No is a Four-Letter Word

by Chris Jericho

  I would wake up each morning and say to Biff with surprise, “Wow, you’re still alive? You know people of your advanced age (he was sixty-two) die in their sleep all the time.”

  He could give as good as he got, however, and justified the substantial number of fans who attended Fozzy’s VIP meet and greets by saying they were all wrestling fans who could care less about the “wank music of Fozzy.” I would then point out Fozzy’s pretty female fans in the crowd and explain to him that they were called “girls,” something that Saxon rarely had in their audiences, which were made up primarily of denim-and-leather-wearing dudes.

  The rivalry got more serious at the House of Blues in Dallas, when Biff informed me that we weren’t allowed to use the venue’s entire lighting rig during our show because that was reserved for the headliner.

  “No problem, Biff. As a matter of fact, you can turn off ALL the lights if you want. We’ll play in total darkness and still blow your band away.”

  We argued about everything and no topic was off limits. But nothing caused as much controversy between us as THE CHICKEN.

  Yes, Constant Reader . . . THE CHICKEN. A subject so hotly debated that it still elicits laughter from every member of Fozzy whenever somebody brings it up. We’ve even written a rap song about it that goes something like this:

  Where’s my chicken?

  I want chicken!

  I love chicken!

  Give me chicken . . .

  How did this flavorsome fowl become such a contentious topic you might ask? Well, it started early in the tour when Biff happened to walk into our dressing room and saw our rider on the table. A band’s rider usually includes fresh fruit, a deli tray, potato chips, various chocolates, soft drinks, etc. However, Fozzy’s rider stipulates that along with all of that stuff, there must also be a roasted chicken in our dressing room at every show. That’s a little unusual, I’ll grant you, but I made sure to include THE CHICKEN on the rider, to make sure that we got at least one healthy meal during the day.

  It must’ve been a good idea, because band after band from Steel Panther to Slash’s Conspirators have followed my lead and included one on their riders after touring with us. Why Biff, who’d been touring since the Dark Ages, had never thought of adding THE CHICKEN to his rider I don’t know, but he was not happy that Fozzy had one and Saxon didn’t.

  “Why do you have a chicken, Jericho?”

  “Because I asked for one, Biff.”

  “Where’s my chicken?”

  “Did you ask for one?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s why you don’t have one. Now get the hell out of our dressing room, you old fuck.”

  Moments later, I heard him berating his tour manager for not getting him a chicken. Even though he had one the next night, he must’ve kept forgetting to include it on Saxon’s official rider, because he would constantly grumble, “There’s Fozzy’s fuckin’ chicken again” or “Well, why does Fozzy get a fuckin’ chicken and we don’t?”

  Biff’s bitterness over THE CHICKEN became a running joke and was a constant laugh for us that helped make the tour go by quicker. But after six weeks of being together constantly, Biff and I needed a break from each other, and I was happy when we got to the final show at the Venue in Vancouver. However, after such a successful run, I wanted to make sure that Biff and his guys had a proper sendoff back to the UK.

  So I asked our tour manager to buy five roast chickens and five silver platters and bring them into our dressing room during Saxon’s set. We grabbed the perky poultry, put them on the silver platters, and waited for the right moment to strike.

  Saxon tore the house down that night as they always did (they’re one of the best live bands I’ve ever seen), and the crowd was going nuts as they winded their way towards the end of their set with a rousing rendition of one of their biggest songs, “Wheels of Steel.”

  Every night they broke it down and led the crowd in a massive “Wheels of Steel” chant, and that was going to be our cue. When the sing-along started, we grabbed our silver platters and ambled onstage to serve Biff his much desired CHICKENS.

  They had no idea the gag was coming, and when they saw us walk onstage, they burst out laughing (but didn’t miss a beat) as we fed them various wings, drum sticks, and breasts. Biff stared at me with a “you little shit” look on his face, but I could tell he thought it was pretty funny. After the band had eaten their fill, we threw the rest of the tasty bird into the audience so the fans could enjoy a snack as well.

