London

The van was parked around the side of the pub. It was a miserable morning. Cold, grey, and a drizzle that stealthily soaked you to the bone. Frank’s bright red face certainly lit the scene up a little, though. Despite the weather, he was in fine spirits. In fact, he was fucking wasted. He’s sat in the back of the van, shouting, a lot, about how he hasn’t slept a wink. Been on the cocktails all night, as well as some other shit, I imagine. I sit up front with Daz and Walpole, to gain as much distance as the van will allow from the constant cacophony that is Reagan.

His moods divebombs rapidly south, though, when Tony turns up, minus John. Poor Tone, ever was it thus… Just because he’s his brother, everyone expects him to have some sort of a check on him. When Franks barks at Tony, asking him where John is, Tony just laughs. “How the fuck should I know?” I remember even in the early days of the band, when the two Loughlin brothers were made to travel down to London to do press, Bianchi telling me that when he went to pick them up from St. Pancras that they’d alighted at opposite ends of the train… Frank is not amused by John’s piss poor punctuality, which in turn amuses Daz and I. The volume of Reagan only escalates when Gordon calls John and is told that he’s at Gregg’s buying breakfast. Frank erupts in a barrage of exasperation, “Nothing fucking changes, does it?” Followed by, “Still wiping his arse after all these years Gaz!” Then silence for a couple of seconds. And then, “Nonsense CUNT!” Daz and I piss ourselves laughing as Frank sits there shaking his head. Just then an ambulance flashes past the car park, sirens wailing. “There he is!” Frank parps up again, and with that he returns to amused with himself. I’m still laughing at Nonsense Cunt…

John and American George turn up five minutes later, by which time there is only a whiff of annoyance left in Reagan. I assume he’ll pass out as soon as we hit the road. I assume wrong. But he’s back in good spirits for the entire journey down to London, him and Daz tucking into a couple of tins on the way. Until we get to the outskirts of the capital city. “Fucking hate this place…” he mutters in disdain.

The weather hasn’t picked up any by the time we arrive outside the back of the Electric Ballroom in Camden. The situation with Polly has improved a little, at least, but speaking to Jen she still isn’t sure if she’s going to be able to leave her with Lindsey tonight. She hasn’t puked since last night, which I guess is a good sign. It would fucking suck if Jen couldn’t make it to the show tonight. Polly had really been looking forward to playing with Lindsey and Leon’s boys, as well. Kids and sickness...always the worst fucking timing. Jen is toying with the idea of coming by the venue with Polly to hang out for a while in the daytime, which would be really nice, too. She says she doesn’t have to check out from the hotel for another couple of hours, so we’ll see how the little cub is then.

With not much to do, we head inside and up to the tiny dressing room to check out the rider. Dressing rooms in London venues are always tiny, no matter the size of the venue. Don’t get it. The rider is healthy, though. Chuffed that they went to the trouble of putting on some vegan scran. I make myself a sandwich and take a handful of crisps and sit myself down next to George. It had been great to see him last night, but he was a little wiry since he was stoned off his tits. Today he’s in better form. It’s great catching up with him, it’s been years. We used to be really close when he toured with us back in the early days. I’m glad to see that he hasn’t changed a bit, still the same old pisstaker, Frank his main target, as usual.

Gordon makes a point of saying to Big Jim in front of everyone else that he doesn’t want the dressing room filled with hangers-on, rinsing the rinder later in the evening. Just partners and old crew. He says he’ll be fucking fuming if there’s no beer left after the show. I can’t imagine who he’s making the point to…

With no soundcheck in the foreseeable future I decide to head over to All Ages records to do a bit of shopping. Daz tells me he’ll gladly follow, so the two of us head off. Again, it’s nice to hang out with Daz, just the two of us, for a while. When he’s not drunk, and he’s on his own, he’s pretty chilled. I pick up the re-release of the Negazione 7” that Paco put out on La Vida Es En Mus a while back, which I’m pretty chuffed to get my hands on. Daz buys himself a copy of the latest Church of Misery album. Always like coming to the store when I’m around, picked up a lot of good punk records here over the years. Whilst we’re stood there flicking through records some random guy comes up to me and tells me he’s a big fan of the blog, says he’s been reading it for years. I’m always taken aback in these situations, it’s always really humbling to meet strangers who like the stuff you’re doing. Daz looks a bit confused by the whole situation. Afterwards we walk back down the road and stop in for a pint at the Camden Head, which I know has my favourite tipple on tap, Beavertown Brewery’s Gamma Ray IPA. I treat myself and Daz to a pint.

After a while a couple of older Corby lads turn up and start talking a lot. From what I can make out, one is Daz’s father in law, the other is his step-father-in-law, or something like that. They’re friendly enough but I get the feeling they have their sights set firmly on getting sauced up. I finish my pint and leave the three of them to it. It was nice hanging with Daz for a while, anyway.

