by Tyla Pallas
- Great, I’ll get my things and we’ll settle up.
Steve and me waited in the bar. Gordon comes over looking at bit flushed with the room receipts in his hand.
- Had a good night did you guys?
- Yeah why?
- Well including our meal and bar tab, my room came to £160, your room Steve was £320 which includes a two hour phone call to London, and Tyla your bill with extras comes to just over £500! What did you guys get up to after id gone to bed? Nuffin much really, just had a nightcap and a few snacks.
Polydor went absolutely ballistic and never sent us on another promotional weekend, ever! I think the single or album or whatever the hell we were supposed to be promoting went in an out of the charts peaking at number 22 or something. Oh well easy come easy go.
This bloke – Andy - came round my gaff in London one time. He bought a few pieces of art of mine but had his eye on a more expensive one. He contacted me a few days later and offered to drive me around for a week or so doing shows in return for the art. I agreed. He turned up in a beautiful burgundy XJS. For those who don’t know what that is, its a Jag. A 1970’s Jag. Hardtop and very cool! Along with Eddie my roadie and a guitar an a box of merch and a few beers and a carton of Marlboro we set about the country. Twas a Summer night in June we happened to bump into me old mate Spike who was playing the same venue. Him in the large room with his blues band, me in the café, after. So correctly billed, he supported me as he went on at 9pm, and I went on at 11pm. I do recall he joined me for a rendition of ‘How come it never rains?’ while sitting on my lap! Anyhow lets rewind to before the show. We pull up in the Jag and Spike’s there already. His eyes lit up.
-Who’s is the motor? He says
-Mine I says and I’ve got a great story!
I tell him that a bloke who ripped me off for a few cd sales agreed to give the Jag in payment. He fell for it hook line and sinker. Though he’ll deny it of course.
Next time I see him he takes me outside and shows me his new car. A silver, wait for it..XJS.
- Bloody hell. How much did that set you back?
- £4,000 he says..in Geordie!
- £4,000! I says! I just sold mine for £2,000. You could have had mine for that.
-Ar ya kiddin me?
-No straight up, I lied, I’ve got a classic Jag now. A mark 2.
-A mark 2! Ye bastud! Where is it like?
-In the garage - I’m having it reupholstered an sprayed..Black.
-Ye bastud!
This went on for years. I never purchased a Jag in my life, whereupon Spike has purchased now wait for it...12, yes 12. Twelve Jags! That was until he recently took his UK driving test, now he’s not allowed to drive anything above a certain size engine for ages. I however (until he reads this) have not stopped. He now thinks I own Keith Moon’s Rolls Royce, the one that ended up in the swimming pool!
Time: Approx. 5 pm
Month/Year: October 2008
Weather: Murky and grey
Place: Outskirts of Cologne
Car: Audi
Drink: Merlot
- Are you ok? Inquired MH
- No I’m not actually. I think It’s broken. I grimily replied. A funny thing happened as they used to say, or maybe not so funny eh?
- We will laugh about all this one day. I said.
So now is the time to laugh. Actually I laughed at the time. Well one has to have a laugh doesn’t one? (Stiff upper lip type accent)
Here we go then. It was the day after the opening of my 1st Art exhibition in Germany, which on this occasion happened to be in Cologne. The previous evening had gone quite well with a handful of art collectors attending who also turned out to be connoisseurs of free vino collappso. Well isn’t everyone? There was the usual plonker who couldn’t decide on which painting he wanted for his office and was asking if I could do something similar in cobalt blue to match his shirt sort of bollocks. The thing is you have to smile cause nine times out of ten they are serious about these sorts of things.
Blimey! Come to think of it I might as well tell this one while we’re on the subject, excuse me while I digress.
