with a bunch of nobodies that Jack ain't 'eard of, not neva. He gives us all an embrace, and wanders off to the door as he offers his last goodbyes. We all settle back and crack open another few cans to savour the moment, when Ben's broad Harlem tones come booming from the corridor beyond the rehearsal room.
'What the hell is this?'
We all look at each other with raised eyebrows before getting to our feet and going to look. Standing in the corridor is Ben. He has opened the large sound proofed door that leads to the yard. However, his exit is blocked by a large iron security gate straight out of Pentonville nick. Time had most definitely flown. So much so that that Jack had locked us in for the night and gone home.
Within about 30 minutes Ben E King has accepted the inevitable. He was stuck here until Jack unlocked the security gate in the morning. “You got any more Tunder-Blunder?”
In an effort to lighten the mood we decide to do what we had done the previous night. Jam lots of songs and play stupid tour games.
Ben seems happy to join in, he makes several humungous joints, and makes further in-roads into the booze stash. The first game we play is a band favourite and seldom fails to raise some hilarity. We don't know it yet but tonight is going to be a classic.
Everyone is given two Rizla papers. On the first you write a style of music. Jazz, punk, soul, flamenco, whatever takes your fancy. On the second you write a subject. It can be absolutely anything at all. The more stupid, the better. The papers are then scrunched up and placed in two plastic cups. Each person takes a Rizla from each cup and has 15 minutes to compose a song in the style of, and on the subject, they have selected.
Ben E King, soul legend, has got 15 minutes to compose a rap tune about drain cleaning. We all don instruments, in between stoned giggles, and pick up a cod Run-DMC groove. Go Ben!
“I'm a Dynorod boy with ma steam clean jet!
“I ain't found a drain that I can't clean yet, C'Mon!
The finale to the evening is a magic moment. On the way to London we had been listening to Prince and, during the previous evening, we had just about nailed a half decent rendition of 'Never Take the Place of Your Man' Ben knows the song and, after writing out the lyric for him, he gives it both barrels. Prince would have wept with envy.
Four young nobodies are locked in a South London railway arch at 3 a.m with Ben E King, and performing a moment that was lost to the ether of history. Can't believe we didn't bother to tape it.
At about 8.45 a.m I am roused by the sound of locks clinking and our resident Frank Butcher look-a-like ordering someone to shift their 'effing' car out of his parking spot before they cop for a thick ear.
I look out across the room from the relative comfort of the moth eaten draylon sofa. Ben E King is dead to the world and snoring like a road drill, spread eagled under a blanket in the middle of the floor. All around him are empty cans...All apart from the one he is still holding.
Jack Barrington thumped open the door and strode in with a greeting of 'Slop Out, B Wing!' He sees Ben E King comatose in the middle of the floor surrounded by empties. 'What the bloody 'ell is he doing in here?”
Ben E King hauled himself to the upright, took a swig on his room temperature Stella, and rubbed his chops as he looked at warden Jack 'Shiiiit, Man, you locked me in here last night.”
Jack Barrington gave an exasperated shake of the head and hauled Ben E King to his feet. C'mon soppy bollocks, fuck off out of here before you make any more mess.”
It's 6pm and Flakey Dave Ambrose has been and gone. We were non the wiser as to his opinion on the band, as he had just sat staring at the floor for the whole hour he was there, muttering the phrase 'Wizards and Queens' (?) Tracie assured us that, as long as he hadn't started howling like a dog and pulling out his hair, he probably liked us. Suddenly, there was the sound of much huffing,clanking,and swearing. A size nine booted open the door, almost flattening the blue wigged gob monster behind it. In stumbled our resident soul legend, carrying a case of beer and several bottles of wine. 'OK, who's for a slug of Tunder-blunder?'
David Ambrose never did sign us and Tracie LaMorte turned out to be every bands worst nightmare. However, we didn't really care that much. They really were just the side show, when all said and done.
Saturday, 23 July 2011
Goodbye Amy
Well, some may have said it was inevitable. Some seem to be raptured in a bout of 'I told you so' and some seem to think it is funny or even deserved.
Creative talent is a funny thing. It is almost a drug in its self. It is also true to say that those who don't have it will never ever understand its composition or the lengths an artist will go to, or the risks they will take, to keep that creative energy flowing.
Of course she was a good Jewish girl until Blake popped up and led her down the road to self destruction. But without him she would never have climbed the heights. Even when she still had a different regular beau, her and Blake were often to be seen smooching in The Mac Bar on a rainy Tuesday night. When he called time on their liaison, she retreated into herself, drank the Mac dry for several months, and wrote Back to Black to exorcize the pain. You see, Amy Winehouse was for real. She needed to feel the pain and emotion to be able to make it great art because that is what great artists accept they have to do.
She wrote a modern classic and for a while the garden was in bloom. However, that multi million selling record would never have existed without her suffering the heartache and pain she felt when she lost Blake first time around. Yes, they turned into a latter day Sid and Nancy, but he was the catalyst for her greatest work. Without him she would never have written that album and never have achieved that success. Blake's influence on Amy was as good and productive, as it was sometimes bad. She knew that, and that is why she loved him. Like all great talent, she knew the deal she had struck. She knew she had to suffer sometimes to be brilliant.
The Greek tragedy is that Amy got into the mind set that she could only repeat the success of Back to Black if she stayed mired in the grief hole that spawned her best work. She felt she needed to be close to the edge to make the magic happen. That is how great art often happens. It is musical Russian Roulette but many more than her have spun the gun and lived to tell the tale (or write their boring biography)
I'll remember her as someone who swore like a docker, was unbeatable at pool, and always got her round in.
The tabloids will run and run with this, if only to deflect from their own grubby machinations. Talent is always flawed. That is what makes it interesting and gives it facet and depth. A great talent is always built on a fragile foundation and we should never disrespect someone for showing us they are fragile. We should love them all the more.
Creative talent is a funny thing. It is almost a drug in its self. It is also true to say that those who don't have it will never ever understand its composition or the lengths an artist will go to, or the risks they will take, to keep that creative energy flowing.
Of course she was a good Jewish girl until Blake popped up and led her down the road to self destruction. But without him she would never have climbed the heights. Even when she still had a different regular beau, her and Blake were often to be seen smooching in The Mac Bar on a rainy Tuesday night. When he called time on their liaison, she retreated into herself, drank the Mac dry for several months, and wrote Back to Black to exorcize the pain. You see, Amy Winehouse was for real. She needed to feel the pain and emotion to be able to make it great art because that is what great artists accept they have to do.
