by Tyla Pallas
On occasions when I call him, or him me, even with free Skype, I mean how lazy can one get eh? He will answer the telephone with such anecdotes as
-I’m up to me knees in water, the pipes have busted!
An I could visualise him standing up to knees in his living room and paddling about in the lives of the rich n Famous’s washing up water, which had seen fit to come up all of his plug holes. On another occasion whilst popping to the store, a 5 minute drive, for a pint of milk he returned after sitting in heavy traffic for over 30 minutes to find the majority of his belongings on his front lawn, very wet belongings that had survived the gas explosion from yes you’ve guessed it. His apartment! Well you get the picture, and there are a million others, ask him about Dan Ackroyd’s classic proposal, or Gregory Peck’s money conscious son, or Nicole Kidman’s ice machine or even Rod Stewarts swimming pool, or the time he took a piss in his mates kettle. If there isn’t a book waiting to be written and read by the masses in his life to date I’ll eat my Gibson (the chocolate one).
In fact Just as I was about to send this book to the printers Hornby called me to inform me of yet another cracker at his expense. He had ventured to the south side of Los Angeles, California to have his last remaining tooth pulled. Here it is, in his own words, which I remember from the conversation.
-So there I was sat in this dentist’s waiting room with armed guards on the door fer fucks sake! 11am my appointment was set for and there I was still sitting on me arse at 4pm, surrounded by some of the most salubrious characters from gangland. I finally get the call and I’m in an tooth pulled out. I goes down gets in me car turns on the ignition and the bloody low fuel red light comes on. Now I don’t wanna be breaking down in this neighbourhood that’s for sure so I take me life in me hands and find the nearest gas (petrol) station sling in a few gallons, swipe me card and I’m off. No sooner am I through the front door of me house than the phone rings and its me bank asking me if I’ve just put $1800 on me card to which I reply.
-No ‘@&*%‘kin way! In the time it’s taken me to get home me card’s been cloned! $1800 on bling no doubt an all for a tooth! See what I mean, He’s a one off legend id Hornby.
Once upon a time at lunchtime sometime in 1989 in a quaint little boozer in Kentish Town. Two lads, one from the Midlands and another from up North were having a quiet game of pool, due to them placing beer mats in each of the six pockets to block the balls from ending up back in the system which required 50p to release them back into the field of play. The Midlands lad drank Guinness, the northern lad drank lager. In the background was the feint sound of the Radio 1 Album Chart Show, it was therefore a Sunday night.
We now hand over to the bloke from the Midlands to continue the story in his own words.
All right, so here’s the situation, we are 20p short for another round. I go to the bog for a piddle and lo and behold down the piss filled Khyber is a shiny 20p coin. Here’s the dilemma, do I fish it out or risk the flush? Well I do have my standards, I wee and flush. Result! I fish out the sovereign and get up to the bar sharpish.
-Same again Landlord.
While he was pulling our pints the charts were still being counted down on the radio in the background…
-And straight in at number 16, The Dogs D’amour with A Graveyard Of Empty Bottles
I couldn’t believe my ears! Did I mention we were part of a rock ensemble, being the same Dogs D’amour? Yes I must have.
-Bloody hell Steve, I shouted,
-We’re in the charts!
I turned and said to the Landlord,
-That’s us that is!! to which he replied,
-Yeah and I’m Frank Sinatra, and you can take those beer mats out the pockets otherwise your barred! Again! That’ll be £2.20.
Thanks very much!
Talking of acid. I’ve only taken it twice in my life, out of boredom. First time while living in Barnes, over Hammersmith Bridge, keep goin’ right at the Red Lion. Manchester Dave a friend of Andy who lived in the same house as me had visited for the weekend. All he had gone on about was this bloody tab of acid so when he passed out we nicked it out of his wallet and hid it and forgot about it until a few days or weeks later. Now Andy and me had been trying to make homebrew, we had about 80 bottles on the go, and being inpatient decided to try a few before the ready to consume date. It was horrible, but then all the lids started blowing off one by one so we decided to try and drink them anyway. It was a rainy Monday lunchtime and we were skint. Then, Kerrching! The acid, tab. We could split it. Sorted! We swallowed it and still an hour later nothing.