By the time I get back to the venue Jen has texted and says that Polly has perked up quite a bit and wants to go to Leon and Lindsey’s, so they’re on their way to the train now. Then Jen and Leon will head back into the city. It’s a big relief, both over Polly feeling better and Jen being able to make the gig tonight. She has been on the Speedhorn journey almost as long as I have and I really wanted her to be there tonight.

John has a friend with him who he has brought along to take some band photos of us. She seems friendly enough, but I can’t help thinking that this could easily become a hassle. I know the guys and how hard it is getting everyone to gather and stand still for two minutes. I also want the day to be as stress free as possible, and I can sense that this might lead to obstructing that aim.

We stand around on the big stage, with all signs suggesting that we’ll soon be ready for soundcheck. I take a look out at the venue and reflect over the past, back to a short window of time when we were much younger and we were headlining venues of this size. I haven’t played a headlining show of this magnitude for a long time, although we’ve played to some very large crowds with Victims at festivals over the years, but this type of gig isn’t really part of the agenda anymore for me. I get a slight shudder looking out at the huge room. This is going to be fun. For one night only.

Unfortunately Daz is striding back towards his worst side already. From what I can make out he’s been drinking since we left this morning, as has Frank, although it doesn’t seem to affect him as negatively. He just turns into a big loud tool, and it’s fun for the most part. Daz always seems to go a bit darker. He shuffles up behind me, bass strapped over his shoulder, eyes slightly glazed, and asks, “When are we doing the photo shoot with this tart, then?” I could swear he thinks he’s in a Guy Ritchie film. I ask him why he’s talking like that, and tell him he sounds like fucking Alf Garnett and I don’t think it’s funny. Not for the first time this weekend, Daz looks at me confused.

After soundcheck we get around to taking the pics, and it goes by without much hassle. There is a lot of chirping, but it’s all piss taking focused within the group. It’s yet another flashback to a time gone by. How many times have I done this routine with this lot, I wonder. It’s now that the real reunion-theme of the day will begin in earnest.

The Scurge guys have turned up, as well as Charger. To have Jay and Little Dave here playing, as well as Jim in Charger, all three having played a part or still playing a part in the Speedhorn story, as well as those two bands as a whole, means a lot to me. It’s nice having everyone who ever played in the band on stage in some form tonight. Everyone except Kev. I really wished Kev would have been here. He’s at some witch convention in Sheffield, or something.

Everyone else is waiting over the road at the World’s End pub. Bianchi has booked out the balcony above the bar for the gig party tonight. It’s wonderful to see everyone. Bianchi, Carter and his family, Doug and his wife Jo, George and some other old Corby friends. Our friend Richey who used to play in Shaped by Fate and then A Thousand Arrows with Gordon, who now is one of the most sought after artists in the music industry, is there too. It’s great seeing him, such a lovely guy. It’s a nice story that, in Richey’s own words, the Victims album cover he did a few years ago kind of got him on his way. On top of everything, he’s a great person and it’s lovely to catch up with him. Everyone, except Kev, who’d I hoped to see tonight, is either here or on their way. There is only one person that is truly conspicuous in their absence, and that is Roddy, our long suffering roadie and mentor. Frank had texted him yesterday and asked if he was coming to the gig. “No. Because of the shit with the Corby gig before”, was his simply worded answer. I have no idea what that particular beef is about, it’s in reference to something from the latest period of the band that I wasn’t involved in. The fucker sure can hold a grudge, though.

It really is great seeing everyone else. It’s like being back at a high school reunion with your closest friends. There is a buzz in the air, it feels like everyone is pretty excited about seeing the original line up of the band one last time. I don’t think anyone would ever have imagined it was something they’d see again. Bianchi is visibly delighted. He’s been buzzing about this night since we agreed to it over six months ago. It’s nice having the chance to speak to Carter and his partner, as well as his parents. His dad is over promoting a book he’s written on the decline of various industrial cities, former giants now sleeping. It sounds really interesting, right up my street, and I’ve been on at Carter for a copy. It’s great speaking to them. More than anything, though, it’s great speaking to Doug. We were really close during the time he was our tour manager, but we lost touch after it all fell apart. He was one of the funniest people I’d ever met and I’m delighted to see that hasn’t changed. He still has that cheeky smirk plastered to his face.

Jen and Leon arrive just before Scurge go on stage, which is not that long after doors. Our old friend Slaven is here, too. Two of the people from my first bands in Corby, and still two of my finest friends. I’m glad they could be here for this show. I’m happiest of all, though, that Jen is here. Watching Scurge is a buzz, they were always a vastly underrated band. I’ve been watching them since they were fifteen years old, it was great to see them up on the big stage. Jen is chuffed, she always loved them. It’s funny looking at Jay and Dave, what a journey we’ve had together. It’s funny, because as much as this show tonight is about the original line up of the band, I have some of my happiest memories from the era of the band when Jay and Dave were playing with us.