She wrote a modern classic and for a while the garden was in bloom. However, that multi million selling record would never have existed without her suffering the heartache and pain she felt when she lost Blake first time around. Yes, they turned into a latter day Sid and Nancy, but he was the catalyst for her greatest work. Without him she would never have written that album and never have achieved that success. Blake's influence on Amy was as good and productive, as it was sometimes bad. She knew that, and that is why she loved him. Like all great talent, she knew the deal she had struck. She knew she had to suffer sometimes to be brilliant.
The Greek tragedy is that Amy got into the mind set that she could only repeat the success of Back to Black if she stayed mired in the grief hole that spawned her best work. She felt she needed to be close to the edge to make the magic happen. That is how great art often happens. It is musical Russian Roulette but many more than her have spun the gun and lived to tell the tale (or write their boring biography)
I'll remember her as someone who swore like a docker, was unbeatable at pool, and always got her round in.
The tabloids will run and run with this, if only to deflect from their own grubby machinations. Talent is always flawed. That is what makes it interesting and gives it facet and depth. A great talent is always built on a fragile foundation and we should never disrespect someone for showing us they are fragile. We should love them all the more.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Meeting Joe Strummer.
Its about 6pm on a gray and rainy evening and I'm totally broke. I was living in the non too salubrious area of Stepney Lane in the days before mobiles. The highlight of the evening for this 21 year old was going to be a walk down to the Pearson Park Hotel to make a reverse charges phone call to my girlfriend Jayne and enjoy a bit of a chat and a moan.
I braved the drizzle and walked across the car park of this once majestic Edwardian manor house, now well past its prime and now a temporary home to the down at heel traveling salesman and teams of builders.
In the foyer is a payphone. It's next to a radiator, accompanied by a comfy chair and facing the once splendid grand staircase, now sadly in need of paint and repair. At least I can get warm for an hour.
As I get comfy, I spot a rather grotty tour bus pulling up outside the hotel. Its no swish Nightliner, more like a knackered out hippie charabanc with grubby orange curtains obscuring the interior. A couple of roadie types come in through the main doors, bum bags and laminates marking them out as someones crew. As they walk passed me I catch a glimpse of the laminate. Joe Strummer & The Latino Rockabilly War. Fuck!
I had pretty much blanked this from my memory on account on zero funds. Oh how I wanted to go but it was over a week to giro day the chance of a ticket was on a par with my money situation. Zero.
Jayne picks up and quickly rings me back. We shoot the breeze and ask each other about ours days. 'Guess who's staying here?' I say? “Joe Strummer! He's playing the Tower Ballroom tonight” I add with a wistful lilt. She picks up on the wistfulness. “You really wanted to go to that last week” she says. “Why aren't you going?”
“Thursday at Silhouette and Friday and Saturday necking Pangalatic Garggle Blasters in Spiders” I add ruefully. “Can you believe that Tarbottom has put them up to one pound twenty, the cheap bastard!”
I'm not angling but Jayne is the most selfless person I know. “What if I drive into Town and lend you twenty quid? Will that cheer you up and stop you moaning? Before I can begin gushing everlasting love she asks a question. Its getting on towards 7 o clock and she's working out if she has time for food and a shower before coming to my rescue. If she hasn't she will wait till later. 'What time is he playing?' she says.
As the question comes down the wire to my ear, I suddenly see someone at the top of the old grand staircase. He's wearing a leather box jacket, white t-shirt, skinny black jeans and brothel creeper shoes. A carrier bag in one hand and a blue towel round his neck like a scarf. It's Joe Strummer and he is bouncing, two steps at a time, in my direction. I remember Jayne’s' question.
“Joe!” I shout. 'What time are you on?
He runs out of stairs and strides straight over with a cheer smile, that familiar gravel laugh wrapped around his words. 'How you doing?” he says and rummages in his carrier bag for his tour itinerary.
“Bout 11 30 tonight, I think. You coming down are yer?”
I am obviously looking like a guppy fish at feeding time and the words of Lieutenant George come to mind when he meets Captain Flashheart. I hope I bally well snuff it right this minute so I can preserve the moment. “I point to the handset. 'I am if she will lend me some money.” I don't quite know why I then do what I do. Neither does Joe. I hand him the phone.
'Ello?” harrumphing Strummer laugh. 'Ello Darlin'... Yeah, about half eleven.. You coming are yer?... OK, never mind. Nice to speak to you . Be safe.. Bye”
He hands me back the phone with yet another Joe harrumphing laugh, gives me a hug before saying he's late for sound check and had better scoot. Jayne is back to my ear. 'Who was that?' she says. I tell her.' Yeah right' she says.
Three hours later I am standing in a packed Tower ballroom. So full infact, I'm in the equally rammed foyer area having a pint with my mate Guy. Guy turns to speak to another friend when I suddenly get a squeeze on my arm. I turn expecting to see some just arrived mate whose has come through the doors. It's Joe again. ' Your bird give you some dough then, did she?” He says hello to a couple of other star struck fans and follows his roadie guy to a small door that leads to a corridor to backstage. Before going through he catches my eye and nods to me and Guy to follow him through. Two minutes later we are jumping over the crash barrier right into the front of the gig. And what a gig it was.
Its about 8 years later and I am sitting in the beer garden of the Londsdale pub in Portobello Road W9. It is Saturday afternoon and a day in the market has just passed. I've bought a Steve Austin t-shirt and an old ammo box covered on leopard skin fun fur.(?) A moment later I hear that unmistakable harrumphing giggle and turn to see Joe Strummer getting settled at a table with his young daughters. They order some food and drinks and are sitting enjoying the late afternoon sunshine while their order comes. Joe looks over and I nod a hello, not expecting for one moment that he will remember me. It's Joe Strummer on his home manner. I expect everyone says hello to him.
He nods back but I can see he is looking for some recall. “I met you on the Rockabilly War tour yonks ago” I say, solving his conundrum.
The harrumph and giggle go again. 'Your bird lent you some dough to get in.” he says. “Bet you neva give it her back though!
'Probably not' I say.
“Long way from 'ome aren't yer?” says Joe, quaffing the first sip of his drink.
“I live down here now” I reply. 'In a band.”
Joe Strummer wiped his mouth and grinned. “Good to hear it. One more of us is one less of them”
In the years that have passed I must have read all the credible Joe books. Passion is a Fashion and Chris Salewitz's epic Redemption Song biography stand out. One thing that repeats and repeats in every account of this guy, is just how gregarious he was. Clearly I was just one of thousands who had ran into Joe Strummer and to who he related like he had known you for years. He thought everyone was his mate and treated them accordingly. The world could learn a lot from Joe Strummers view of things.
I braved the drizzle and walked across the car park of this once majestic Edwardian manor house, now well past its prime and now a temporary home to the down at heel traveling salesman and teams of builders.