- You feeling anything yet Andy?
- Nah nothing
- Oh I thought maybe you’d had the half with the LSD on.
- Nah.
Next thing I know I’m looking out the window at the reflection of the TV screen showing a black and white Monty Python. But the reflection on the roof is in colour. So I stuck my hand out of the window and held it flush against the glass and we watched Monty Python in colour on the palm of my hand all afternoon. That was it, it wore off by tea time!
Next attempt to take a trip, man was in 1988. Now residing in Kentish Town, North London. Not so skint due to having a bit of success and gigging a lot sporadically but again bored on a week off and deciding which video to watch we, being me and Steve James (Dogs bass player) decided to drop some acid, again at about lunchtime. Again a no show until Steve’s missus Catherine returned from the shops with the newspapers. There I was flicking through Kerrang and I came across a photo of myself aged 13, sitting with me shirt off and in my ‘A’ line brushed denims in a deckchair in Ibiza. I said bloody hell Steve its working, you’ll never guess what I’m seeing. I explained and I showed him the page. He said I’m seeing it too, how weird, man! Then Catherine who was not tripping had a look and said.
-You daft pair of twats! It really is you Tyla; its Blackmail corner isn’t it?
Blackmail corner was a section where I guess people found and sent in pictures of now famous rockers looking like tits, at least it wasn‘t the one of me aged 17 with a perm!
I still don’t know who sent the photo in either, don’t you hate that?
There’s no getting away from the fact that I have to admit to doing a few illegal things in my time. Yep drugs. I know it’s hard to believe, but its true.
It all started with a woodbine and a sweet sherry at the tender age of about 9. When I say Woodbine I mean Benson and Hedges, nicking the nub ends out of me dads trousers pocket when he sent me up for change. His kegs would always be hanging by their braces off the wardrobe door. I’d dig deep into the pockets for coppers and pull me hand out covered in loose tobacco an half finished fags. They smelt horrible, but I smoked them anyway. Sometimes I would pinch the occasional Embassy out of me mom’s packet that were on the mantle piece. When I had a chance I would also sneak a swig of Gin or whisky from the drinks cabinet in the front room, after a few months I used to top them up with tap water. But every Christmas new bottles would appear, a few drinks were had and then my mates and me would slowly empty and water down until the following Yuletide festivities came around. At 13 I looked old enough to get served in pubs, at 16 I was working on a building site and all me mates were 18+ and so it began; spliffs on the site, a line of pink Berwick, which was slang, Berwick upon Tweed = speed. Posh Berwick = Cocaine / Bolivian marching powder. I had a go at the lot. I hated having too much and trying to get to sleep in broad daylight and my eyelids were on rollers. Good laxatives as well most of them, as they were cut with all sorts of shit. I once had my blood tested and when the results came back the doc said I had everything from glucose, which I knew about cause I saw the bloke cut it an I had the job of testing the quality. Anyway in me blood on this occasion was not only film developer but also, and how I never died, cut glass!!!! This wasn’t from injecting either, it was from snorting. The doc gave me a tip, smoke Heroin if you must, and in his words,
- Apart from its addictive qualities it’s no more danger
ous than alcohol or cigarettes!!
I had yet to hear of anyone dyin from a fag overdose. But then I think the bloke from the Pretenders was one of the 1st coke ODs to be recognised that is. Don’t get in a hot bath, or shower off yer tits on coke. It did it for Whitney only this year.
Where I lived in Portobello there was a street called All Saints, nowadays it’s a million squid for a drum in that area, in the early ‘80s it was full of little black kids trying to sell you anything from boot polish to real hash, like a swarm around you, ten quid a pop. I wonder where those little men ended up?
