Summer 1997.
2 a.m
The black cab makes it way up the Edgware Rd towards Maida Vale. I’m accompanied in the back by my girlfriend and The Agent. We’re on our way home from a self congratulatory magazine award show. It was the usual roll call of journalists, photographers, music execs, ‘celebrity’ guests, yes men, hangers on and last, but very definitely least, musicians. All back slapping each other for dear fucking life, whilst simultaneously looking over the shoulder for someone more important to talk to. It’s all largely cocaine drivel, which won’t matter after tonight…tomorrow…or indeed, ever.
Back in our cab, we laugh about the embarrassment and blatant desperation of it all. We are young, in our primes and at this point in our lives, still newly acquainted. We did not know each other a year ago.
Suddenly, The Agent freezes.
His face turns ashen as the blood drains from his head to his stomach, revealing the white of his one remaining open eye, now fixed, with a foreboding dread. There’s a pregnant pause before he hoists his index finger up, like a Northern Krishnamurti minus the wisdom, and quietly states:
“hold on a minute, Pete... “
There follows a short gurgle.
A burp.
And then...
...a perfect arc of dark red wine which slaps the screen that divides us from the driver with so much velocity it all but cracks the Perspex.
Which looked not unlike this:
We are now adults on the naughty step of licensed Hackney carriage life.
The otherwise pristine taxi now drips with the contents of The Agent’s stomach. It is an aromatic mix of forest pine air freshener, with hints of bile infused Shiraz, topped off with a note of completely fucked off driver.
5 minutes later we’re outside my flat where the cab owner continues with his angry diatribe, although somewhat pacified by the promise of a £50 cleaning surcharge and a hefty tip as my girlfriend rushes inside to grab some cleaning products.
Me?
I’ve got to be at an airport in 3 hours.
I say goodbye to The Agent, leaving him in a crumpled heap. Though mildly traumatised, he’s cognisant enough to haul his inebriated carcass forward and pull me in by the arm to address me.
Through his half-closed bloodshot eye he slurs...
... pleading…
“don’t tell anyone about this, Pete, okay?”
Ok, ‘The Agent’...
I won’t.
A little later… I’m unsteady, but on my feet. It’s 4.45am. It’s still dark outside and I’m still drunk. A car is coming to pick me up in a few minutes to take me to the airport. Destination? Somewhere in Belgium.
I’m gonna need a special kind of ‘wake up call’. A little toot, if you will.
I put an empty blue plate into our cheap microwave and, after the 1 minute ping, I mindlessly throw my right hand inside to lift the now nuclear hot chinaware. I get it about 5 inches from its heating glass before my pre-numbed nervous system kicks in and punch fucks my pain receptors.
Brilliant.
I am already deadly tired, and now my right hand’s proper fucked.
Later that same day…
From centre stage, I’m looking out at the overcast sky. It’s a so so gig at best, but fuck it, I’m not at all sentient. I have a creeping paranoia and have already dropped 5 plectrums due to my ‘third finger and half a thumb grip’ that I’ve had to adopt due to my early morning ‘heroics’. I’m a mess, and more than a little intimidated by the sea of barely interested festival goers, who are waiting for Metallica (probably).
I decide now is the appropriate time to shake things up a little.
I stride purposely towards the centre stage microphone, taking the deepest breath possible for a chain smoker on one hour of sleep, and roar - from the bottom of my burning, acidic, appendix scarred stomach - with the little reserves I have left:
“COME ON BRUSSELS...SHOW US YER’ FUCKIN’ MUSCLES!!!”
Therein follows a little movement in the crowd. A few heads are now animated. People are reacting a bit.
Job done.
10 minutes later, post gig, and I’m in our dressing room slumped in a chair. A white towel draped over my tired and aching head. There is a cold beer in my left hand and a Marlboro Red burns a long ash between the third and little finger of my badly singed right hand.
My trusty, and kind spirited, bass tech wanders by. A knowing smile has replaced the usual glint in his eye.
“Alright?” I ask him, curiously.
“Aaaaaaaye, Pee-tah” he replies, in his lilting Middlesbrough accent “or at least I know what f’kin’ town I’m in!”
“Eh?” I blurt.
He smiles sympathetically, before letting me know, North East style.
“We’re in Liege... ya daft cunt!”