In the foyer is a payphone. It's next to a radiator, accompanied by a comfy chair and facing the once splendid grand staircase, now sadly in need of paint and repair. At least I can get warm for an hour.
As I get comfy, I spot a rather grotty tour bus pulling up outside the hotel. Its no swish Nightliner, more like a knackered out hippie charabanc with grubby orange curtains obscuring the interior. A couple of roadie types come in through the main doors, bum bags and laminates marking them out as someones crew. As they walk passed me I catch a glimpse of the laminate. Joe Strummer & The Latino Rockabilly War. Fuck!
I had pretty much blanked this from my memory on account on zero funds. Oh how I wanted to go but it was over a week to giro day the chance of a ticket was on a par with my money situation. Zero.
Jayne picks up and quickly rings me back. We shoot the breeze and ask each other about ours days. 'Guess who's staying here?' I say? “Joe Strummer! He's playing the Tower Ballroom tonight” I add with a wistful lilt. She picks up on the wistfulness. “You really wanted to go to that last week” she says. “Why aren't you going?”
“Thursday at Silhouette and Friday and Saturday necking Pangalatic Garggle Blasters in Spiders” I add ruefully. “Can you believe that Tarbottom has put them up to one pound twenty, the cheap bastard!”
I'm not angling but Jayne is the most selfless person I know. “What if I drive into Town and lend you twenty quid? Will that cheer you up and stop you moaning? Before I can begin gushing everlasting love she asks a question. Its getting on towards 7 o clock and she's working out if she has time for food and a shower before coming to my rescue. If she hasn't she will wait till later. 'What time is he playing?' she says.
As the question comes down the wire to my ear, I suddenly see someone at the top of the old grand staircase. He's wearing a leather box jacket, white t-shirt, skinny black jeans and brothel creeper shoes. A carrier bag in one hand and a blue towel round his neck like a scarf. It's Joe Strummer and he is bouncing, two steps at a time, in my direction. I remember Jayne’s' question.
“Joe!” I shout. 'What time are you on?
He runs out of stairs and strides straight over with a cheer smile, that familiar gravel laugh wrapped around his words. 'How you doing?” he says and rummages in his carrier bag for his tour itinerary.
“Bout 11 30 tonight, I think. You coming down are yer?”
I am obviously looking like a guppy fish at feeding time and the words of Lieutenant George come to mind when he meets Captain Flashheart. I hope I bally well snuff it right this minute so I can preserve the moment. “I point to the handset. 'I am if she will lend me some money.” I don't quite know why I then do what I do. Neither does Joe. I hand him the phone.
'Ello?” harrumphing Strummer laugh. 'Ello Darlin'... Yeah, about half eleven.. You coming are yer?... OK, never mind. Nice to speak to you . Be safe.. Bye”
He hands me back the phone with yet another Joe harrumphing laugh, gives me a hug before saying he's late for sound check and had better scoot. Jayne is back to my ear. 'Who was that?' she says. I tell her.' Yeah right' she says.
Three hours later I am standing in a packed Tower ballroom. So full infact, I'm in the equally rammed foyer area having a pint with my mate Guy. Guy turns to speak to another friend when I suddenly get a squeeze on my arm. I turn expecting to see some just arrived mate whose has come through the doors. It's Joe again. ' Your bird give you some dough then, did she?” He says hello to a couple of other star struck fans and follows his roadie guy to a small door that leads to a corridor to backstage. Before going through he catches my eye and nods to me and Guy to follow him through. Two minutes later we are jumping over the crash barrier right into the front of the gig. And what a gig it was.
Its about 8 years later and I am sitting in the beer garden of the Londsdale pub in Portobello Road W9. It is Saturday afternoon and a day in the market has just passed. I've bought a Steve Austin t-shirt and an old ammo box covered on leopard skin fun fur.(?) A moment later I hear that unmistakable harrumphing giggle and turn to see Joe Strummer getting settled at a table with his young daughters. They order some food and drinks and are sitting enjoying the late afternoon sunshine while their order comes. Joe looks over and I nod a hello, not expecting for one moment that he will remember me. It's Joe Strummer on his home manner. I expect everyone says hello to him.
He nods back but I can see he is looking for some recall. “I met you on the Rockabilly War tour yonks ago” I say, solving his conundrum.
The harrumph and giggle go again. 'Your bird lent you some dough to get in.” he says. “Bet you neva give it her back though!
'Probably not' I say.
“Long way from 'ome aren't yer?” says Joe, quaffing the first sip of his drink.
“I live down here now” I reply. 'In a band.”
Joe Strummer wiped his mouth and grinned. “Good to hear it. One more of us is one less of them”
In the years that have passed I must have read all the credible Joe books. Passion is a Fashion and Chris Salewitz's epic Redemption Song biography stand out. One thing that repeats and repeats in every account of this guy, is just how gregarious he was. Clearly I was just one of thousands who had ran into Joe Strummer and to who he related like he had known you for years. He thought everyone was his mate and treated them accordingly. The world could learn a lot from Joe Strummers view of things.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
General Pinochet, the Dog Shit Incident, and Mexican Fetish Bandits
It was Good Friday lunchtime and I was considering the possibilities for the weekend. Where to go, what to do, and who with. So far the week has been hilarious. Having been contracted as an extra in the recent Stallone movie, Von Panzer has suddenly gone all Hollywood on me and announced his intention to become a famous screen writer. My role in this imminent disaster, was to act as creative sounding board for a myriad of stupid ideas. Not content with simply writing, Von Panzer announced that we had to enter into the spirit of the whole genre. For the last three days and nights we had been locked in my room with nothing more than Coffee, Marlboro Reds, and several bottles of bourbon. By day three we had created our first blockbuster. It's a spaghetti western set in the future and center’s around the machinations of evil genius Walt Drively. Drively is the mastermind movie mogul behind a string of giant theme parks, and hidden within one of these is a time machine. Drively has been using it to supply his vast chain of fast food outlets across the globe, K.F.D. (Kentucky Fried Dinosaur) His time traveling butchers are a platoon of German SS Durlwanger Stormtroopers whom Drively has transported to the future from 1944. Along the way we meet The Rubber Bandits, a gang of Mexican bank robbers with a fetish for latex, The Presleytaians, a religious sect dedicated to Elvis and run by the Reverend Clem Memphis, and it all revolves around the hunt to find the whereabouts of something called the D.U.M.B Bomb. Dumb being an acronym for Detonator Up Margret’s Butt. (but that's not revealed until the end) Von Panzer thinks it's genius and he's going to sell the rights to it for thousands of pounds.
