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This is a question Rock and Roll Stories

My personal Spinal Tap moment came when we got locked into the Festival Hall in London by accident. We ended up wandering the maze of backstage corridors carrying a three foot high piece of cheese looking for the one door that would lead us to salvation.

What goes on tour may stay on tour, but B3ta doesn't count. Tell us everything.

(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 13:47)
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This question is now closed.

You either love him or hate him...
Yes, I have been in a band but never really had any truly “Rock and Roll” experiences (apart from a Derek Smalls incident at Nice airport…). However, I will relate the experiences of one of my best mates who for a while was in one of the few rock bands on the small island that we call Jersey. Now this was back in the 80s and Ade and his band had been booked to play a small pub in one of the numerous fishing villages in the area. They turned up early in the afternoon to perform a sound check then sat down to do what all good rock bands do before performing i.e. get royally ratted.

However, before they could start, the door to the pub banged open and in walked a large, burly man who immediately yelled at the landlord, “Turn that fucking jukebox off! You don’t need that anymore! I’m here! I’m all the entertainment you need!”

Yes, it was the man. The legend. It was Oliver Reed.

Ollie, already clearly a little sozzled, found out that there was going to be a rock band playing and insisted on buying them a drink. He’s shown to their table where he proceeds to buy then a round. “So you’re the band are you!? What kind of fucking shit are you going to be playing for us then!?”

After the first round, he gets the second. And the third. And the forth. In fact, he gets every single round of the afternoon. No-one could match him. He would have drunk his pint while the band were barely starting theirs. If anyone dared to get up to get the next round he would shout at them, “Put that fucking wallet away you fucking cock! You’re too fucking slow! I’ll get them in!”

And true to his word, he did, every single time. By the time the band came to play, they were absolutely paralytic. Ollie though, was barely affected, still knocking back the pints without them even touching the sides. Before the band went on though, Ollie had to wave goodbye.

“Sorry I can’t stick around to see you play boys, I’ve got to fly to London to be on some fucking talk show!” And with that, he left, leaving Ade and his band to fuddle their way through their set barely able to see straight.

So midnight comes and the band stagger off back to one of their homes where they crash out with more beer and food. As they are popping them open, one of them turns on the telly.

“Come here! Now! Come here! It’s him!” he shouts, prompting everyone to crowd around the TV which appears to be showing some late night discussion program. And sure enough, there he is, wearing exactly the same clothes as he had on in the pub. There’s Ollie, late night on Channel 4, clearly pissed out of his gourd. They had turned the telly on just in time to see him turn to the resident po-faced feminist and say, “Frankly dear, what you need is a big hard COCK!” A turn of events that would see him barred from telly for several years. Some of you may even remember it if you’re old enough.

So here’s to Oliver Reed, far more Rock and Roll than most of us could ever wish to be. Peace.
(, Mon 3 Jul 2006, 13:07, Reply)
Nothing rocks more than Kittens
I saved a Kitten yesterday!

We have very deep storm guttering in our town that is six feet deep and a good five feet wide. It's needed for the rainy season (which is now...bollocks)and is infested with snakes and large tropical spiders (southern Japan)

I heard this pathetic "Meeeeeow! PLOP splash splash splash..." when I went across the road the get a beer from the vending machine the other night. Pull out my cellphone and switch on the light to find tiny little kittenness paddling around at the bottom of the open storm guttering. He was trying to jump up the sides but he would get halfway, run out of Kitteny power and slide back down.

Couldn't reach down far enough, so I ran over to my neighbours and borrowed their lads fishing net, scooped him up out of the drain.

When I went back a while later to get my beer I saw his mum carrying him across the road in her mouth.

Off topic, but like, I saved a Kitten!
(, Thu 6 Jul 2006, 3:48, Reply)
V Festival
One year I went back to my tent at night only to find someone already in it, enjoying a drunken sleep. We dragged him outside where he promptly woke up and ran off. He left his trousers in the bottom of my sleeping bag which contained his wallet and phone.

I phoned up his mum and explained that her son said left his trousers in my tent, to which she replied, "Oh dear, that does sound like something he'd do."

