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.