To be honest I'm not really feeling like a big weekend. I've been drunk for 3 days. Von Panzer had insisted that sleep was kept to a minimum and any amount of forty winks had to be taken exactly were you were sitting and fully clothed. However, as it's Easter, I kinda feel like I should make the effort. I got back to considering the options and decided to give Jeanette a ring. The insanely gorgeous, as well as quite literally insane Jeanette, is from Berlin. She's an art house pixie with the sexual morals of a dog and she was over in London for a years study as part of her degree. She sighed as she informed me that partying is off the agenda for the whole of the long Easter weekend.
She's house, baby & dog sitting down in Surrey for her Auntie. I didn't really feel too much sympathy for her because her enforced incarceration was not in some crappy little flat in Guilford. Jeanette’s Auntie Anna was part of Madonna’s management and lived in a mansion on the very posh and gated Wentworth Park Estate in Virginia Water. The wine cellar was stocked to the gills and the fridge was the size of transit van. I could think of worse places to be marooned for the weekend. Now, there was an idea!
By four o'clock I was heading south out of Waterloo and rubbing my hands together at the thought of what delights might be waiting for me in leafy Surrey. The fridge was full if nothing else.
I finally found the tiny lane that led to the house and was buzzed through the gates by a security guard. It's like a quaint country lane flanked by groves of enormous trees that in turn provide some privacy for the even more enormous houses on each side of the road.
I find number 19 and Jeanette seems very pleased to see me. It's a good start. She then fluttered her eyelashes and dispatched me a mile back to the fucking railway station to get her some cigarettes. On my return I was passed in the lane by a convoy of blacked out people carriers. They drove passed my destination and turned immediately in to the next door drive way. A man in a dark suit got out and spoke briefly to another man who seemed to be guarding the top of the driveway to the house, before the cars then crackled their way down the gravel towards the house..
Upon returning with the smokes, I asked Jeanette who lived next door.
Brucie? Tarby? Chris Evans? Cliff Richard maybe?
'General Pinochet', she says. 'Fuck off' I say. 'Nein really', she laughed. It was indeed true. Some weeks earlier the Butcher of Santiago, known more commonly as the President of Chile, had made a stop over in the UK en route back to South America. Upon touching down on British soil, Spain had demanded his arrest on charges of genocide and he was currently enduring a very comfy house arrest on the Wentworth Park Estate until such time as the whole grubby mess was sorted out in the courts.
Jeanette’s job was hardly a difficult one. Her Aunt and Uncle were spending the Easter weekend in New York with 'Madge' whilst Jeanette baby sat her 2 year old niece and walked the dogs. I woke up on Saturday morning with a champagne hangover and wandered in the basket ball court sized kitchen to find some juice. Rocco *, the dog was crossing his legs and flipping summersalts by the french windows. I let him out into the garden where upon he immediately deposited an almighty dump right in the middle of the manicured lawn. I began the job of raping Aladdin’s fridge and concocting breakfast. Scrambled Quails eggs on toast, deviled kidneys, bacon and sausages, and a jug of bucks fizz. Jeanette appeared in a bath robe, looking equally rough, and immediately spotted the brown mound in the middle of the lawn. Her comedy German accent rang out. 'Ze Dawg hess done a shiddy on zer gartan! You vill heff to clear it up”
30 minutes later we were both three parts pissed again, having demolished the jug of Bucks Fizz. I decided to get the doggy issue out of the way before the day deteriorated any further. However, the thought of placing a small black plastic bag over my hand and picking up warm dog shit was not one I was relishing. I would investigate the garage for a shovel and scoop it into the flower beds. I rounded up Rocco from the end of the garden and while I was outside, I glimpsed something through the thick Leylandi hedge that separated us from next door.
Some 80 metres away I could see an elderly man in a wheel chair. He was on a small terrace by a swimming pool, a tartan blanket over his legs, and reading a newspaper. Thin silver hair swept back over his head and wearing obligatory Bono-style shades. I immediately recognized who it was. General Augusto Pinochet, President of Chile since 1973 and one of the biggest mass murderers in modern history.
It was at that point that I disguarded any thought of finding a shovel. A thwacky bamboo was much more appropriate. As Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer would say, 'Let's play shitty-shotty!!!
The first one was more of a range finder. It went straight over his head and 'plopped' into the pool. However, its entry caused the General to look up from his paper and look around, wondering what had just gone 'plop' into his pool. I needed to get the next shot a bit lower over the 15 ft Leylandi and not fling it quite so hard. The second shot was a peach. Rocco's freshly minted stool fairly buzzed the top of the hedge, missing Pinochet by a whisker, and splattering against the balustrade of the terrace. He sat up straight with a jolt, folded his newspaper, and began to wheel about like a demented Dalek. I definitely had him ruffled by now. I was now down to my last piece of ammunition. At least until tomorrow. I changed position and tried to get a bit more head-on. I let fly with the last nugget but failed to connect with the evil old goat.
However, this time he clearly saw it splat on the French windows and shouted for an aide to wheel him back inside. There was a lot of shouting and gesturing in Spanish.
“Un hijo de puta es tirar me disparó. ahora me llevan en el interior!.”
Some bastard is flinging shit at me. Get me inside now!
I ducked back towards the back of the house and continued to watch through a gap in the trees; giggling like a school boy. Some security type dudes appeared on the terrace and took a walk around. The doggy butt nugget was spotted in the pool and fished out with a net. The guy with the net had clearly put two and two together and decided to return the compliment by flinging the poop back over the hedge of trees. It flew right over our garden and splattered on the side of next door's conservatory. A house that was currently being rented by Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York.
At this point I was told (in no uncertain terms) that I was to come inside NOW and stop causing trouble between the neighbours. It was a small victory for democracy and the common man. Rocco had played his part well. Some years later I was working with a Chilean guy in Stockholm. He had told me some horror stories about growing up as a teenager under Pinochet's regime. I told him the doggy doo story. Some months later I received a letter from they mayors office of a town called Rancagua in Chile. I was commended for my actions and further told that I was probably the only man alive who had ever thrown shit at Pinochet and was alive to tell the tale.
I returned to London and informed Von Panzer about the weekends jollity. He thumbed his chin and sparked up a Marlboro. 'There's gotta be a film in that!”
* Rocco is also the name of Madonnas son with Guy Ritchie. Slightly odd
To be honest I'm not really feeling like a big weekend. I've been drunk for 3 days. Von Panzer had insisted that sleep was kept to a minimum and any amount of forty winks had to be taken exactly were you were sitting and fully clothed. However, as it's Easter, I kinda feel like I should make the effort. I got back to considering the options and decided to give Jeanette a ring. The insanely gorgeous, as well as quite literally insane Jeanette, is from Berlin. She's an art house pixie with the sexual morals of a dog and she was over in London for a years study as part of her degree. She sighed as she informed me that partying is off the agenda for the whole of the long Easter weekend.