Rock on.
(, Mon 3 Jul 2006, 22:34, Reply)
.....I drove my Rover into a paddling pool.



(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 17:12, Reply)
Nine Inch Punch
During Nine Inch Nails first British tour, in 1991, they were lined up to play Birmingham Goldwyns (Capacity 600 or so). Despite the fact the drummer was in a cage to prevent getting knocked out by flying instruments, there was still damage. During one song, Trent leaned out into the crowd and started a lame form of crowdsurfing. Not sure exactly who was rolling around on top of me, and not taking well to be kicked in the face, I found my assailiants bollocks, and dispensed a couple of sharp jabs to teach him a lesson.

You can hear it on an old bootleg tape I have, as he stops singing and goes "OOOOF".

It was about then I realised I'd just punched Trent Reznor in the bollocks.
(, Fri 30 Jun 2006, 22:18, Reply)
"Rock and Roll": spirit of rather than men with guitars
My Dad's friend back in the early 70s. School trip to West Berlin. The class was an all boys catholic school and they were 16.

Height of the cold war.

Back when school trips were better, as in, no one was likely to get sued. The teachers all went down the pub and so naturally did the lads.

Half cut and in downtown Berlin, staggering back to their hotel, they pass the East German Embassy. There is barbed wire and there is guards. Officially, this is a little bit of East Germany in the West, complete with Stasi obs and everything.

They think it would be funny to climb the top of the building when the guards aren't looking and steal their flag. They do. Minor international incident.

Assembly two weeks later in Leeds 9...

the head teacher stands up in front of the school and asks,

"Whoever stole the east german flag from their embassy in Berlin, could you please return it."

ROCK and ROLL!!!!!!!
(, Fri 30 Jun 2006, 16:51, Reply)
I nearly got fucked by James Blunt
I mean, £40 for a ticket?! You must be joking.
(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 20:01, Reply)
Live at the Apollo
I ought to start by saying I cant play an instrument. Tone Deaf. The best way for me to get a tune out of a guitar would be to bang it against a wall, but I have played at the Apollo.

I was doing rope access work in Manchester when we got a job setting up lighting rigs for a concert.
We were up in the roof swinging on ropes as the band were setting up…once they had sound checked, the stage was cleared and was strictly off limits to everyone. There were even a couple of bouncers at either end of the stage to stop people messing with the instruments. Too tempting:

I quietly abseiled down onto the stage and got off the rope.

I walked to the front of the stage and picked up a guitar, which gave out a low frequency hum. A bouncer looked over at me.
I approached the Microphone. The bouncer started walking toward me.

In my best Rock and Roll voice I yelled “GOOD EVENING MANCHESTER!” and did what I thought was a good impression of a power chord.

The bouncer ran at me and did a full on flying tackle.
I was ejected from the premises and told not to come back. Ever.
(, Fri 30 Jun 2006, 19:03, Reply)
Orchestral tours
You probably think classical musicians are genteel types, right?


In my youth orchestra, we went on an annual tour. On the last day of this tour, there would be an award ceremony. Many of these awards were named after legendary past members of the orchestra, the most prestigious of which was "The Gavin Crook Award for Projectile Vomiting".

Gavin Crook played the trombone and was on his very first tour at the tender age of thirteen. On the way back from a concert, vicious quantities of beer were being consumed on the coach as usual, and Gavin, bless his little cotton socks, wasn't feeling too well.

Now, as you're probably aware, the toilets on a coach are usually situated about halfway, leaving a gap of a fair few metres between the toilet and the windscreen.

As little Gavin staggered to the toilet, the coach had to do an emergency stop. The impressive force with which the contents of his stomach made their way back into the world, coupled with the conservation of momentum, meant that he managed to chunder onto the windscreen from a range of about ten metres.
(, Wed 5 Jul 2006, 15:29, Reply)
David and Goliath
Slightly off topic but involving rock, and a sock. Names changed to protect the
involved, and because I can't remember them.