  It was an awesome moment, and if you were there that night in Vancouver, feel free to hit me up on the twittah at @iamjericho and let me know if you were able to grab a piece of THE CHICKEN!

  After the show Biff said, “That was a good one, you wanker. I was going to buy a couple of electric fans, tear open some pillows, and blow the feathers at you from the side of the stage during your set.”

  “But you didn’t, Biff!”

  “Yeah, I decided I didn’t want to torture myself by sitting through your whole show.”

  Well played, Biff! Treat yourself to a CHICKEN on me.

  THINKING ABOUT the Saxon rib still makes me smile and is a perfect example of going the extra mile to make an experience more memorable whenever you can. You won’t regret it . . . and it always makes for a better story.

  My Wise Cousin Chad and I have made it a tradition to attend the annual Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductions. We’re obsessed with music, and thanks to meeting the amazing Betsy Hill of Rolling Stone magazine at our first ceremony, we have the ultimate connection to hook us up.

  In 2015, it was announced that Ringo Starr was finally being honored by the Hall as a solo act and would be inducted by his old bandmate Paul McCartney. Wise Cousin Chad and I were stoked, because we have been huge Beatles fans since we first got into them at the same time in the early ’80s.

  The show was in Cleveland that year, and Betsy was able to get us arena floor passes, which was awesome because that’s where all the inductees and VIPs sat. The only catch was we didn’t have an actual seat at any of the tables, so even though security couldn’t kick us out, we didn’t have anywhere specific to go. So our plan was to roam around the floor and stay out of everybody’s way. But if we stood at one spot for too long, security would tell us to move, and we would simply wander to the other side of the venue. Because of Ringo’s induction, musical royalty were everywhere. I literally bumped into Stevie Wonder and Sting, Bruce Springsteen, John Legend, and my buds Alice Cooper and Dave Grohl walked by us at various times. Joan Jett was the first to get inducted, followed by Lou Reed and then the Five Royales. As each act was honored, I noticed Paul and Ringo with their wives sitting at a table at the front of the venue, along with Olivia Harrison and Yoko Ono. As is custom, whenever an act was inducted they would play a short set of their biggest hits, or another artist would play a few songs in tribute to them. At that point, the entire crowd would stand up, cheer along, and watch the artists rock, so nobody really knew who was sitting where. I decided that’s when I would make my move.

  I’d been waiting my whole life to meet Paul and had tried several times at his gigs over the years, but had been shut down by security every time. However, tonight I had my chance.

  When Green Day was inducted, everyone gave them a standing ovation as they began to play. I’d never seen them before and they were incredible, full of energy, and had great crowd participation. It was the perfect time for Wise Cousin Chad and me to make our way up to the front of the arena unnoticed, so we pushed our way through the crowd and situated ourselves at a table directly behind the Fab Two. We gave a friendly greeting to the other people at the table, like we had been sitting there all night and they grinned back, having no idea that we didn’t belong there. I didn’t care if they did anyway, because we were Beatle hunting and that was serious business.

  As I watched the bobbing mopheads in front of me, I couldn’t believe I was standing only a few feet from the two biggest rock stars on the p
lanet, legends whose band had influenced me and the world more than any other. Their silhouettes walking across Abbey Road were even tattooed on my left arm. It was a surreal experience, especially seeing Paul rocking out to Green Day when they performed “American Idiot.” During the song, Billie Joe Armstrong led the crowd in a rousing “HEY!” between the main riff, and Paul seemed to be screaming the loudest, throwing his fist up in the air with every shout.

  Finally, Green Day finished their short albeit powerful set and Macca got up to leave the table with his security guard following closely behind. I assumed he was going to the loo, so I decided to follow. To not be so obvious, I walked down a different row of tables than they did, leading to a fork in the furniture road, where Paul and I ended up face to face. I’d been waiting for this moment my whole life and knew I only had a few seconds to make a good impression before the bathroom window closed, so I opened with my best line.

  “Hey, Paul, I saw you rocking to Green Day. They were pretty damn good, huh?”