She's house, baby & dog sitting down in Surrey for her Auntie. I didn't really feel too much sympathy for her because her enforced incarceration was not in some crappy little flat in Guilford. Jeanette’s Auntie Anna was part of Madonna’s management and lived in a mansion on the very posh and gated Wentworth Park Estate in Virginia Water. The wine cellar was stocked to the gills and the fridge was the size of transit van. I could think of worse places to be marooned for the weekend. Now, there was an idea!
By four o'clock I was heading south out of Waterloo and rubbing my hands together at the thought of what delights might be waiting for me in leafy Surrey. The fridge was full if nothing else.
I finally found the tiny lane that led to the house and was buzzed through the gates by a security guard. It's like a quaint country lane flanked by groves of enormous trees that in turn provide some privacy for the even more enormous houses on each side of the road.
I find number 19 and Jeanette seems very pleased to see me. It's a good start. She then fluttered her eyelashes and dispatched me a mile back to the fucking railway station to get her some cigarettes. On my return I was passed in the lane by a convoy of blacked out people carriers. They drove passed my destination and turned immediately in to the next door drive way. A man in a dark suit got out and spoke briefly to another man who seemed to be guarding the top of the driveway to the house, before the cars then crackled their way down the gravel towards the house..
Upon returning with the smokes, I asked Jeanette who lived next door.
Brucie? Tarby? Chris Evans? Cliff Richard maybe?
'General Pinochet', she says. 'Fuck off' I say. 'Nein really', she laughed. It was indeed true. Some weeks earlier the Butcher of Santiago, known more commonly as the President of Chile, had made a stop over in the UK en route back to South America. Upon touching down on British soil, Spain had demanded his arrest on charges of genocide and he was currently enduring a very comfy house arrest on the Wentworth Park Estate until such time as the whole grubby mess was sorted out in the courts.
Jeanette’s job was hardly a difficult one. Her Aunt and Uncle were spending the Easter weekend in New York with 'Madge' whilst Jeanette baby sat her 2 year old niece and walked the dogs. I woke up on Saturday morning with a champagne hangover and wandered in the basket ball court sized kitchen to find some juice. Rocco *, the dog was crossing his legs and flipping summersalts by the french windows. I let him out into the garden where upon he immediately deposited an almighty dump right in the middle of the manicured lawn. I began the job of raping Aladdin’s fridge and concocting breakfast. Scrambled Quails eggs on toast, deviled kidneys, bacon and sausages, and a jug of bucks fizz. Jeanette appeared in a bath robe, looking equally rough, and immediately spotted the brown mound in the middle of the lawn. Her comedy German accent rang out. 'Ze Dawg hess done a shiddy on zer gartan! You vill heff to clear it up”
30 minutes later we were both three parts pissed again, having demolished the jug of Bucks Fizz. I decided to get the doggy issue out of the way before the day deteriorated any further. However, the thought of placing a small black plastic bag over my hand and picking up warm dog shit was not one I was relishing. I would investigate the garage for a shovel and scoop it into the flower beds. I rounded up Rocco from the end of the garden and while I was outside, I glimpsed something through the thick Leylandi hedge that separated us from next door.
Some 80 metres away I could see an elderly man in a wheel chair. He was on a small terrace by a swimming pool, a tartan blanket over his legs, and reading a newspaper. Thin silver hair swept back over his head and wearing obligatory Bono-style shades. I immediately recognized who it was. General Augusto Pinochet, President of Chile since 1973 and one of the biggest mass murderers in modern history.
It was at that point that I disguarded any thought of finding a shovel. A thwacky bamboo was much more appropriate. As Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer would say, 'Let's play shitty-shotty!!!
The first one was more of a range finder. It went straight over his head and 'plopped' into the pool. However, its entry caused the General to look up from his paper and look around, wondering what had just gone 'plop' into his pool. I needed to get the next shot a bit lower over the 15 ft Leylandi and not fling it quite so hard. The second shot was a peach. Rocco's freshly minted stool fairly buzzed the top of the hedge, missing Pinochet by a whisker, and splattering against the balustrade of the terrace. He sat up straight with a jolt, folded his newspaper, and began to wheel about like a demented Dalek. I definitely had him ruffled by now. I was now down to my last piece of ammunition. At least until tomorrow. I changed position and tried to get a bit more head-on. I let fly with the last nugget but failed to connect with the evil old goat.
However, this time he clearly saw it splat on the French windows and shouted for an aide to wheel him back inside. There was a lot of shouting and gesturing in Spanish.
“Un hijo de puta es tirar me disparó. ahora me llevan en el interior!.”
Some bastard is flinging shit at me. Get me inside now!
I ducked back towards the back of the house and continued to watch through a gap in the trees; giggling like a school boy. Some security type dudes appeared on the terrace and took a walk around. The doggy butt nugget was spotted in the pool and fished out with a net. The guy with the net had clearly put two and two together and decided to return the compliment by flinging the poop back over the hedge of trees. It flew right over our garden and splattered on the side of next door's conservatory. A house that was currently being rented by Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York.
At this point I was told (in no uncertain terms) that I was to come inside NOW and stop causing trouble between the neighbours. It was a small victory for democracy and the common man. Rocco had played his part well. Some years later I was working with a Chilean guy in Stockholm. He had told me some horror stories about growing up as a teenager under Pinochet's regime. I told him the doggy doo story. Some months later I received a letter from they mayors office of a town called Rancagua in Chile. I was commended for my actions and further told that I was probably the only man alive who had ever thrown shit at Pinochet and was alive to tell the tale.
I returned to London and informed Von Panzer about the weekends jollity. He thumbed his chin and sparked up a Marlboro. 'There's gotta be a film in that!”
* Rocco is also the name of Madonnas son with Guy Ritchie. Slightly odd
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Buttered Swede and Yoghurt
Things always begin the same way. I am coming over to London for a couple of gigs with the Swedes and cannot think of any better introduction to the whacky ways of London town than to invite them to meet Dangerous Dave Johnson. Erstwhile Guardian journalist, sub editor of Match of the Day, and accomplished drunk. The band are staying in Camden and the generous Mr Johnson has invited me to stay at his pied de terre in Holborn.
This is much welcomed as Universal Records budget for this trip would hardly get us all dinner in McDonald’s. The band have got the short straw. Whilst organizing the trip I discovered that a Swedish friends nineteen year old brother is living in Camden town with three of his buddies. Having sent him an email, and offered a hundred quid incentive, the four friends have agreed to bunk in together for a couple of nights and lend the band a room and some bedding.