Once upon a time in Nottingham Rock City there was a drunken punter named David
and a surly bouncer named Goliath. Now David must have looked at Goliath in the
wrong way or made comments about his mother or been wearing the wrong shoes or
something, because Goliath decided to knock David unconcious, totally ruining
his night.

When he recovered from his ordeal, David planned his revenge.
A week or so later Goliath was again guarding the doors to rock city, jostling
gig-goers and grabbing meaty handfulls of underage girl's girly bits. So our
hero cooly walked into the scream bar on the corner, removed a sock and filled
it with 2 pool balls then secreted the sock sling in his pocket and marched off
to confront Goliath.

"Oi Goliath! Remember me?" David demanded, jabbing the bouncer in the chest.
"Yeah. You're that little cnut I sparked out last week." came Goliath's
"Yeah? Well remember this!"
Faster than greased lightning David grabbed his pool ball sock sling and swung
with all his might at the bouncer's head and...

Gently patted the giant bouncer's cheek with a wooly sock.
David had held
the wrong end of his cosh and the balls had fallen out into his pocket.

Now I'm sure most of you have experienced that moment of panic when your pupils
dilate, you exhale and inhale at the same time and you freeze just after you've
done something incredibly stupid and dangerous and your brain is frantically
trying to figure out a solution to your stupidity. Then all of a sudden there is
that moment of clarity when you calm down and realise exactly what to do, well
this was one of those moments. David knew exactly what he had to do, it was...

Hit Goliath again with the sock! Hit the giant violent bouncer again and again
with the woolen sock until he was dead.
David withdrew his sock from Goliath's growling mug and pulled his arm back for
another wallop and....

Woke up in hospital for the 2nd weekend running.
(, Mon 3 Jul 2006, 9:12, Reply)
I used to want to be a DJ (sorry).
I went through a phase of leaving a box of records in the boot of my car on the chance of a party.

Some mates and I went out clubbing as usual and got wind of a massive house party. When we turned up it was manic, the old turn of the century house was packed full of everyone from town that wanted to party past 2am. You could hardly move in the place it was so busy.

I mananged to get a slot, had quite good fun playing records and afterwards retired to the kitchen where the intoxicants of the previous couple of hours really began to kick in. I pulled a major whitey and knew puking was iminent. Due to the density of people, the toilet was out of the question. So I started to puke out of the window.

Which was directly above the front door to the house.

Needless to say I wasn't popular.

I carried on being very pale, sweating, feeling sick and generally not to well for a couple of hours when a guy came up to me:
"you were Djing earlier"
"Uhh... yeah"
"you've got to do some more"
"No chance mate, look at me, I'm on a big fat whitey, I even puked on some people out the window"
"You think that's bad, I've got to go to work in an hour, I'm a postman"

So back I went to the decks, covered in vom, shaking, white as a sheet, sweating like a rapist and played some more records.

I knew it was time to leave when I saw a girl with a big puke stain running from her shoulder to her waist point at me and say something to her big bastard boyfriend. He started making his way towards me with an "I'm going to sort you out" look in his eye. I made as if I was going to get a record out my box, but instead packed up (leaving a record playing) and cralwed out of the room pushing my record box in front of me. I legged it from the house in such haste I slipped on my puke and banged my coccyx on the way out.

The pain made me puke some more.

I run away from confrontation
I can't handle my drugs
Pain makes me puke

Very rock and roll, me.
(, Fri 30 Jun 2006, 13:41, Reply)
suprised it's not been done yet
So there, I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night.

So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweet shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweet shop.

Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopkeeper and his son... that's a different story altogether.

I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really, but sure enough I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 22:30, Reply)
call yourself musicians....?
Years ago.Playing a small gig in York, fairly rough pub, not too bad a crowd, except for an old pissed man that kept shouting to 'play some drifters' 'theyre better than this shite' etc. After being told, mid-song, that we were not going to play any drifters songs, he paused swaying in front of the stage. At the end of the song he announced - "Call yourself musicians? I just call you cunts"
And then wandered off slowly to the exit. Which was locked. So he had to shuffle back across the front of the stage to reach the other door. Pausing on the way to assert - "You're still cunts"

Nicest thing anyone ever said about us, really.
(, Wed 5 Jul 2006, 20:54, Reply)
I once had sex

with the guitarist from a rock band.

