From Iron Maiden, Metallica and Slayer to Elton John, Take That and Lu Lu, I’d do it all. Sometimes as many as three concerts a week and usually in Glasgow, my nights would be a loud, brutal assault on the senses followed by a morning packed with guilt ridden memories and beer induced thumping headaches from yet another crazy musical adventure.
. . .
“Shit”! I shout without intending the pun as I reach across noticing the empty toilet roll.
I’m alone in the toilet of a small venue hosting an Ozzy Osborne tribute band and without checking for paper I just artexed the inside of the pan. Doesn’t take a great deal of time to realize what must be done. I get my hands dirty then make a bee-line to scrub my shitty hands in the sink hoping no-one appears. What else could I do?
An hours later and I’m standing on front of the stage feeling the effects of too many beers and a mixture of spirits, I lean over the stage. My eyebrows evaporate and the smell of singed hair drifts from my long hair and beard as a large flash from the pyrotechnics blind me, sending me staggering dazed and confused across the almost empty dance floor.
On seeing this the bouncers come to my rescue, whisking me away to have my eyes washed in the sink, making sure I won’t sue. I find myself in conversation with the prick whose job it was to almost blow my face off with his fire show and discover he had been given the go ahead to flick the switch but hadn’t seen me hovering in the wrong place at the wrong time.
My beard looks better now anyway as it was tied up tight letting the flames fry the loose ends making it look that little bit smarter. A neat trick I don’t intend on trying again anytime soon. Resigning my-self to a seat for the rest of the night I drink Jack Daniels until the room spins.
The night draws to a close and people begin to squeeze towards the door. I don’t even realize I’m being sick but, I have to trust my eyes when I see the fountain of vomit projecting from my mouth onto some-ones back as everyone squashes together aiming towards the exit like a bombs went off. I scurry off through the masses’ distancing myself from the scene of the crime.
Stopping the taxi beside a cash-point on my way home I find my cards not working. The driver remembers something about all the cash machines being down between two and three this-morning for reasons I can’t recall, but I remember I have money in my bedroom and we set a course for Newbridge. The Motorways closed. Due to repairs, the driver turns off the meter and makes a massive detour around the city not even accepting a tip when we finally make home. Good that he was so trusting. The last taxi I was in called the police on me and I finished my journey in the back of a patrol car so taxi drivers arent all a bunch of wankers then.
I wake the next morning looking like a smouldering rat while my liver cries in pain. My heads cut but it later comes back to me that I’d sneezed and headbutted my glass sending it accross the floor in a million jagged pieces. I think the bar staff were too busy laughing to bother moaning about that.
I’m never drinking again I promise myself yet again. Yeah, well. I’m sure we all know what happens to those promises.