Afterwards we’re hanging around in a little room with a couple of sofas, just behind the stage. It’s all hugs and kisses. It is a little awkward, though, no denying that. It was only a couple of weeks ago that both Jay and Jim, who is playing next with Charger, left Speedhorn. The situation with Dave is unclear. He’s still officially the bass player, but with his brother now gone, that might change. Fucking soap opera, as always.

It’s starting to get busier now and there are more and more people buzzing around the backstage area. Precisely as Gordon had feared, Daz and his Corby clan of four, his wife and her best mate have now joined the two dad-in-laws, have completely besieged the dressing room and swarming over the rider like flies on shit. I can’t be arsed, so keep myself downstairs. Gordon is getting more and more angry about everything, though. As a tension-reliever, Doug comes to the fore. One of the production people wade through the crowd in the tight room and start asking people for their passes, obviously wanting to clear the space a bit. Doug doesn’t have one, or if he does, he refuses to show it. He simply points at his face and making a circling motion around his coupon, and says, “This is my pass. It’s the only pass you need to worry about”. The promotion bloke looks flummoxed by the giant Scotsman and leaves.

To add to the ingredients of the already vastly incenstious mix, Frank is now singing with Charger. I have to say, the big lump impresses me. Despite the fact he’s been drinking since four pm yesterday, and taking fuck knows what besides to perk him up, he still puts in a monster performance on stage. His fucking pipes just seem to get stronger with age. Fucking respect to him. He always puts on a show, no matter what condition he’s in. The first time I saw Speedhorn without me, as in the first time I went to a show after they’d reunited, Jen and I had bumped into Frank in the pub in the afternoon and he’d almost fallen into me. He had white powder in his moustache and a piss stain on his crotch. He somehow still put in a banging performance that night. I’m happy he’s not quite as bad as that tonight, though, despite the incredible innings with the booze.

Charger put on a great show. We toured with these guys a lot back in the day, and although there aren’t many members left from back then, it’s brilliant to see Jim and Jez up there again, with their first love. I couldn’t have imagined anyone better to take over my position in the band than Jim. We had some great times together. I’ll never forget the time he crashed at my parents house one time, and he was absolutely wankered by the time we got back. For some reason my mum and dad had this stuffed squirrel on the wall of the stairs and Jim couldn’t get past it, he thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, at that moment in time anyway. Then the next day my mum had put on a huge fry-up breakfast for us, giving it the usual Smith-family hospitality they were known and loved for, and Jim was so hungover he couldn’t bring himself to eat it. He was exhausted with anxiety by the end of the ordeal. My parents had seen it all before, though. Even if it’s all a bit up in the air at the minute with Jim and Speedhorn, I get the feeling he’ll be back in the band again soon. I hope so.

Crowbar were on after Charger. It was a bit of a random slot on the bill, more to do with the promoter than anything, I guess. We barely saw them all day and nobody exchanged as much as a sentence with them. It was a bit of mismatch for them, maybe. They probably felt like the outsiders at the party, which is what they were in all honesty. I didn’t see them but apparently they made remarks along those lines before they started the show. Fuck knows. I’d had a mild interest in them once upon a time, but nothing that did anything to excite me enough to watch them tonight. But it might have been different if the occasion wasn’t what it was tonight, and we weren’t on stage right after them.

As they played, we retreated to the small dressing room upstairs, Big Jim had told the Daz party in no uncertain terms to clear the room. One of the dad’s had actually asked Tony who he was as he helped himself to a bottle of what they apparently assumed to be their rider. It was fucking nice to get rid of everyone. Now it was just the band, Jen, Katy and the crew. It was time to concentrate on the job at hand.

As we walked down the narrow staircase to the back of the stage, I could really feel the buzz starting to rise inside me. It had been a long time since I’d played what felt like a “concert”, as opposed to a punk gig. We made our way through a passageway of smiles, Bianchi at the end of the line, like a chuffed dad. We gathered behind the curtain at the back of the stage. The lights went down, and the crowd erupted into a familiar chant, “Raging fucking Speedhorn! Raging fucking Speedhorn!” It sounded more like a football match than a gig. It was amazing to be part of this one more time.

We walked on, and, even though I’d heard it was pretty much sold out, I was still blown away by the size of the crowd. A sea of faces and arms held aloft. I looked down to the front at my side of the stage and saw Jen, Leon, Slaven and Richey, all with huge smiles on their faces. Another mate, Jimmy, had flew over from Sweden, and he was at the front on the other side. I’d only had the one beer during the day, but this feeling right now would top any booze rush. My whole body, from the tips of my limbs, was tingling…

And then Gordon counted in Deathrow Dogs and the place erupted. I don’t think anyone was expecting us to start with a seven minute sludge fest. It was the perfect statement of intent, I felt. Unfortunately, Gordon missed the phase into the second riff, which comes in at about four minutes, and for just the shortest of moments of chaos, it was all falling apart. Gordon looked at me, smiling panic, not knowing where he was in the song. It was so close to just grinding to a halt, which would have been a fucking disaster, but somehow, somehow, we pulled it back from the brink. I’m sure most of the fourteen hundred in the crowd noticed it though, you wouldn’t have had to have known the song to realise it was going tits up for a little while there.

