These boots weren’t made for walking …… July 2007

I watched a film the other night. It was all about a bloke who found he could travel back in time to change not only his life but everyone else’s around him. It was called “The Butterfly Effect” and if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it. So I was thinking “if I could go back and change something, just one thing, what would it be, and what would be the consequences?”

Several possibilities emerged, but probably the worst decision of my life was the time I took a pair of brand new cowboy boots to Liverpool over the Beatles Festival weekend. I was so pleased with them I forgot to pack anything else like a sensible pair of trainers, or even a pair of flip-flops.

So first order of the day after the mandatory first few beers on arrival was to unpack, at which point the revelation about the footwear problem became instantly apparent. My logic dictated as soon as I realised my misfortune was that I would simply go out to the shops at a convenient time and simply buy another pair of “something” to see me through. Brilliant. I had a plan.

We then somehow lost about 10 hours between settling in, getting to the Adelphi to check in the gear for the gig that night and finding a restaurant. By now, the new boots were beginning to feel a little ‘uncomfortable’, and we still had a gig to do. By now, all the shops were shut being as it was 10pm but the adrenalin of working yourself up for a big gig more than adequately compensated for any wimpish feelings in the tootsie department. By now, it was too late ….

I thought we would try and find a quiet corner to relax in for an hour or so before the gig but being accompanied by one of the most recognisable faces in Liverpool resulted in an agonising bout of standing around chatting to well wishers and old friends from previous years whilst being plied with various offers of fags and booze along the way. By the time we got anywhere near the dressing room, I was virtually hopping on one leg at a time, which is probably where bloody line-dancing originated in the first place.
So we did the gig, and it was a blinder, as all the gigs in Liverpool usually are. Even if you think at the time it’s not going so well, the crowd just kind of lift you all the way along to the end and they are brilliant, every time. It’s why we do it, more than any other reason. By the time you come off, you feel like a proper rock star.

But at some point, you start to come down. And not only do you have to give yourself a reality check, but that niggling little problem you had earlier is now a pile-driving demon on speed. Why didn’t I take my boots off at that point? You may well ask. But I looked ‘cool’ and I was hard. Even if I actually wanted to cry and scream like a b**ch I would not allow myself to look a plank by walking round looking like I had just run a marathon on broken glass carrying a guitar in one hand, and drink in the other, a fag in the gob and a pair of rather snazzy boots under one arm. You get the picture. It just ain’t rock ‘n’ roll, man. Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea. In the Adelphi lounge there are areas away from the main hall where you can grab a sofa and a table and just sit with a quiet drink to unwind, so I spied an available seat and suggested to Bob that we ‘just chill out for a minute’ before heading off back to the digs. The thought of tramping any more than just a few yards was unbearable in itself, and Bob luckily agreed.

Now, Bob Bartey (one of my oldest friends and the reason why I was in this predicament in the first place) is probably the warmest, friendliest person you will ever meet in your life. Bob will take time out to talk and listen to anyone, and is genuinely interested in everyone and everything which is a rare commodity. To have Bob as one of your closest friends is a blessing and a curse in equal measure, if I may be permitted to explain.

As we sat there contemplating the evening’s events we were soon joined by a veritable crowd of admirers and associates, all of whom were more enthused by Bob’s account of the gig and all things mop-top than they were about my podiatry problems. I know – I could hardly believe it myself. Anyway, the relief of just sitting down was enough to quell the beast, and the 5th pint certainly helped as well, along with the third whiskey (some bloke produced a whole bottle from his trousers – well, it would have been rude to refuse) oh, and the odd Jack Daniels to boot. Doh! Don’t mention the boots!

So now it’s 5am in the morning. Bob and I are absolutely hoarse from singing all night entertaining the crowd and by now completely gone in the head. One of the best nights of my life. Tired, drawn, knackered, blitzed, over & out. Time to go home. It was daylight outside, and people were starting to open their corner shops and cafes. I think one of us tried to order a kebab from a rather bemused News Agent, to no avail. Miserable bugger. Sod ’em then.

By the time we got back to the hotel, my last words to Bob were “These f****ng boots have been killing me all day and all friggin’ night – I’ll be so glad to finally get them off!” … and disappeared into my room.

I have been woken by many strange sounds in my life. Birds tapping at the window, dogs howling in the garden, but this was a new one on me. As I stirred, I thought I was still dreaming and all I could hear was Bob’s infectious laughter in the distance. But it grew closer as I roused from my slumber, and closer, until I realised I wasn’t dreaming at all, but now wide awake. I turned, and realised I was still fully dressed. And I mean FULLY dressed. Bob was beside himself stood next to my bed virtually weeping hysterically. Yep …. the boots were still on.