Now, whenever I have house guests staying over, I tend to have a clean up and tidy around before they arrive. However, I had forgotten the filthy habits and scummy existence favored by most 19 year old males who have only recently vacated the family home. The flat looks like someone has emptied a garbage bin in every room and hall. I know this isn't the reality because the real bin is currently so full of trash and crap, it has almost as much trash sitting on it, as actually in it. The toilet looks like it hasn't be flushed in a month.
Flat 4, 28 Camden High Street is the shittiest shit hole shit box of a flat you would ever hope NOT to have to sleep in. The opportunity to stay at Dave's nice apartment simply means I don't have to share their misery. I guess I should feel sorry for them but fuck 'em! We have all had to do it once or twice.
The first gig is in Kilburn and it's a really good night. Two of the band head off into the night with various friends and the rest of us grab a cab and head back to Holborn via Camden. In the cab is myself, DDJ, Anton, the bands singer, and Johnny, the drummer. As the boys dejectedly climb out to go back to their wonderful digs, Dangerous makes an announcement. “Fuck it! I'm not ready to call it a night yet. Lets grab a case of beer and everyone back to mine.” Anton and Johnny couldn't have looked happier if they had just won the lottery.
We arrive at Dave's place, stick on a few tunes, and get stuck into a the beers. Myself, Anton and Johnny have been up since 1.30a.m the previous day so we are now pretty jaded and just happy to be chilling. However, Dave has other ideas. In his slightly inebriated state Dangerous Dave decides it is a really good idea to phone his honey. The flaw in the plan is that she is currently in South America. Despite the rest of us advising him against it, Dangerous Dave refuses to be swayed. It is clear to me that he is intent on proving that, somewhere out there, a woman exists who is mental enough to go out with him. To the surprise of absolutely no-one but Dave, she isn't that enamored at being called at some ridiculous hour. Obviously we are only hearing one end of the phone conversation but the message is quite clear. “What do you mean Fuck off and go to bed Dave?'
At the third time of calling the conversation clearly getting a bit wonky. Dave exits his flat and steps out on to the balcony to spare us all the gory details. After a minute or so, the phone gets drop kicked off the balcony and goes spinning into the street. Dave returns to the living room and begins selecting various CD's from a book shelf. He then returns to the balcony and throws them off as well.
Dave walked into his kitchen and took a beer from the fridge but not before he decides to take out a litre carton of yoghurt and throw it at those of us sitting on the sofa. Much to his surprise it comes flying back at him and splurges the wall in strawberry yoghurt.
Now, this is the point where it all goes horribly wrong. Within 3 minutes the entire contents of Dave's fridge are adorning his walls. Butter, Bacon, Margarine, Milk, Cheese, and Lasagne are all thrown in an almighty food fight...which I filmed on my camcorder!!! When the Margarine went flying Johnny and Anton {Team B} copped a broadside and decided to take off their t-shirts to avoid further grease stains.
Eventually we ran out of stuff to throw and the melee died down. Suddenly there was a forceful knock at the door, accompanied by the crackle of a walkie-talkie. It is the cops. It later transpired that Dave's neighbours had mistaken his ranting phone argument, and subsequent CD trashing, for a domestic dispute. They did not realize that the person with whom Dave was arguing was actually 3000 miles away on the end of a phone and not actually in the flat next door.
I peered through the spy hole to see two cops in the corridor. Only one thing for it. I stepped into the bathroom and grabbed the tooth paste and gave myself a Fu-Man-Chu mustache and toothpaste eye brows, before opening the door with a completely straight face. Camcorder still recording. 'What's the problem officer?” Behind me in the hallway are two nervous looking 21 year old handsome boy Swedish musicians. Naked from the waste up and greased with margarine. The cop looks bemused.'Making a film are we sir?”
The cops saw the funny side of it and, with little more than a quiet word about keeping the noise down, they went on their way. After more giggling we began the job of trying to clean up. It isn't long before Dangerous Dave lets out a roar of annoyance. A flying tub of room temperature margarine had strafed his prized collection of Hawaiian shirts that were neatly ironed and hanging on a clothes rail in the hall. The tub had ended up on his bed and was currently oozing the last of its contents through his duvet and into his mattress.
Not one of the twenty, or so, Hawaiian shirts had escaped. Dave inspected the damage whilst grunting and cursing to himself. Suddenly there was something of a light bulb moment. 'A ha!” said Dave. It crossed my mind that maybe our host had just recalled that he had an aerosol of grease remover stashed under the kitchen sink? It would need to be the size of a fire extinguisher, I thought, if he was going to manage to clean them all. Dave wandered back into the lounge and began to scan the room as he thumbed his chin. There was another 'A ha!' as he went out onto the balcony once more. He returned carrying a folded wooden garden chair and, without so much as a word, proceeded to have a total Basil Fawlty moment, using it to completely trash the contents of his hallway. Including his ridiculous Hawaiian shirts. Quietly and calmly the chair was then returned to the balcony.
Ever the courteous host, Dave tells Anton and Johnny they can have the bedroom. I realize quickly that neither of them had yet noticed where the rogue tub of margarine had finally come to rest. Dangerous Dave made himself comfy in a recliner chair and I finally stretched out on the sofa. I have been up for over 24 hours by now. I can hear Dave beginning to doze and I know I am only a matter of seconds behind him. The house is finally silent and the tranquility is descending. Just as my consciousness finally slips away, I hear a tirade of Swedish swearing. Roughly translating as 'What the fuck is all this greasy shit?' Dave and I both begin to giggle. He speaks without bothering to open his eyes. 'Oops, Sounds like someone has just rolled over into the wet patch'
This is much welcomed as Universal Records budget for this trip would hardly get us all dinner in McDonald’s. The band have got the short straw. Whilst organizing the trip I discovered that a Swedish friends nineteen year old brother is living in Camden town with three of his buddies. Having sent him an email, and offered a hundred quid incentive, the four friends have agreed to bunk in together for a couple of nights and lend the band a room and some bedding.
Now, whenever I have house guests staying over, I tend to have a clean up and tidy around before they arrive. However, I had forgotten the filthy habits and scummy existence favored by most 19 year old males who have only recently vacated the family home. The flat looks like someone has emptied a garbage bin in every room and hall. I know this isn't the reality because the real bin is currently so full of trash and crap, it has almost as much trash sitting on it, as actually in it. The toilet looks like it hasn't be flushed in a month.