A guitarist anyway.

Well, I play guitar, so technically...
(, Tue 4 Jul 2006, 10:53, Reply)
Eleven years old, head choirboy, had to sing a solo of 'Once in Royal David's City'... Music came in...

I sang 'O' Little Town of Bethlehem'.

Then got into hard drugs.
(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 20:24, Reply)
Loads of it
In the happy heady early days of the web the company I used to work for did 'webcasts' in return for beer and transport. Sometime around 1996 we started getting jobs at big concerts, leading to many rock and roll anecdotes:

Playing football with Vic Reeves at some early hour, while a lunatic dressed in carrier bags attempted to be goalie.

Watching Noel 'even thicker than Liam' Gallagher doing an IRC chat with his fans and not having a clue who/where/what it was all about.

But, by far the best, we rented a classic rock-star sleeper coach to take us up to the Oasis Loch Lomond gig. Cue much chortling, drinking, and watching spinal tap. On the way back, we are all hungover and knackered and want to get back to London asap to unload all the kit and call it a job. At 7.00am, somewhere outside Birmingham, the coach slows down and pulls into a services. "Sorry guys, I know you're keen to get back, but I'm falling asleep here" says our driver. Not ideal, but fair enough I suppose. "I'm going to have to have a quick stop." He then proceeds to pull the coach to a stop at the side of the slip road. Without leaving his seat, he gets an old VHS tape box, and chops out a great fat line of coke from one corner to the other, and proceeds to snort the lot. Then repeats in other nostril for balance. Then gets back on motorway for another 4 hours. Result.
(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 18:55, Reply)
Rock the Establishment
Hardly original, but I once smoked up a joint in a Buckingham Palace toilet. There was a fellow outside with a sword and a horse-tail helmet - the full works, and there was me inside toking up a fat one. Luckily, i'd dropped my guts just before lighting up so the two stenches sorta mingled, cancelling each other out in the nasty way air-freshner does.

Then, wall-eyed and out of my gourd, I proceeded to mingle with the other guests invited to witness the investitures. I met one of my heroes, Ian Botham, and I swear he was looking at me jealously because he knew I was boxed, and Michael Caine called me a drunk, so I called him a shite-hawk and told him that there are plenty of treatments that can rid a man of the shards of greasy scalp that coated the tired old hack's shoulders.

It got worse - I dropped a fart during the ceremony that could have been heard in Wapping, and when the smell hit I was laughing so hard without opening my mouth that tears streamed down my eyes, I was a right old mess :-D
(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 15:42, Reply)
Bill Bailey
Back when I was trying to co-run a comedy club, I held a run of Edinburgh previews (or more accurately the person with the contacts organised it and I did the donkey work and techie stuff, such as it was).

We had Bill Bailey in for one of the shows and before the doors opened we were getting his kit set up.

I was trying to be all cool and knowledgeable (despite being largely clueless, not a great combo I admit). So when he asked me if I had a DI box I breezily replied - "Yeah you can DI into the amp no problem mate".

We had a Yamaha PA and it was pretty good for it's cost and size and had a DI socket, like the crappy practice amp I had at home so I at least knew what that was. I thought he was referring to that when he was asking for a DI box but I didn't want to look foolish asking questions so instead looked foolish by making assumptions.

"No, I need a DI box if I'm going to plug my guitar into that PA" said the bearded one (still very patiently and nicely).

Once again I told him he could DI into the amp.

Slowly, patiently, like you would a child, BB explained what a DI box was, why he needed one and asked again if we had one.

I went into full on shoe-gazing mumbly arsed-ness and said "Oh. Um, no then."

He said "No problems, I'll do all keyboard stuff tonight".

And he did, he was great too (he did that musical about the ants "Human slaves, in an Insect Nation ah, ahaahaaaah" and the Leg of Time "Terry, you slag you stole the leg of time, give it back before you get a slap!")

After that I resolved to always ask questions when I didn't know the answer to things. And I bought a DI box.
(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 13:53, Reply)
I took my 3 year old to see The Wiggles
She was so overcome with excitement and awe, she pissed her pants.