So what would I have changed? Well, I think I should have asked for a Mars Bar instead of a kebab…

What are the odds …. June 2007

Well, I’ve got my half-a-guitar and I’ve just bought a neck off some bloke on Ebay. By rights, I now have everything I need to build the perfect instrument, except I have sneaking suspicion that it’s all going to go horribly wrong. You know that bloke off The Fast Show – Unlucky Alf – who falls down every hole, loses money through a hole in his coat or get’s hit by a road sign having just missed the bus ….? That’ll be me in a few years. Old before my time and definitely in need of a four leaf clover just once in his life.

I’ve played the lottery for years and hardly won anything of any note – perhaps the odd tenner for every £250 put in. Never won on scratch cards, never won on horses. I did win a family holiday to Disneyland once, flights and Disney Themed Hotel and all passes for a week and spending money included. But apart from that I’m really unlucky.

I’ve often found that in a 50-50 situation, I usually should have picked the other one. If I back a horse in the National, it’ll be dog meat before the rest have jumped Beechers Brook. Only I could end up pissed on a train at 2 in the morning in London having to sing Arsenal football songs for 2 hours and talking in the most bizarre mockney acccent having ignorantly stumbled into the carriage not realising what lay in store (which would have been bloody obvious to anyone else – the fact they were all wearing Arsenal shirts and swinging Arsenal scarves out the window would surely have been a bit of a clue to even the most inebriated fool … but no, not me) to avoid getting turned over by a bunch of Geordie hating “Oy-Oy!” East Enders on their way home from a good large-up “da’an the ta’an!”… I mean, how many times does “Oy-Oy!” seem really, really funny when someone shouts it out? Not nearly enough times, I can tell you ….

Anyhow, I don’t hold out much hope of this thing fitting togther. I’ll probably be disappointed, I usually am. But I’m an eternal optimist – I’ve always looked forward, never back, which was a real shame they day I got run over by a bus but that’s for another time …..

Everything that goes around …. June 2007

I had cause to visit the dentist a few weeks ago. Well technically it’s the Hygienist – a very nice lady who scrapes all the tartar and plaque from ickle toothy pegs with Mr Tickles and Mr Picky. You may have gathered it took some persuading for me to make this a regular occurrence.

I took time out during the working day to pop over and get the job done. For days before that I had been very good with my flossing and avoidance of red wine and black coffee. I even stopped playing poker for a while as well. That’s got nothing to do with visiting the hygienist but always good for credit if you wanna go to heaven.

So I spotted a parking space right outside the church opposite. There was a car right behind me, occupied by one of our non-male driving types. You know the sort – no need for indicators, exclusive use of the middle lane, can’t park for s**t. OK, watch this. A quick demonstration of how it should be done, missus – are you taking notes? Good. Pull alongside car in front giving ample room to maneouvre. Into reverse, turn in, check mirrors, glance over shoulder, turn in and crunch.

Hang on – that’s not right. Crunch? That should be ‘done’ not ‘crunch’ surely? Well, your surprise was no less unexpected than my own. Looking round, I had completely misjudged the car in front and had simply smacked into the side of it with my front wing. Went immediately  into “you didn’t see that pretend it never happened be cool and just pull out again nobody noticed and there’s no-one around and the owner of the car is probably miles away anyway … ” mode and find another (bigger) space just across the street and park up. Get out, tentatively. Damage was not insignificant. It looked like I had driven into a brick wall (albeit sideways) at 40 mph. Dented and scraped wing, scraped bumper, broken indicator cluster. THe £££ signs immediately popped up. This is a Saab. I swore since I off-loaded my cash burning BMW I would never again entertain such an economic drain on my resources, but I couldn’t resist.

The damage to the other car was minimal. Well, from this distance it was anyway, which eased my overburdened conscience at any rate. I could just make out the car was still the same colour as when I hit it so that was fine.

I glanced at the church and the inevitable thought hit me. “God saw you do it. You can’t escape. You will go to hell. You don’t even floss regularly.” Well, I was sure God would also make sure the other car’s owner was suitably compensated when it came to handing out wings at the end of the day, and if God was here then he’d make a very credible witness, and me a millionaire to boot. Logic therefore dictated I should take the only course of action open to me and leg it.

Now you may wondering what the pay-off is here, and those of you with considerable life experience would have probably worked out what that will be. Yep – on returning to my car the other day having spent nigh-on £500 getting it fixed up, I found myself the distraught owner of a Saab 9-5 minus drivers wing-mirror, completely shattered and mangled and hanging by the electric cable, with a huge black bumper scrape down the very same wing I had just had repaired. Obviously, no note from the other ‘driver’.

My conclusion is that God must works in the claims department and I would imagine has already put aside a set of cast-iron wings just for me. Well, I won’t go to hell. I floss you know. Sometimes.

They say God moves in mysterious ways. Have you ever seen me dancing ….?