Flat 4, 28 Camden High Street is the shittiest shit hole shit box of a flat you would ever hope NOT to have to sleep in. The opportunity to stay at Dave's nice apartment simply means I don't have to share their misery. I guess I should feel sorry for them but fuck 'em! We have all had to do it once or twice.
The first gig is in Kilburn and it's a really good night. Two of the band head off into the night with various friends and the rest of us grab a cab and head back to Holborn via Camden. In the cab is myself, DDJ, Anton, the bands singer, and Johnny, the drummer. As the boys dejectedly climb out to go back to their wonderful digs, Dangerous makes an announcement. “Fuck it! I'm not ready to call it a night yet. Lets grab a case of beer and everyone back to mine.” Anton and Johnny couldn't have looked happier if they had just won the lottery.
We arrive at Dave's place, stick on a few tunes, and get stuck into a the beers. Myself, Anton and Johnny have been up since 1.30a.m the previous day so we are now pretty jaded and just happy to be chilling. However, Dave has other ideas. In his slightly inebriated state Dangerous Dave decides it is a really good idea to phone his honey. The flaw in the plan is that she is currently in South America. Despite the rest of us advising him against it, Dangerous Dave refuses to be swayed. It is clear to me that he is intent on proving that, somewhere out there, a woman exists who is mental enough to go out with him. To the surprise of absolutely no-one but Dave, she isn't that enamored at being called at some ridiculous hour. Obviously we are only hearing one end of the phone conversation but the message is quite clear. “What do you mean Fuck off and go to bed Dave?'
At the third time of calling the conversation clearly getting a bit wonky. Dave exits his flat and steps out on to the balcony to spare us all the gory details. After a minute or so, the phone gets drop kicked off the balcony and goes spinning into the street. Dave returns to the living room and begins selecting various CD's from a book shelf. He then returns to the balcony and throws them off as well.
Dave walked into his kitchen and took a beer from the fridge but not before he decides to take out a litre carton of yoghurt and throw it at those of us sitting on the sofa. Much to his surprise it comes flying back at him and splurges the wall in strawberry yoghurt.
Now, this is the point where it all goes horribly wrong. Within 3 minutes the entire contents of Dave's fridge are adorning his walls. Butter, Bacon, Margarine, Milk, Cheese, and Lasagne are all thrown in an almighty food fight...which I filmed on my camcorder!!! When the Margarine went flying Johnny and Anton {Team B} copped a broadside and decided to take off their t-shirts to avoid further grease stains.
Eventually we ran out of stuff to throw and the melee died down. Suddenly there was a forceful knock at the door, accompanied by the crackle of a walkie-talkie. It is the cops. It later transpired that Dave's neighbours had mistaken his ranting phone argument, and subsequent CD trashing, for a domestic dispute. They did not realize that the person with whom Dave was arguing was actually 3000 miles away on the end of a phone and not actually in the flat next door.
I peered through the spy hole to see two cops in the corridor. Only one thing for it. I stepped into the bathroom and grabbed the tooth paste and gave myself a Fu-Man-Chu mustache and toothpaste eye brows, before opening the door with a completely straight face. Camcorder still recording. 'What's the problem officer?” Behind me in the hallway are two nervous looking 21 year old handsome boy Swedish musicians. Naked from the waste up and greased with margarine. The cop looks bemused.'Making a film are we sir?”
The cops saw the funny side of it and, with little more than a quiet word about keeping the noise down, they went on their way. After more giggling we began the job of trying to clean up. It isn't long before Dangerous Dave lets out a roar of annoyance. A flying tub of room temperature margarine had strafed his prized collection of Hawaiian shirts that were neatly ironed and hanging on a clothes rail in the hall. The tub had ended up on his bed and was currently oozing the last of its contents through his duvet and into his mattress.
Not one of the twenty, or so, Hawaiian shirts had escaped. Dave inspected the damage whilst grunting and cursing to himself. Suddenly there was something of a light bulb moment. 'A ha!” said Dave. It crossed my mind that maybe our host had just recalled that he had an aerosol of grease remover stashed under the kitchen sink? It would need to be the size of a fire extinguisher, I thought, if he was going to manage to clean them all. Dave wandered back into the lounge and began to scan the room as he thumbed his chin. There was another 'A ha!' as he went out onto the balcony once more. He returned carrying a folded wooden garden chair and, without so much as a word, proceeded to have a total Basil Fawlty moment, using it to completely trash the contents of his hallway. Including his ridiculous Hawaiian shirts. Quietly and calmly the chair was then returned to the balcony.
Ever the courteous host, Dave tells Anton and Johnny they can have the bedroom. I realize quickly that neither of them had yet noticed where the rogue tub of margarine had finally come to rest. Dangerous Dave made himself comfy in a recliner chair and I finally stretched out on the sofa. I have been up for over 24 hours by now. I can hear Dave beginning to doze and I know I am only a matter of seconds behind him. The house is finally silent and the tranquility is descending. Just as my consciousness finally slips away, I hear a tirade of Swedish swearing. Roughly translating as 'What the fuck is all this greasy shit?' Dave and I both begin to giggle. He speaks without bothering to open his eyes. 'Oops, Sounds like someone has just rolled over into the wet patch'
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Dangerous Dave and the Foo Fighters Escapade.
Things are all a bit mad today. It's Thursday. I've flown over to the UK to sit in on a studio session in rural North Yorkshire, followed by catching a couple of gigs in London with a mad man called Dave Johnson. Dave is a journalist in his spare time but his main job is getting steaming pissed and starting fights. Maybe that should be the other way around. {?} Anyway, we're standing in some Camden doss house venue when my phone rings. 'You need to get a flight in the morning Ian. MJ are opening for the Foo Fighters in 48 hours time. OK, better stay focused and work out what needs organizing prior to Saturday. Dave informs me that he couldn't get tickets for the recent Wembley gig. A drunken moment of brotherly love causes me to invite him back to Stockholm with me in the morning.
This was something of a rash decision. I've traveled with Dave on several occasions and it never goes well. On the first occasion I had invited him to join us for Le Mans 24 hour race. He drank 6 cans of Stella for breakfast,locked the keys in the car TWICE, thew up in the Cafe Du Opera, and made friends with a German gay bear who, due to Davids constant paralytic state, he hadn't quite realized was now intent on shagging him, even if it meant burglary.
The second time we went to the Nobel Peace Prize presentation in Oslo. For some bizarre reason we got asked if we wanted to interview Tom Cruise, who was presenting it that year. Dave spent a couple of focused hours formulating his questions, nearly all of which related to being short or wearing platform shoes. He then succeeded in getting us thrown out of the roughest bar in Oslo and drank a litre of blue label vodka on a 90 minute flight. And now he's coming to Stockholm. Oh, yes, and he managed to fall off a staircase in a hotel and land on the table of some well mean Russian dudes, who proceeded to take him to the toilets and flushed his head down the pan. Going on assignment with Dave Johnson is not a straight forward thing.