Even though we’d pulled it back in line, just about, I was still anxious now that Gordon was going to lose it. He’d been so looking forward to this, and he’s so involved behind the scenes, that I could imagine this fuck up throwing him off completely. And right enough, he looked mardy as fuck through Hate Song and Superscud that followed. But I knew how to handle this. During the next block I made my way over to him and played as hard as I could, right in front of him, giving him a smile as I did so, hoping it would perk him up. It did the trick.

The next hour, which is more than twice as long as I’ve been used to performing this last ten years, simpy flew by. I couldn’t believe how good it sounded on stage and how tight we were. The gang of friends and family behind us were cheering and smiling, the crowd in front of us were moshing like fuck. The only thing that came close to spoiling the experience was when Daz stood on my pedal giving it the ridiculous Steve Harris move, and cut my sound. I stamped it back on quickly and gave him a hefty elbow to the ribs, letting him know he should fuck off. I don’t think he even noticed.

As we walked back onstage for the encore, the house lights were lifted as I played the long solo intro to Heartbreaker. It’s still on of my favourite songs, even to this day. It was the first time I’d had a proper chance to look at the crowd. I was almost overwhelmed with emotion. As I looked out at the sea of raised arms, I realised that I hadn’t always been just with my views of Raging Speedhorn and it’s fans. I’d always been so focused on making sure the band was about us and nobody else, on the attitude that it was us against the world, that I’d neglected to consider what this band actually meant to the fans. That it wasn’t simply just about us. Right at that very moment, I knew. And I realised that I hadn’t always appreciated what the band meant to me, either. Being the emotional type that I am, I felt close to tears.

Before we played the final song, High Whore, the tears did just about trickle. As Frank was making a crack about how the band had started twenty years ago, and that if we reformed again in another twenty years he’d be fucking sixty!, Tony and I met in the middle of the stage for a hug. I knew how much this had meant to him, but not as much as I thought I knew. He grabbed me tight and said thanks, that it really meant the world to him.

And then after five or six minutes of the long outr riff, it was all over. It had been an amazing night. There wasn’t much left of it as far as the venue was concerned, they wanted everyone out because they had a club night opening afterwards. It was perfect for me, though. It was only ten pm, and having only had the one beer all day, I was now ready for a couple of pints and a chat back over at the World’s End, where the entire party was heading. We hung out for a short while in the dressing room with Doug and Bianchi, the two of them on top form. Doug telling me how he’s officially announced himself the mayor of Weldon, the village connected to Corby where him and Frank live. He says Frank lives at the trampy end of the village. Gordon was pissed off, though. There wasn’t a drop left of the rider, and he also couldn’t find Katy, who he thought he might have given his phone to. Just another jog down memory lane. I didn’t want him spinning out though, I was really looking forward to a drink with him after the show, and now he was banging on about just going back to the hotel. Fuck sakes. I got ahold of Jen on the phone, and she told me that she was with Katy and they were having some food at some place next door, and Katy had indeed Gordon’s phone that he’d given her. It wasn’t quite all sorted in Gordon’s mind, but he levelled out just a tad.

I went back upstairs to get my bag from the room and there was Daz, at his worst by now, lurched on the sofa. I was just passing through, he was there on his own otherwise. “Yo Gaz, I heard that there were some people pissed off about the fact there was nothing left on the rider after the show?” he asked me. I just kinda shrugged, just couldn’t be arsed. I said yeah, I guess there was a bit of a bad vibe about that.

“You know what I reckon, mate? If you want a beer then you should fucking drink it when you have the chance!” he continued, smugly chuffed with himself. Yeah cool, I said, and left him to it. It would be the last time I saw him that night. Maybe ever, who knows…As of now, I didn’t know when I’d see these guys again after tonight, but it had been over ten years since I’d last saw Daz and our paths aren’t that likely to cross again anytime soon, I imagine.

Gordon and I went to meet the girls at the falafel place next door and then we went over to the pub. It felt like the entire crowd from the gig was in there, the place was packed. Gordon still couldn’t really settle, it felt like he was having a hard time relaxing until all the business side of the gig was taken care of. Been there many times before. Don’t miss it. The only thing that felt like a bit of a anti-climax after the gig was that I barely saw the rest of the guys in the band, or Carter and the crew. Bianchi had fucked off already, since he seems to be in a lot calmer place these days, too. I saw Doug for a while at the bar and we chatted a while longer, saying we’d meet up again next time I’m over, but I barely saw the rest. Only Gordon, who handed me an envelope of cash with my share of the earnings for the weekend. I’d been looking forward to hanging out with everyone for one last trip down memory lane, but it wasn’t to be. You could barely move in there and everyone was dotted around various parts of the establishment. I did have a good chat with Richey, Leon and Slaven, as well as Jay and Dave and the other guys from the Kettering crew. It was a nice couple of hours.