I got a bit bored with the Heroin it was always a bloody nightmare to get hold of. Spent three quarters of my time waiting for someone not to turn up. Hash was simple, still involved waiting but usually where you were waiting the bloke had some to smoke, while you waited, when the man did turn up you either rolled a couple or bit some off the block in return. Two days later you would be sitting there again, that was until I got to Spain and me an my mates would split a soap bar up, it would last us a month at least, less if it was more fresh, but at least more than £20’s worth would last in the UK. Then while in Spain while I was managing to pack in the booze for over two years I somehow got into E’s and MDMA as well as the smoke. The result of taking all three combined was the worst ever constipation I’ve ever experienced and then the opposite. At the time I thought I was metamorphosing into an alien.
I would often cycle around Barcelona off my nuts.
Lets rewind backwards a few years to when I had a well documented win on the horses, but lost way more than I ever won. But then again history was written by the ones who won the battles wasn’t it?
One massive bloke in a boozer said to me once.
-You’re a millionaire Tyla, I’ll arm wrestle you for a million quid.
-Ok I said.
-But what if I win?
It was enough to put that seed of doubt in his mind and we bought each other a round or two. Actually I have a good arm wrestling scam, but I was told it by a magician, so…it remains a secret.
The best deal for hash I ever thought I’d scored was at Lisbon railway station after a mammoth 20 hours journey from Barcelona via Madrid. It turned out to be the worst deal, for when I burnt it, it turned out to be henna. I should of done me hair instead!
While on tour in 1990 en route to Paris. We were driving on the Parisian version of the M25. But this road/motorway made the M25 look like a smooth running autobahn. There we were in the morning rush hour moving at a snails pace until we came upon the reason for the delay. I was sitting upstairs at the front of out tour coach and so I got to witness at first hand a body sitting in a convertible in the centre lane - with his head and shoulders missing. What a site. Horrible as they put a cloth over him and the blood seeped through.
A few years later as I was walking from an underground car park on Hollywood Boulevard I saw ahead of me an LA rocker complete with crap bandana. What I didn’t expect was what he did next, he pulled a Clint Eastwood Magnum model pistol from under his coat and fired it once, at what I could not see, but I did once I reached the exit. I looked right and about 100 yards was a bloke lying flat out.
-He was comin at me with a belt! Whined the rocker
- With a belt??? So you shot him, I whined back.
I ran over to the guy who turned out to be a black homeless guy and see if he was ok, I lifted his shirt and all his intestines came out of his belly, I felt his back, no exit wound. He mumbled to me.
-Fuck you, fuck you…blurghhh
- I didn’t fuckin shoot you, I said.
By this time punters were coming out of the club and a crowd had gathered, somebody said my name and to leave it. I ignored them. No sooner had the ambulance and the Police got there and I was bundled into the front, yeah front not back of the Police car. I was apparently a prime witness, the rocker had already confessed and been cuffed. I was taken to the station and put in a waiting room with another guy, who turned out to be the wounded mans friend. He thought I was a friend of the rocker, and lurched across the table at me only to be apprehended in mid flight by the men in black. Then the weirdest thing happened. Another guy, rocker looking again was led into the room apparently he had witnessed the shooting as well. No sooner had he sat down than he whipped outa couple of Dogs albums for me to sign.
- Of all the places mate…whom shall I sign them to?
The bloke died from his wounds, so I presume the rockers life ended that night too. After hard days drinking in Hampstead in 1995 my friend Jay and I befriended a former member of the RSC. As it was last orders in the Flask she said she knew of a boozer in Camden called the Fiddlers Elbow, which would still be open. We flagged down a bus and set off in the direction of the Fiddlers. We went past it on the bus, all dark and shut. Fear not she knew of another boozer in Kentish town that needed a few secret taps to gain entrance.
Tap, tap, tapety tap
- Feck off we’re closed. Answered a voice inside.