So far so good. The only thing that has happened is that the bus from the airport caught fire and we then sat on the side of the road for an hour until another one came to collect us. Pretty minor, all considered. It's Friday night and tomorrow my bunch of young signings get to walk the boards with the biggest band on the planet. I'm pretty fucking chuffed. I must say. Dave and I head to my local and get a plank steak and a few pints. All passes pretty much without incident, other than David telling some loud voice pensioner to shut up her yacking and being told to 'go fuck himself'' in return.
It's Saturday morning and I've just walked into H&M, bought new jeans, boots, and shirt, and walked out in them, leaving my old ones in the changing room. Dunno why, it was just that kind of day.
We arrive at the 80,000 plus venue and get fucked about by a twat called Robin who works for Luger, the event organizers. Finally I get my passes and manage to blag Dave onto the press list, although he has no intention of doing anything other than drinking and falling down. It's a very jolly day, not least because the FF catering tent has more in common with the royal enclosure at Ascot. Breakfast, lunch and dinner cooked by Swedish chefs and a free cigarette machine that Dave empties in about 2 minutes. My lot get the crowd going and it's a blast to watch it from the side of the stage. The rest of the day is then spent schmoozing in the backstage bar with the gorgeous Maja Rapp, whom I predict will be the President of Europe in a couple of decades time. Nicke from the Hives comes and has a chat, as does Dregen and Nick from the Backyard Babies. It then gets a bit wobbly. Some arrogant little spud I won't name, except that he's called Nalle, gets right on my beak and I end up slapping his pudgy face.
He slopes off but returns with the cops and accuses me of assaulting him. What a mummys boy!! Dave attempts to get involved but thankfully takes the hint to fuck right off, and I convince the cops that Nalle is totally drunk and fell into my hand when he stumbled on am old tent post hole in the grass. Nalle is screaming his face off that I am lying , which I am, but the cops take a look at him staggering about and give me the benefit of the doubt, albeit with a warning to behave myself.
We retire backstage and run into the recently arrived Dave Grohl. He's a lovely fella and the most unpretentious dude on the planet. However, despite Mr G's warmth and hospitality, Dave can't resist sneaking into Dave Grohl's dressing room and stealing two bottles of Chateau Pirie 68.
Neither can Oskar, MJs guitarist who then steals Dave Grohl's leather Converse boots. I am unaware of these acts of theft until Dave Grohl walks out on stage at Hurricane festival and dedicates the next song to 'The fucking bastard who stole my boots last night' and Dave Johnson, already loaded down with 50 packs of Lucky Strikes, produces two 300 dollar bottles of wine in my kitchen at 4 am. However, it was blinding stuff. Going on past events, this was one of the more passive
Dangerous Dave encounters. Amen to that.
This was something of a rash decision. I've traveled with Dave on several occasions and it never goes well. On the first occasion I had invited him to join us for Le Mans 24 hour race. He drank 6 cans of Stella for breakfast,locked the keys in the car TWICE, thew up in the Cafe Du Opera, and made friends with a German gay bear who, due to Davids constant paralytic state, he hadn't quite realized was now intent on shagging him, even if it meant burglary.
The second time we went to the Nobel Peace Prize presentation in Oslo. For some bizarre reason we got asked if we wanted to interview Tom Cruise, who was presenting it that year. Dave spent a couple of focused hours formulating his questions, nearly all of which related to being short or wearing platform shoes. He then succeeded in getting us thrown out of the roughest bar in Oslo and drank a litre of blue label vodka on a 90 minute flight. And now he's coming to Stockholm. Oh, yes, and he managed to fall off a staircase in a hotel and land on the table of some well mean Russian dudes, who proceeded to take him to the toilets and flushed his head down the pan. Going on assignment with Dave Johnson is not a straight forward thing.
So far so good. The only thing that has happened is that the bus from the airport caught fire and we then sat on the side of the road for an hour until another one came to collect us. Pretty minor, all considered. It's Friday night and tomorrow my bunch of young signings get to walk the boards with the biggest band on the planet. I'm pretty fucking chuffed. I must say. Dave and I head to my local and get a plank steak and a few pints. All passes pretty much without incident, other than David telling some loud voice pensioner to shut up her yacking and being told to 'go fuck himself'' in return.
It's Saturday morning and I've just walked into H&M, bought new jeans, boots, and shirt, and walked out in them, leaving my old ones in the changing room. Dunno why, it was just that kind of day.
We arrive at the 80,000 plus venue and get fucked about by a twat called Robin who works for Luger, the event organizers. Finally I get my passes and manage to blag Dave onto the press list, although he has no intention of doing anything other than drinking and falling down. It's a very jolly day, not least because the FF catering tent has more in common with the royal enclosure at Ascot. Breakfast, lunch and dinner cooked by Swedish chefs and a free cigarette machine that Dave empties in about 2 minutes. My lot get the crowd going and it's a blast to watch it from the side of the stage. The rest of the day is then spent schmoozing in the backstage bar with the gorgeous Maja Rapp, whom I predict will be the President of Europe in a couple of decades time. Nicke from the Hives comes and has a chat, as does Dregen and Nick from the Backyard Babies. It then gets a bit wobbly. Some arrogant little spud I won't name, except that he's called Nalle, gets right on my beak and I end up slapping his pudgy face.
He slopes off but returns with the cops and accuses me of assaulting him. What a mummys boy!! Dave attempts to get involved but thankfully takes the hint to fuck right off, and I convince the cops that Nalle is totally drunk and fell into my hand when he stumbled on am old tent post hole in the grass. Nalle is screaming his face off that I am lying , which I am, but the cops take a look at him staggering about and give me the benefit of the doubt, albeit with a warning to behave myself.
We retire backstage and run into the recently arrived Dave Grohl. He's a lovely fella and the most unpretentious dude on the planet. However, despite Mr G's warmth and hospitality, Dave can't resist sneaking into Dave Grohl's dressing room and stealing two bottles of Chateau Pirie 68.
Neither can Oskar, MJs guitarist who then steals Dave Grohl's leather Converse boots. I am unaware of these acts of theft until Dave Grohl walks out on stage at Hurricane festival and dedicates the next song to 'The fucking bastard who stole my boots last night' and Dave Johnson, already loaded down with 50 packs of Lucky Strikes, produces two 300 dollar bottles of wine in my kitchen at 4 am. However, it was blinding stuff. Going on past events, this was one of the more passive
Dangerous Dave encounters. Amen to that.
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