They probably get this a lot.

Actually, we noticed one of them backstage having a sneaky fag. The shame...
(, Tue 4 Jul 2006, 16:37, Reply)
Schlager Festivalen
I'm sorry... but once again i'll start with this line...

"I live in Sweden"...

...and for the last few years I've been drowning in Schlager.
What is Schlager? Abba is Schlager (they prectically invented the shit), and everything that you hear with a cutesie melody and sweet words with an annoyingly jolly rythm is - besides shite - Schlager.

During one night of the year, every single Swedish household is gathered. Noone walks on the streets, and the entire country is covered by an eerie silence.
Euro-Vision Night. The ULTIMATE Schlager Fest... and the Swedes can't get enough. While the older people stay at home and watch in reverant silence, The younger generations gather and make paties out of it... They crowd around the TV with giant bags of crisps (Dill and cream-cheese flavoured usually) with a dip(s)... watching the TV. Wide-eyed and smiling goofy over-indulged smiles, they then vote like lunatics; usually testing the nations telephone systems to the limits.

Imagine the horror.... the sense of uncertanty and the end of all things 'as they were known' when Lordi - the most extreme of bands that Sweden has ever witnessed - won Eurovision... There was Swedish outrage: (Someone stood up and said "Ja.. I'm not sure that was a good thing" and elsewhere in Sweden, the king fell off his bicycle).

Yes.. Sweden was shaken rigid.

Oh.. rock an roll behaviour?? During the competition, (just after Lordi had played), Håkan double-dipped a crisp, Karin told him off, and then - in defiance - he Stuck His Tounge Out! SHOCKING!! :o0
(, Tue 4 Jul 2006, 11:52, Reply)
Bodger and Badger
Bodger and Badger came to our uni to do a kooky student show in the union bar. It all went well, until after the show when someone nicked Badger from Bodgers van, and over the course of the next few days posted up ransom notes with pictures of Badger held over a lighter. Bodger was furious, as it was his only Badger puppet.
(, Sun 2 Jul 2006, 15:39, Reply)
Where to start...
With many years of Rock and Roll behind me, I can tell a few, but I'll start small, since this is the most 'Tap'.

Sometime in the early 80's, and my band 'Psi-Storm' are playing a big charity gig in Kent. There are four of us in the band: Clarkie on guitar, a genius who makes all his own gear, Jim on Bass, a solid if uninspired player, Paul 'The Gob' on drums, his mouth being the only thing louder than his kit, and meself on shouting. We're kicking off our act with a new number in our shouty-industrial-punk set, so amidst the gathering gloom we take the stage before the hundreds of adoring and/or indifferent fans.
Jim kicks things off with a rumbling bass line of the type made popular by The Cure on their Faith album. A few bars in Paul takes up the rhythm, and for once manages to play what he's supposed to. (Paul rates himself as a 'jazz artiste' so the rhythm machine pattern he's supposed to be playing seems to offend him. Clarkie waits for the momentum of the rhythm section to build until he starts laying a few noises over the top. This intro session relies on atmospheric sounds over the rhythm, so I pitch in with some curious farty noises on Clarkie's home made synth. So far so good.
Up to the mic then, and I shout out the first line.
I shout the second line.
A roady dashes on in that half crouch they do that they think makes them invisible. He changes the mic.
I shout out the third line and it works!
Signalling the band to go 'round again', we restart the intro.
More wibbly and farty noises.
Clarkie's amp starts to speak.
He's picking up the local mini-cab company somehow. (His guitar leads are made out of cb cable.)
Much waving and shouting and fiddling with amps.
I try and pick up the guitar riff on the synth, but it's monophonic, so not a chance.
Paul starts inserting 'jazz improviations' into the rhthym.
Jim loses the beat as a result.
Suddenly there is a flash and a bang from the backline, and the audience applauds the 'pyro'.

Clarkie's home made amp has just exploded!

Somehow we carried on and finished the gig. During the encore I was struck on the head by a thrown hippo. (Plush luckily.)