It was then that we noticed a lively little Inn across the street, music blaring, laughter, singing and gallons of ale flowed down the necks of the clientele we entered and I immediately sensed a weird vibe. We ordered a round and sat down by the front bay window. Up the back end of the pub people were dancing and singing, then suddenly this guy attacked a woman with a glass wounding her quite severely in the cheek of her face, she did however remain quite calm as she asked the barman for help. Within seconds the riot squad were all over the gaff like a rash, but not really bothering us three. No kidding there were black Mariah’s and coppers with riot shields making several arrests, but we were left un touched until the barman casually said drink up now folks we’re closed. Then the woman we were with suddenly took a turn for the worse and walked off. We found here a few doorways up having a piddle. As Gents we went to the nearest kebab shop and managed to bump into a black cab driver that agreed to take her home for a fiver. Jay and me shared a bag of chips and made our way home. Another night.
A rainy Saturday morning in 1970. I was 9 years old and lying in my warm bed, blankets pulled up to my nose, looking over the top like Mr. Snood staring and listening to the rain kiss my bedroom window and watching the strange transparent amoeba like even hydra types which float in front of my eyes when there was knock on the downstairs front door accompanied by the doorbell ringing.
- Oh Hello Gary, said my mum in her best telephone voice.
- I’m afraid sleeping beauty isn’t up yet. She told him and I heard the door close. I jumped out of bed and ran into my Mum and Dads bedroom, which looked out over the fields at the front of our house. I opened one of the front windows and shouted to Gaz.
- I’m up now! I’ll be right down. On at lightning speed went my jeans, socks, Adidas trainers and my favourite item of clothing of the month - my purple tracksuit top. The rain had knocked off so we decided to get me Casey (leather football) and go and have a knock about across the stadium. There were two full size football pitches that only got used on Saturday mornings and sometimes at nights in the summer. We’d only just set up, one in goal one shooting until you scored then swap positions when it started to pour down. We legged it back to my house which was nearest and without a thought went into a game of ‘tick’, or ‘It’. Gaz ticked me and legged it through the thick glass door that led from our garage past the kitchen and into the back garden, but he turned shut the door and held the handle so I couldn’t open it. Very foolishly and being hot headed, like I was, decided I would shoulder barge my way through the door after him. It all happened in a split like a film everything speeded up. I didn’t hear a smash, or feel any pain but when I looked down at my right wrist that’s when it went into slow motion. I stood there for seconds looking at this massive slice of skin flapping back and I could see my veins then like a dam busting its walls it suddenly filled with blood, lots and lots of blood all pumping out of my little wrist
- MMMMMMUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM! MUM! MUM!
I ran into the kitchen holding
my wrist. Now my mum cannot stand the sight of blood. Sunday lunches and Xmas are chaos. She was holding a tea towel that she automatically wrapped round my wrist but no sooner had she wrapped it than the blood seeped straight through. By now Tricia my sister was there, and we ended out the front of the house, neighbours from the left from the right, all the bloomin’ street was heading this way. Everyone deciding what was the best thing to do.
-We need to call an ambulance. Someone said.
- I’ve already called for one. Someone else said.
- We best have a look at it. Someone else said.
The tea towel was peeled back carefully. There was a big
-Oooohh..! from everyone in unison.
- We need to get him to the hospital.
Mr. Poole my mate Steven’s Dad offered to drive me. Tricia and me were bundled into the back of his mini van traveller and we bombed it up the Royal. We entered the hospital and I remember seeing this bloke being wheeled into what I presumed was the operating theatre with a massive abnormality on his head like he had WC Fields nose growing out of his forehead. Only to be wheeled out the other door marked Exit, now he was sitting up asking questions and looking confused. They just rushed me straight in and lay me on the operating table and began. I was given an injection and began singing Rule Britannia, three monkeys up a stick over and over and over again while the doctors an nurses informed me of how many stitches they were putting in and asking if I could feel anything.
- No, Rule Britannia three monkeys up a stick! One cried the other one lied and the other one licked his…Rule Britannia three monkeys…