  Not a bad start. I didn’t want to pull the old “thank you so much for the music” fanboy speech like I did when I first met James Hetfield. I knew nothing would get me on the “creepy fanatic” radar quicker than that line of conversation.

  Paul looked at me and replied good naturedly in his Liverpool lilt, “Yeah, they were pretty fookin’ good, man.”

  Okay, that was encouraging. I’d gotten a response from him on a dude level, not a “go away stalker” level. Now it was time to unleash some witty repartee and show him I was a hilarious cat worthy of hanging out with.

  “Hey, man, I see you have your security in front of you. Just want to let you know that I’ll be your backline security if you want . . . you know, in case any ninjas try to attack you.”

  Paul looked at me quizzically.

  “Ninjas? Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Then he turned to walk away. Even though I hadn’t received an offer to spend the night at his house or gotten his email address, I’d still had a conversation with PAUL McCARTNEY and I thought that was pretty gear. Mission accomplished!

  But I wanted more and couldn’t contain myself, so I finally unfurled my fanboy freak flag, threw my arm in the air and blurted out, “Hey, Paul . . . HIGH FIVE!”

  Paul glanced up at my raised palm, and to his credit decided not to leave me hanging. He gamely slapped my hand and walked off to piss.

  I couldn’t believe what had happened. I’d taken a chance to meet Paul and it worked! Wise Cousin Chad and I shared a high five of our own and squealed like a couple of Apple Scruffs in 1968.

  We decided to hit the bathroom before grabbing another cocktail from the friendly waitress who had taken pity on us for having no particular place to go. She’d been quite gracious with the Yeah Boys, and we were pretty buzzed by the time we got to the canski. It was a big lavatory with two sections, the first equipped with sinks and urinals, and the second boasting a row of stalls and more basins. The pissers were all occupied, so I went around the corner and was waiting in line, when an official-looking guy wearing a suit with an official-looking laminate hanging around his neck stomped over.

  “Everybody needs to clear the bathroom. I’ve got Yoko coming in.”

  The other guys in the biffy chuckled, but Suit-and-Tie Guy wasn’t laughing.

  “I’m serious, Yoko is coming in here so everybody has to leave.”

  There was no doubt that this guy was serious, so everybody followed his directions and got out of the bathroom.

  Everybody that is, except for me.

  The washroom cleared out fast, leaving me completely alone in the room. So in the fine tradition of having a good time all the time, I decided to stick around . . . inside one of the stalls.

  There were three of them lined up in the bathroom, so I chose the middle one. I went inside, locked the door, and then crouched down on the edge of the commode like a teenage camper hiding from Jason Voorhees in a Friday the 13th movie. I’m not sure what my plan was, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, until I started thinking about what I would do if she decided she wanted to use the middle biffy.

  I waited for a few minutes until I heard the distinct Japanese accent of Yoko Ono. She was with another lady, and why wouldn’t she be? I mean even Yoko goes to the bathroom with a friend, right? The bad news was my chances of being busted in the middle cubicle had just doubled.

  I crouched on the stall helplessly waiting to be exposed, but the moment never came. No one tried to open my cubicle door, and I thanked Lucy in the sky with diamonds that I’d been left undetected.

  I waited in silence, wondering what was going to happen next. I got out my phone and texted Wise Cousin Chad discreetly—DUDE, I’M HIDING IN THE SAME BATHROOM AS YOKO ONO!

  Now, let me take a moment to say there’s no question that my actions were incredibly creepy and totally invasive to Ms. Ono’s privacy. But the whole thing is also pretty fuckin’ funny and makes for an amazing story, so I accept and own said criticism. Now back to our story.

  After a few carefully timed minutes I stepped off the throne, unlocked the door, and came face to face with Yoko Ono. I couldn’t believe how tiny she was, but her presence was huge. I raised my hands and looked around confusedly.

  “Oh my goodness. I am SO sorry! I thought this was the boys’ bathroom!? I’m sorry for interrupting you, Yoko.”

  She didn’t seem fazed.