The band split up after that, though Clarkie and I kept on going, and there may be more tales from some of those gigs.
(, Sat 1 Jul 2006, 14:35, Reply)
Me and three friends were standing around

and I said "I'm incredibly pretentious".

And one of my friends said, "that's interesting, because I'm incredibly pretentious too. I'm nowhere near as important as I think I am".

And then another friend said "how about that - I also am incredibly pretentious. I'm nowhere near as important as I think I am, and nobody cares what I think about the World Bank".

And then the final friend said "well, I wasn't going to say anything, but..." - until me and my other two friends said

"Oh no, not U2."
(, Fri 30 Jun 2006, 11:26, Reply)
Magnum Story number 2
For the last gig of a very long tour, Magnum had a massive pyro finale lined up, which had cost a huge a mount of money. It was to go off during the last few seconds of the final number. It consisted of 2 huge cannons at the front of the stage on either side, and various other bits towards the back - all triggered by the pryro guy with the press of a button.

So, it gets to a few seconds before it's all due to go off, and Ben (my friend) looks over at the pyro guy in the wings, who has a rather worried expression on his face. He motions towards the lead guitarist, who is stood towards the front of the stage, in the middle of a guitar solo. His head is hanging right over one of the cannons.

So - they obviously had a split decision to make. Either not bother with the pyros, miss the moment, and go out with a whimper - or, just go for it. Ben looked at pyro guy. Pyro guy looked at Ben. They both shrugged their shoulders in an 'Aaah fuck it' kind of way, and pyro guy hit the button.

As the smoke cleared, the guitarist stood up, and he had a completely black face, and what was left of his hair was standing on end. Apparently, he couldn't have looked any more like a comedy blown up person if he'd tried. He also completely lost his hearing in both ears for 2 days, but agreed with the rest of the band that what had to be done, had to be done.
(, Fri 30 Jun 2006, 10:17, Reply)
When I was 16 (53 now)
I moved away from my home in London to join a rock band in Bristol. There are numerous funny storys but one that springs to mind was when we played at a big festival. The headline band was Genesis and I was normally found at such events, backstage drinking beer with the crew. Some of the trailers, now empty of their equipment made ideal temporary bedrooms where the crew used to shag fans under the false promise of them getting to meet their idols.

I was chatting to one of the Genesis crew, cracking jokes, drinking beer and so on, when we both noticed a strange noise coming from one of the trailers. It was a sort of thumping sound in a steady beat combined with a sort of hissing sound which intermittently accompanied the thump. After a dozen or so of these, we heard a grunt, followed by, "fuckin' bastard, you ffff.....", followed by more of the thumps which had now gained speed, then slowed down again. There was a small silent break before,
Thump Thump Fssss Thump "CUNT" Thump "Bastaaaard" Thump Thump Fsss Thump "FUCKING Bbbbb....." Thump Thump fsss "OH FOR FUCKSAKE" Thump Thump and so on.

It was at this point we had to take a look to see what the hell was going on. We both climbed up the steps on the back of the trailer, switched on the light to find one of the more 'chunky', bearded roadies with his trousers round his ankles avec full hard on like a car jack, attempting to pump up an air bed with the wrong pump. Standing next to him was a girl, completely naked with a vodka bottle in one hand and a spliff in the other who feinted when she saw us.
We both looked at each other in surprise for a second, then we both sort of shrugged our shoulders and did a sort of 'meh' and buggered off for more beer.
(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 22:30, Reply)
For those who haven't heard of them, Rockbitch are a lesbian band who live in a sex commune. They play nude and perform 'entertaining' acts on each other on stage. They also encourage audience participation.

Where was I? Front fucking row. 10 minutes in, the 'stage slut' comes out, spreads her legs, and invites the front row to finger her box. Which we do.

I then relaxed and enjoyed the show. I still remember my mates legendary comment in the pub afterwards: "There's nothing more beautiful or natural in the world than 5 fit birds tonguing each other out"

Music wasn't bad either.
(, Thu 29 Jun 2006, 13:53, Reply)
Searchlights rock
Went to a little free party last year - a few old mates from school, a generator, decks and a half decent sound system, in a nice secluded spot in the woodlands.