I once had a woman from the US who incidentally still owes me $200. Anyway I had to do her a couple of pieces to match the colour (color) of her sofa. A cool burgundy but really it was a nightmare. She paid me in installments after I ever so kindly sent her the art before receiving payment. I was so trusting back then. And she wasn’t the only person not to pay up, it happened once more and from a British fella! For Gods sake what is the country coming to. I stopped being so generous after that. As Tommy Cooper once said. ‘Its not the principal, it’s the money’
Bowl of Rum anyone? So back to Cologne. The masses having thinned out we being MH (who I might point out at this point was my booker, tour manager, merchandise seller, driver and general organizer of all things touring) the guy who arranged the art gallery, and the bloke who had temporarily commissioned the cobalt blue matching canvas’s. The nearest restaurant we stumbled on was a stones throw from the gallery. Thai. It was also one of those Thai gaffs that adopted the jungle décor complete with cricket sounds and those tables where from the outside it appeared that you were sitting on the floor, but there was in fact a trench cut around the table, so you sat normal as in a chair but your bottom was floor level, get it? Anyway on a quick glance at the menu, which was not only in Thai, German, French, Spanish but also English. I immediately spotted what I thought was a typo
- A bowl of Rum? I inquired as to what they meant. They did in fact mean..’A bowl of Rum! We ordered a few bottles of beer, a bottle of red (Italian) and of course it goes without saying. A bowl of Rum’ It arrived looking very similar to a bowl that your Nan might serve a rather large trifle up in the ‘50s. And it didn’t look unlike a trifle with a weird white froth on top. It also sported 4 very long straws. The food arrived, splendid green, yellow and red curries were scoffed and I do believe another bowl of Rum was called for. Bellies full - senses slightly numbed - we headed back to the accommodation provided by the art and to be gig promoter, via I might say a very interesting Mexican bar where I was introduced to a new an quite tasty way of downing Tequila. We have all had the celebrated shot accompanied by lemon or lime and salt, but here is a new an deadly new partner. Orange and Cinnamon. A delightful little mover on the pallet. God knows how many we had, but apparently still vertical an caught up in early morning rush hour I had called my girlfriend Stephanie in Blighty to inform her that I had conversed with the dead. She told me not to be so silly and find my bed. Nine euros in a taxi took me to the said bed, and I lay my head until the clock struck noon. I didn’t wait around for the hangover to catch me up, we (MH and my good self) dined ASAP.
With the daunting reality of a five-hour car drive to Bremen I ordered a dusty Chianti (bottle) A cheeky little mover which will break the ice around one’s noggin when being on the receiving end of 2nd class travel arrangements from ones brethren. The Hun. With my Penne Arribiata. Sufficiently filled we headed to the gallery and sampled a few glasses of red before setting off on out marathon afternoon drive. We couldn’t have been more than a few hours into the journey when I suggested we stop at a supermarket and pick up supplies. That being wine, water, bread, cheese, ham, mustard, crisps. I might point out that we were on the wrong side of summer but I had taken off my shoes for the journey and that for some unknown reason I had also removed my socks and slung them out of the window of the car. We came upon a decent looking store and I again for some unknown reason decided I wouldn’t bother lacing up my brogues and went shopping a la Sandy Shaw. What a bleak place we had stumbled upon, the whole market had an Eastern Block feel, but they had all we needed so we paid an made our exit. Upon returning to the car I began to reminisce of my childhood and my fondness for the game of soccer, which alas has dwindled over the last thirty odd years and my knowledge of football today is nil, nil. Back in the 1970’s though it was a different story and so I suddenly had the urge to re enact a certai
n free kick as taken by Eddy Carr? A Scotsman playing for Coventry, whereupon he runs at the ball but instead of kicking it he flicks it up between his ankles and the guy behind him volleys it into the back of the net. It was a cracker! Not sure if it was disallowed though? My attempt was not so flash. I replaced the ball with an empty plastic bottle of green tea that I had discarded in the car a few days previous. I was up and down in a split second and the sound that came from my foot was a mixture of the crunching of bone and the ripping of tendons. The pain rushed up my leg through my body up through my face and if I had had a chimney in the top of my head I’m sure it would have had smoke belch out as in Tom and Jerry. I maintained my composure but remained horizontal on the X commy asphalt. MH then asked me if I was ok. I suggested it might be more than a flesh wound. He helped me to my foot and maneuvered me into the passenger seat of his Vorch Sprung Dirk Technic and headed for the nearest A & E. Within 15 minutes we were at a hospital. We pulled up at the entrance I hopped out past an array of patients in dressing gowns and pyjamas. They were all smoking cigarettes and their skin looked grey and their expressions were vacant. Within seconds we were informed, in German of course, this hospital failed to have an A&E section, and were re directed to one, which was quite near as it happened. When we got there we were informed that there would be quite a wait as a big traffic accident had just beaten us to the post. I was seated in a wheelchair and decided to open a bottle of Beaujolais. I find this a fruity number that is a splendid accompaniment to a suspected fracture of the 5th metacarpal. The waiting room and hospital all seemed deserted and there was a solitary TV in the corner with no sound on. We waited and waited and waited and I managed in that time to fall out of the wheelchair twice, once backwards and once forwards. Onto my bad foot of all things. Ouch!
Finally after about 4 or 5 hours I was wheeled into X-Ray and then into another adjoining room to be given the verdict.