Jen, Leon and I took an Uber back to Tring around one am, Leon up front chatting away to the driver the entire time. I was knackered and grateful for Leon taking that particular duty. After all of the emotions I’d been through during this last couple of days, it came to a head when I went and checked on Polly and found her fast asleep in the spare bed we’d all be sharing, her gorgeous cute cheeks resting on the pillow.

We had a nightcap with Leon downstairs before hitting the hay. Gordon texted me, telling me Daz had been kicked out of the hotel they were staying at for acting the cunt with the receptionist, and was now sleeping in the van. Fucking brilliant.

Lost Ritual

It’s been said many times before, but it’s true. A cliché is a cliché for a reason after all. Being in a band is like being a relationship.

For a long period of my life Raging Speedhorn was my significant other. We were in a relationship together for ten years. My first real love. It was sometimes turbulent, sometimes intoxicating. When we first met we were head over heels in love, we spent pretty much every waking hour together. We’d both been in some half serious relationships before but we knew that this was the one. Soul mates. But after the first six months or so our individual personalities, both equally strong and pig headed as they could be, started to create cracks and the honeymoon period was coming to its end. But like with any strong relationship, it’s the good stuff that comes once the honeymoon is over. If you make it past the seven month itch then you’re in for a lasting journey together.

Post honeymoon comes the comfort zone, where you can be yourself with your partner, no longer afraid to express your true feelings on matters, or to state your case in a dispute, completely comfortable with each other's presence.. You know, when you get to that stage where you feel at ease farting in front of each other. It’s then that the good stuff happens.

Our relationship was certainly a feisty one though. We had tremendous arguments that on occasion led to vicious fights. There was a lot of passion that stirred the fire within us. When things were good we felt that we had the strength to take on the world together, when they were bad I would feel as though I was on the brink of caving in. It was without any doubt a most dysfunctional relationship. And like so many trapped in a dysfunctional relationship, it was hard to take yourself out of. We’d been through so much together. There was a time when we even tried putting things on hold for a while, took a break from each other. And for a while it seemed like it had helped. We felt happier for it afterwards. And for a few years towards the end it was good again, we were strong, or stronger anyway, although the odd flare up here and there inevitably awoke lingering doubts that we’d last forever.

After ten years of ups and downs, we decided to call it a day. It was completely amicable. We left each other on good terms and we both knew it was the right thing for both of us. We were no longer in love, it had developed into something more platonic. The passion had fizzled out. We had one last holiday, an amazing trip to Japan for a fortnight, and when we arrived back in the UK we went our separate ways, promising each other we’d stay friends. And we have. Although for that to truly work we needed a break from each other. In my experience to make a friendship work with an ex you need to have a period of time after the break of zero contact.

When Speedhorn and I broke up I already had my eyes on another. I’d been flirting with Victims for a while and it wasn’t long after the trip to Japan that we got together. It’s been seven years now and although not as intense as my time with Speedhorn we’re pretty happy. With Victims it’s more like we’re friends though. And that being so it’s pretty laid back, in fact I’m in another relationship with Diagnosis? Bastard! I’m all for polygamy, at least in terms of this by now rather long drawn out metaphor.

So… After a couple of years apart and getting on pretty well, I started getting the sense that Speedhorn wanted to get back with me. And after ignoring its advances for a while I had to make myself clear that I wasn’t interested. It was a mix of things. It wasn’t practical for one thing, we don’t live in the same country as each other and I wasn’t interested in getting back into a long distance relationship again. But on top of that, I’d moved on. I wasn’t the same person anymore. I wasn’t feeling it. I was truly happy with Victims and DB, and I thought Speedhorn was better left in the past. I have to admit though, it was a bit strange seeing Speedhorn together with someone else. Even though I’d moved on, it is weird seeing your ex with a new partner. To add to that, you really like their new partner, they’re actually an old friend of yours.

It took a while to get my head around. And then it happened. I was struck by an epiphany. And it came in the form of their new record Lost Ritual. The ex and their new partner have had a baby? Ok, maybe it’s time to let the metaphorical go.

What happened was this. Frank sent me a copy of the new Speedhorn album. He told me that he was proud of it and really thought that I’d like it, and whilst he was at it he told me that he missed me. I was actually in Corby at the time taking care of some personal family stuff, it would have been nice to meet up with him but I had my hands full.  It wasn’t until I got back home to Sweden that I got around to listening to the album. In all honesty, I was curious about how it sounded, but also a little awkward about it, the first album without me, it was going to be a bit weird. And then I listened to it. And then I listened to it again. And the epiphany was that the band wouldn’t work with me in it today. Jim, the old friend who is playing guitar instead of me, is far more suited to the band than I would be now.