  Still, I felt weird and I wasn’t sure if she believed me or not, but I don’t blame her if she didn’t. I’m sure stupid idiots like me pull this type of shit on her all the time and she deals with crazy fans on a daily basis. But even though I might’ve been crazy, I wasn’t a filthy animal and still wanted to wash my hands, so I sidled up at the sink next to hers and struck up a conversation.

  “Are you having a fun night, Yoko?”

  I couldn’t believe how surprisingly pleasant she was under the circumstances. After we exchanged a few words, I soaped up and washed the lather off my hands under the lukewarm water from the tap. When I was done, I turned the faucet off and shook my hands to get rid of the residual drops. Then I looked around and noticed that all of the paper towel receptacles were empty. At this point one of the security guards came in with a stack of napkins and gave them to Yoko.

  As she dried off her hands, she noticed I was towelless and offered her stack of serviettes to me.

  “Here, take one of these. You can’t leave with wet hands.”

  I was touched by her offer to spare a square.

  “Thank you so much, Yoko,” I said as I grabbed a napkin and dried my hands off. “I hope you have a great night!”

  “Thank you,” she replied, and was shuffled off by her handlers, the biggest of which stared at me like he wanted to rip my clean hands clean off.

  “Wow . . . I have no idea what just happened!” I declared to the guy in amazement and brushed past him out the door.

  Wise Cousin Chad was waiting outside and burst out in laughter when I told him what happened. Once again, I know it was a creepy thing to do, but it made for the tale of a lifetime (and a great chapter for this book) and therefore was worth it. However, I would like to officially apologize to Yoko for invading her privacy and thank her for being so gracious to me, even though I’m quite sure she knew I was full of shit . . . or pee in this case.

  The night progressed and we decided to go straight to the front row for Ringo’s speech and the subsequent mini-concert, where he played his biggest hits with Paul, Joe Walsh, Paul Shaffer, Joan Jett, and the Green Day guys. If you ever see the telecast on HBO, you might notice a guy who keeps blocking McCartney’s face on the hard camera shot by waving his tattooed arms in the air like he just don’t care. Constant Reader . . . of course that was me.

  When the ceremony was over, Betsy got Wise Cousin Chad and me passes to the exclusive Rolling Stone after-party, which once again was packed with dignitaries. I had great conversations with Billie Joe from Green Day (a Fozzy fan who’d enjoyed watching Ric
h and me on a recent episode of VH-1’s That Metal Show) and Paul Shaffer, with whom I’d been on the Jimmy Fallon show a few years prior. We also saw drummer Anton Fig literally eating a fig, and gave our favorite fashion designer, John Varvatos, some sage advice.

  “Please don’t ever go out of business,” Wise Cousin Chad stammered as John nodded and took notes. But the biggest star of them all was once again only a few feet away. I noticed Paul having a drink with his wife and Joe Walsh in the booth next to us. People were approaching him and asking for autographs and pictures, but after already having my McCartney moment earlier in the night, I didn’t want to bother him any further. Plus, after hearing him mention on Chris Hardwick’s podcast (curse you for getting him, Hardwick!) that he loved talking to fans but felt very uncomfortable when they asked for a picture, because at that point he ceased being Paul and turned into “That Famous Guy.”

  With those words in mind, I was happy just hanging around his general vicinity and drinking in the froot vibes he was sending out. However, when he got up to get some food he was surrounded again, so I decided to extend an offer of help.

  “Hey, Paul,” I approached and said, “if you’re getting bothered too much, just let me know and I’ll clear everybody out of the way.”

  Confused by my offer, Paul looked up at me and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. I could tell he remembered me from earlier! I was on cloud #9, because this was the part when he was going to say he watched me on TV and was a big fan of my work. Then he would give me his cell phone number, follow me on Twitter, like me on Facebook, and become my new best friend! (Sorry, Kevin Owens.)

  Paul opened his mouth, and as I prepared to accept his invitation to go on tour with him, he threw me a curve ball.

  “Who ARE you, man?”

  Hmmm . . . that wasn’t what I was expecting. But maybe I hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “Who ARE you, man?” (nope . . . I’d heard him) he repeated with his whimsical accent. “I saw you before . . . are you a security guard or a cameraman?”