- Ja, das ist Kaput! were the exact words of the Doctor who bared a striking resemblance to Giuseppe, Pinocchio’s maker. There was a lot of talk, obviously again in German which turned out to be about the fact that I would need an operation to pin the bones, but this could not be done until the swelling had subsided in a week or so. This of course would prove to be a problem as I was about to start a 3 week tour of Germany, and its surrounding countries, but even more complicated was the fact that we were en route to Oslo, via Bremen airport before this bad stroke of luck hit us. MH asked if I wanted to cancel the tour.
- No way I said, I don’t use my foot to sing and play guitar, but I might have to drop the dance routines for a while.
They bandaged my leg up in a strange half cast method leaving the most painful part of my foot only swayed in bandage. And a great big plastic lollipop stick, running from under my foot to my knee. It was quite an interesting process having it fitted. It was heated up and then molded around my heel and foot and held in place for a few minutes. So back into the car and now our 4 hour drive, it was approximately 10pm. Looking on the bright side, there would now be less traffic.
I opened a bottle of Rioja. A wonderfully robust wine and perfect for late night journeys whilst wondering what the fuck had just gone on.
Fast-forward to 2.30am. We finally reach the hotel. Not your normal hotel I might add. Nothing in my world is normal. This was what is called a credit card hotel. No humans could be found in these establishments until the next morning and those were usually just the cleaners. As we inserted out credit card the screen flashed.
HOTEL FULL!
Fargin ice holes!
We just looked at each other and with a tired shrug managed a slight laugh of disbelief. Well nothing for it as we had to check in for out flight at 5am. We decided to drive to the airport car park and wait, and wait and wait. It was at this time that I decided to drop a couple of the super strong painkillers they had given me at the A&E. Bad idea. I tried to get in a comfortable position amongst the merchandise and guitars and luggage in a two-door hatchback and try an grab a bit of sleep. I woke, that is if I had managed to nod off feeling violently ill. I opened the door and projectile vomited into the darkness of the underground airport car park. I don’t think the barrel of red wines mixed with the Killers of pain. Well at least I didn’t join the choking on me own vomit club, of that I must be grateful. I sat there in the darkness, unaware of where MH had wandered off to. I felt, well let’s say, I’ve felt better. I then heard footsteps getting nearer and nearer, with a kind of reverb/echo of the car park accompanying them. But I could not see a bloody thing. It began to feel eerie. Nearer and nearer, louder and louder, I peered out through the car window straining to glimpse something, then suddenly the car door behind me swung open. Jesus! I nearly, had I had anything in my stomach, shit myself. Then MH’s familiar German voice spoke out.
- You awake?
- ’kinel! I am now!
- Ok. Unfazed by my relief he says,
- We should check in.
- Blimey is it that time already?
And so to check in with a no frills airline, you know the one. I was feeling rather weak to say the least, but the fact that I was dressed for the artic didn't help. The sweat dripped off me, this being on crutches keeping one leg off the ground is easier said than done let alone in the state I was in. Slowly but surely we made it to the check in desk, where the ever friendly staff greeted us with the usual contempt they have been trained to dish out. Papers please! There was the usual argument about the amount of luggage one is allowed, and of course we were way over the weight and items limit, but with a bit of bartering we managed to get all our bags on for a villains price. They very kindly provided me with a wheelchair and a porter who swiftly wheeled me all of a metre and I was ordered out, off with my numerous cloaks, coats, jackets, chains, and general tat that I keep in my oh too numerous pockets, oh and hat, to go through the security. My favourite bit was one of the security guys ran the ‘bombometer’ up and down my various extremities and made his way down to my bandaged foot, which I promptly tapped quite hard, an right where it was broken to boot! Enough for me to say,
- Be bloody careful it is broken dear fellow, have a care at least. I mumbled under my breath. I was allowed back in my Sudan chair and wheeled out to the awaiting bird of steel. Well as far as the bottom of the stairs that was, from there I had to pull my own self up, hop by hop, the whole staircase shook. Clank, clank, clank. When I finally arrived at the summit and hopped into the plane I looked down the plane which was jam packed with what appeared to be just amazed looking heads which started for some security reason on seat five. I guess they wondered what monster was going to appear in the doorway after my dramatic entrance. Think Hammer House of Horror.
They sat me down in seat 5, sideways, next to a gentleman who kindly said I could put my leg across his lap if needed, I declined,
- Not on our first flight I told him but said I was very grateful. The rest of the flight was a bit of a blur to tell you the truth, apart from the onboard beverages, now normally châteauneuf du Pape doesn’t fly well but this brazen little hussy was a cloud tickler if ever I’ve experienced it. £70 was a bit steep for a glass though! It must have been a dream.