Lost Ritual sounds like old Speedhorn, but more relevant maybe.  I hate to milk another old cliché, but it sounds mature, like Speedhorn grown up. The production is huge, really well done. Massive guitar sound, like the ultimate Eyehategod sound. Gordon’s drumming is more confident and flowing than ever. The first song, Bring Out Your Dead, in my opinion is one of the best songs the band has ever written. And the fact is that I couldn’t have written it. Jim is perfect for them. I can hear a lot of his old band Charger in the record, it’s slower and doomier than I expected it to be. When I listened to the album I felt truly happy for them for the first time since they got together with their new partner. Because it became obvious to me, the fact that we wouldn’t work together anymore. And I’m truly happy for the new couple, may they have a long life of happiness together. It kind of feels like when you get invited to your ex's wedding, they’re marrying someone who was an old friend of the two of you when you were together, and it truly no longer feels weird.

What else is there to say?  Lost Ritual is out in July.  Check it out!

The Crew: The Drivers

“This is it, we've made it” I thought to myself as we pulled away from the scrap yard cum garage Frank's dad owned, the place were Frank worked and we practised a few times a week.  For the past couple of years we'd been travelling around the UK, playing every shithole that would take us, driving around in an assortment of fucked up old vans and sleeping anywhere we could.  It had been a fucking blast, some of the best and worst times of my life, but this here was about to go to another level.  I'll never forget the scene as we pulled away, my girlfriend at the time stood arm in arm with Frank's girl, the two of them crying their eyes out as the tour bus pulled slowly away, me and Frank sat up in the top lounge, looking out the back window and waving to them.  As soon as the bus turned the corner and we lost sight of them, Frank turned around, clapped his hands together and chortled, “Right, let's fucking party!”.  It was barely seven am and we were setting off on a two day journey towards Helsinki, Finland.  This would be our home for the next six weeks.  I could barely fucking believe it.

Those six weeks would become three months and without doubt, they would be the most fun three months of my life, as well as the hardest drinking period my body has ever had to endure.  When I finally came home, a few days before Christmas, my mum burst into tears, so withered and pale was I.  I'd been swept up in the euphoria of touring around the continent on a night-liner, drinking copious amounts of booze every single day and night, feeling indestructible.  I have to say though, I understood my mum's anguish, if I looked like shite, it was nothing to how I felt inside.  But that moment, when you're twenty years old and you climb aboard the bus, claim you're bunk and crack open a beer and settle down for the journey towards the mainland, well, it was like nothing else.

It's almost hard for me to fathom now, looking back, that Speedhorn got to a level where we could afford a tour bus to travel about in.  Not that I had much of an idea what it was costing us, I didn't really care then, we had someone else taking care of all that, something else I now find hard to fathom, but that's what they call hindsight and experience and I guess you only get that one way.  And of course, I would do it all over again if the circumstances were the same, which let's face it, they never will be.  If we'd travelled in the back of a Transit van and slept on floors the whole time then of course, we would have made a lot more money out of touring, but that's a way of doing things I'm much happier with now in older age, weirdly enough, than I was then.  And we'd done a couple of years intensive touring already by that point, literally taking food from bins on occasion when we had fuck all else.  No, I was ready for some time living like a fucking rock star, kind of.  It didn't last long, but it was fun whilst it did.

During our era of tour bussing it about, there were three people who manned the wheel over a longer period of time.  The first was an old Yorkshireman called Bob.  We only travelled on Bob's bus for a couple of tours, but it was my favourite of the few we travelled on.  It was old and falling to pieces in places, I imagine it was the cheapest bus Bianchi could find but that suited us fine.  As Bianchi put it, “It doesn't matter if you trash it since it's already trashed”. It was a license to party, and even if Bob didn't always see it that way, he left us to it for the most part.  Bob always reminded me of my uncle George for some reason, he did that miserable man routine to a tee, barely ever smiled, completely hamming it up.  He had wispy white hair around the back and sides with none on top and he always wore knee length shorts, no matter the weather.  Didn't really matter since he was only ever on the bus or in the canteen in the venue.  A couple of days into that first tour Doug had overheard him talking to his boss on the phone, “I dunno, Speeding Racehorse or something.  Bloody rubbish anyway!”  Doug loved him from that moment on, we all did.  The main thing for us is that he left us to party the night away, up there on the top floor where the lounge and the bunks were as he drove us towards the next city.  He never complained, not really, not even on those occasions when we had to make a sharp exit from the police, the night I threw a pint of piss over some German meathead's back and then Roddy pepper sprayed the club and had the whole place evacuated, or the time we had a battalion of police cars chasing us down the autobahn after a knife had been pulled in a service station, or even when we were thrown in jail for a couple of days in Spain, there was never anything more from Bob than, “What the fuck are they up to now?”.