After an hour or 2 of boozing and bopping away to some techno, we see a police helicopter not too far away, searchlight (doing as a good searchlight does), searching around for something. The music goes off, the lights go out, everyone looks a bit unsure of what to do next. The decision is made to fuck it and stick the music back on. Before long, that searchlight hits us - the DJ pauses, looks around - and promptly turns it up a notch.

Cue the coppers putting their megaphone on, telling the 50ish strong crowd to go home, and the dj to "switch the music off and step away from the decks". It was a good 15 or so minutes before the plod (doing what good plod do best) plodded up to us on foot, the whole time with everyone raving like crazy in the searchlight of the chopper :D

Maybe you just had to be there, but that was cool as fuck.
(, Wed 5 Jul 2006, 21:31, Reply)
Glasto 2000...
... and an extra 100,000 people decide to get in free. About 90% of them decide to go and see Rolf Harris.

The result? You couldn't get within two fields' distance of him.

The answer to this solution came via an angel with a loaf of bread. I snatched it off her, said "Trust me" - and waved the dough-based item aloft. Then saying the holy mantra of "Baguette for Rolf", I set forth. The now breadless maiden realised the cunning plan, and between us we blagged/confused our way forwards until we could hear and see the bearded wobble-boarder himself. WE couldn't get any closer at that point, so we made an offer to the gods of music that had helped our progress - by sending the baguette crowd-surfing to the front.

Sadly, I think security nabbed it before Rolf could eat it, damn them...
(, Mon 3 Jul 2006, 19:47, Reply)
Piss Artist
I was sneaked backstage in Brixton Academy with my pal's band but with no Access All Areas pass I was stuck in the dressing room until showtime: there were security guards in the corridor outside checking everyone.

Whilst the band was off soundchecking I was in dire need of a piss but instead had to ignore it and have a half-hour conversation with Rankin Roger from The Beat about different types of hash and grass. Eventually he left and I was by this point truly desperate for a lag. The sinks in the dressing room were filled with beers and there was no bin.

I did the only thing left available to me which was arc a fountain of (by this point dark and smelly) urine out of the window - all over the guest list queue.
(, Mon 3 Jul 2006, 17:35, Reply)
Moby Broke My Toilet
A while back I used to interview visiting pop starlets for the local listings mag. I was on a roll too, having managed to have the last go on the soon-to-be-dead guy out of The Shaman (remember them?) only the month before.
This time it was the the turn of Moby, on his first UK tour and riding high in the charts with his monsyllabic rave anthem *Go!*.

The gig was fantastic, repetitive beats slammed out of the dry ice & every so often a tiny bald head appeared from behind a euphoric wall of piano breakdowns to yell the title of his monster hit. In keeping with the intelligent pop star image the little chap was cultivating, his girlfriend sat in the wings throughout, ignoring the show and reading Dostoyevsky.

After his slot our born again vegan hero retired back stage, only to find his tiny dressing room full of the gak-hoovering monster mates of the promoters intent on forcing all kinds of chemical up his self righteously drug free nostrils. It was with these gentlemen he was spending the night. There was no chance of conducting an interview in this environment and little Moby obviously extremely uncomfortable, looking more like a terrified rabbit than a future producer of classy advertising muzak. So back to my place he came, girlfriend in tow, to stay in my spare room.

In morning, he behaved oddly, refusing to touch toast because *there may be something in the bread*... apparently orange juice and muesli were fine. He then disappeared to the loo, after which I was to give him a lift to his train.

He was gone for some time.

Eventually I decided to see if he was OK. Just as I was about to knock on the door, he rushed out, muttering he was ready to go.

In the car he was very quiet.

After dropping him at the station, I returned home & noticed a puddle under the toilet door. A glance inside was all it took!

The floor was soaked! The cistern handle was hanging off, paper strewn over the floor and in the bowl nestled a single, perfect popstar turd.

I washed it away with a bucket of water. The repairs cost me £40.
(, Fri 30 Jun 2006, 16:56, Reply)

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