I don’t even really believe I had a drink. I remember landing though only to find we now had to take of all things a public bus to a train station, well I say a train station it was more a bus shelter on the bleak outskirts of Norway. Very kind the people were and we were helped on and off the bus with our luggage. The train arrived on the dot and we set off for Oslo. We both dozed in and out of consciousness, not noting the time and length of journey (see return journey). Finally we arrived at Oslo train station. We unloaded, well MH did, I just stood there on one leg feeling useless, that’s one of the annoying things about having broken bones, you feel fine in yourself once the initial pain, be it great or bloody unbearable has subsided with the help of various types of grape sampling, which would eventually lead into a fully blown flaming Sambuca addiction, more of that later. I sat with
the gear while MH went off in search of a trolley. What seemed like a simple task had me a bit worried when after 40 minutes he had not arrived (actually it was 33 minutes and 20 seconds He informed me upon his return). In the meantime of course me being the only solitary person on the platform I had the obligatory nutcase junky surface out of nowhere asking me for the odd coinage I didn’t need, and then proceeded to rant on about how expensive it was to live in this city! All I could think was if he tries to grab any of the numerous bags, guitars, the loaned £2,000 camera was my worst fear I would therefore have to give him a swift punch up the bracket.
My mind went back to 1984. Helsinki train station. Circa midnight. Where some young pretenders set me upon and whilst defending my honour the local rozzers took it upon themselves to lock up in clink for the duration of the evening.
With a sigh of relief I viewed MH like the cavalry complete with trolley pacing towards me, I should have filmed it and played it back in slow motion.
- Where the…. ?
- Don’t ask.
As we, or rather he, loaded the gear onto the trolley he informed me.
- To acquire said trolley a coin was needed… Norwegian coinage to be precise, of which (due to one of us coming from the land of Sterling and the other from the land of the Euro) neither of us possessed.
So then MH told me he had had to go and seek out a bank - of course it still being barely light none were open but he managed to somehow find one hence the wanderer, 33 minutes and 22 seconds later returned triumphant. Our next adventure within this adventure was to try and exit the station, again easier said than done, we were on the 1st floor, we found a lift which only went to the 2nd floor! Who the hell builds a lift that starts on the 1st floor? - the Norwegians that’s who! We then manage to navigate a steep winding walkway and exit the station, (which was under construction) so poor old MH had to push the trolley, which is not easy to steer on the flattest of surfaces, taking that they always have a dodgy front wheel. With me closely behind hopping like a good ‘un. What got me whilst on crutches, and I can tell you a lot of things got to me while being incapacitated over the following few months was the fact that people don’t move out the bloody way when they see you coming - they expect you to hop around them! Anyhow, we finally got a taxi which promptly drove us a mere 100 metres to the hotel door! At which we happened upon the unsuspecting lobby. I plonked me bum on a seat while MH went to check us in, of course no reservations had been made for us. Luckily the club I was due to play at was across from the hotel and in no time it was all sorted, quite unbelievable I can tell you, but nice when things go to plan for once. We were invited over the club for some food and a much needed drink. My hops became quicker and we plonked ourselves down for a well-earned egg, chips, bacon and glass of vino. A light morning Chardonnay. Then to the hotel room for a much needed kip before the show, it was about 1pm…ah 5 hours of sleep. When I awoke to the sound of traffic and rain my foot ached with every heartbeat. I decided to have a shower. With a leg in a cast..mmmm, let me think how not to get this wet, I used the plastic bag from the bathroom bin. Still it’s a bit awkward standing on one leg, I did manage to master the art over the weeks to come. We arrived at the club and were greeted by lots of friendly faces all quite concerned about my leg and quite upset when MH stabbed a syringe into my stomach. It’s a safety precaution that they use in Europe to prevent blood clotting, everyday for the next 6 weeks I had to go through this process, every bloody day, eventually I just did it myself, my stomach was covered in bruises. The show went very well, one person even came up mid song and kissed my injured foot, and another guy, after the show proposed to his Girl, She said yes, and I hope they are living happily ever after. We sold lots of merchandise and it made it all worthwhile, but as the hours rolled on way past the witching one MH informed me that we have to leave the Hotel at 6am to catch the connecting train a plane back to Bremen. Ah the life. No sooner had my head hit the pillow than my alarm call came through, and so the whole previous days events were reenacted backwards. Except for going to the bank for change that is. We made the train only to find that it would get us to the airport approximately 15 minutes before the plane was due to leave, It made us slightly unnerved as that particular company usually closes the gate 30 minutes before take off.