I'll never forget the relief upon seeing Bob waiting for us in that car park when we got out of Spanish jail, he'd waited for us without any knowledge of how long we'd be, I guess he was getting paid all the same but anyway... I do remember him talking to me one day though, when it just happened to be the two of us alone on the bus, it almost felt like fatherly advice at the time.  He told me he could see I was the calm one of the bunch and that I had an influence on the rest of the guys.  “You lot have got to calm down, otherwise it's going to end up fucking bad for you.  You're a nice bunch of lads but you act like idiots a lot of the time, you should reel it in a bit.  I can tell you're the responsible one, have a word with them for fuck sake”.  I felt really touched by this at the time, I could tell he cared about us.

One of my favourite memories of Bob is when for some reason he let Gordon and John dye his hair.  He may even have suggested it himself.  He wanted it red but entrusting that pair of berks with the job wasn't the wisest decision he ever made.  It turned out a purplish pink colour.  I remember looking at him sat back stage, holding a towel around his shoulders as the dye was setting thinking to myself, “That doesn't look very red to me”.  Bob still had the stern Yorkshire look on his face as he sat there holding this towel.  Fucking brilliant.

We did the two tours with Bob and his bus, the two back to back European stints that lasted those three months, and then we never saw him again.  I guess he quit the music scene after that.  He had been complaining about how driving bands wasn't really worth the hassle and that he missed driving the pensioners around the Alps on their ski trips and how he missed having the “Trolley Tarts” alongside him (the women who used to serve refreshments on such trips (Bob's terminology)).

Our next driver was the guy who was with us the longest and by far the most eccentric of what is a pretty eccentric breed.  Chop, a chirpy Welshman with an absolutely absurd mullet, Chuckle Brothers spiky on top and crawling straight as an arrow half way down his back.  He almost always had a smile on his face and loved having the crack with us, although he was extremely professional when it came to his job.  After coming home from the second of those European tours we had one last little stint before the three months came to an end, a run of headlining shows in Ireland.  We jumped off Bob's bus and on to Chop's, which was a far newer, cleaner, shinier beast and Chop was very proud of it.  It was his home and he demanded it be treated with respect.  It was ok to party but if you fucked the place up there would be trouble.

Since the Ireland shows were all short drives we stayed put every night so we could enjoy the power cable from the club until morning.  It was only the second show I think, somewhere down south, when Chop came in to take part in the evening's festivities.  He stayed on the bus the first night, but being a sociable chap and with a very short drive the next day he came in to watch the show and party with us.  I remember looking into the mosh pit about half way through the gig and there's Chop, one arm around some young Irish metaller, beer in the other hand, huge smile on his face and calling us cunts between songs.

As I say, Chop was an eccentric.  He had this huge ring through his bell end and tattooed around his piece, a devilish face that gave the effect that his knob was the demon's long nose.  We all got to see his cock on many an occasion, he would gladly show it to anyone, no matter how long he'd known the person.  He also kept a couple of different fold up bikes underneath the bus in the holding, and on most days he would get them out as soon as we reached the next venue and he'd be off.  You'd often see him riding about the city, wherever you were, that trusty smile on his face.  He was the kind of guy who had friends in most cities since he would approach people wherever he went and start a conversation.  A crazy, but very friendly chap.  And he loved us like sons.  It was Chop who coined the phrase, something that I think described Speedhorn perfectly, “You're a bunch of cunts, but you're loveable cunts”.

We were with Chop and his bus for the best part of a year.  One of my absolute favourite memories of that time is from the Speedhorn/Charger tour, the two bands on the bus together.  One night we'd been travelling after a show and we were on some back road, pitch black outside.  We were all fast asleep when Chop pulled the bus over to attend to some quick maintenance.  It only took a minute or so and then he was off again.  A little while down the road he notices the red lamp on his dash board warning that the back door is ajar.  He pulls over to check it our and right enough, the door is slightly open.  He thinks it pretty strange since he was sure he'd closed it, so goes upstairs to the bunk area to check everyone is on board.  Everyone in their rightful places he satisfies himself with the conclusion that he couldn't have closed the door properly and carries on down the road.  It continues to bug him though, he was sure he'd closed that door... About a half hour later he's still struggling to shrug the doubt and decides to pull over again for another check of the bunk area.  Yep, the full mob of snoring, booze stinking lads are in their place...but wait a minute.  He checks Jez, the Charger bass player's bunk, a little closer.  Fuck.  It's not Jez lying there but a pile of clothes and pillows underneath the quilt.  No Jez!  He turns the bus around and speeds back the way he came.  About twenty minutes later the headlights shine on a very cold and frightened looking Jez, standing shivering in the dark January night wearing nothing but a t-shirt, kecks and trainers, holding his mobile phone desperately.  Chop can barely fucking believe his eyes!  The stupid sod had felt the bus stop and got up for a piss, not thinking to tell anyone or most importantly Chop, that he was doing so.  The stupid fucker could have frozen to death if it wasn't for Chop's gut instinct winning him over.  Amazingly Jez had taken his phone with him for some reason and in the morning we all pissed ourselves laughing as we listened to the array of desperate voice messages he'd left on Jay and Jim's phones.  “Please guys, it's not funny any more, come back!  I'm going to fucking die here, it's freezing!  I'm scared, really scared”  Poor bastard.  He took it pretty well to be fair and could see the funny side of it.  Chop lambasted him for the rest of the tour, completely took the piss out of him.  I'm sure Chop has relayed the story many times to other bands and drivers over the years.

One of the old stories Chop relayed for us, one of my favourites, was from his days of driving the black metal band Immortal around.  Chop pretty much always wore his Immortal hoodie on tour, he seemed very proud of it.  It seems Chop and the Norwegians were good friends and enjoyed each others company on tour on a regular basis, although the relationship started off on a somewhat shaky footing.  On the first tour they did together Chop and the band's singer and leader, Abbath, were at loggerheads over driving times during one particular stretch of road between shows.  I don't remember the exact story but I'm sure it was along the lines of Abbath wanting to be somewhere on a day off and demanding Chop drove there and Chop refusing because it was too far for them to reach within Chop's legal driving hours.  The situation came to the boil with the two of them arguing where they would be driving to and Abbath gets in Chop's face with one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard, “I am Abbath of Immortal and I demand you drive to such and such (wherever it was)!”  Chop then grabs Abbath by his pierced nipple and twists it, causing the tit great pain as he shouts in reply, “I am Chop of Wales and this is my fucking bus and I will fucking decide where I will drive it!”  Chop and Abbath have been great friends ever since.

I was sad to lose Chop's services as he was a great driver and we loved him and his bus.  Unfortunately we got into a disagreement over payment with his boss Tony and it made continuing to tour with Chop rather impossible.  Things would never be the same again.  In his place was a guy called Barry.

Barry was a timid, middle aged man, small and skinny who shook like a fucking leaf most of the time.  We couldn't work out what the deal with him was at first but it soon dawned on us that the man was a raging alcoholic.  He looked a little like the character from Fawlty Towers, Mr. Leeman, the guy who dies in his sleep and Basil thinks he's killed him with some dodgy kipper.  He didn't look too healthy I guess you might say.  He was also very quiet and kept himself to himself most of the time.  We realised things weren't that great when we noticed the bus swaying slightly one night as we rode the motorways of Europe.  At first I was sure it was in our heads and everyone was making it into this thing that it really wasn't but it soon became clear that Barry had the fucking shakes at the wheel.  Instead of us confronting the issue directly, we just decided we didn't like the fucker and set about annoying him instead.

The strange thing about Barry's bus was that his bunk was at the front of the top lounge instead of in the drivers compartment like on most other buses.  One night Darren had taken some girl he's picked up to the spacious area that was the drivers cabin, which was the only place on the bus that offered any privacy since it was away from the rest of us and Barry was fast asleep in his bunk.  After he was done he left a soggy Johnny in an ash tray on the dash board, winking to the girl, “He'll love that.”  Daz, like the rest of us, had not a fucking ounce of respect for poor Barry.  We all pissed ourselves laughing the next day when Barry came charging down the aisle to the back lounge where we were all sat, holding the by now crusty Johnny with a biro pen like a piece of forensic evidence, “Whooooooo the fuck left that in my cabin?” The fucker was raging but we simply laughed at him and he retreated back down the aisle.

I felt a pang of guilt later on and tried to make amends with him, get a conversation going with him as he drove, keep him company.  He had piles of old road maps all over the place, fucking loads of them, and that was about the only subject I seemed to able to get him going with.  Poor sod.  Of course, the doubts and suspicions over Barry's drinking continued to feed themselves into a frenzy and of course soon enough Gordon was claiming he'd seen empty bottles of booze in his bunk as Barry rolled out for work.  I don't know how much weight there was to this story but it seemed all the more credible a few months afterwards when Bianchi had been on another tour with Barry, who'd been called in as a substitute driver half way through the trip with another band he was working with.  Funnily enough, Stumpy Munroe, the drummer from the Scottish band The Almighty was drum teching this tour and sat across from Bianchi on the bus when Barry rolls up to save the day, “Ah fuck me, it's Bacardi Barry!”

My favourite memory from Barry's time with us though was one night when we'd pulled over to refuel, some place in Germany I think.  We were all sat about drinking a beer or two as Barry fed the bus with petrol and then when he went inside the garage to pay Frank thought it would be a laugh to give driving the bus a go.  We were all egging him on of course.  I'll never forget pissing myself laughing as Barry came tearing across the forecourt screaming at us as the bus stuttered and choked forward a few meters, Frank laughing his ass off at the wheel!  Barry did his very best to tear Frank a new one, but it had no effect.  Frank just shouted back at him, “Fuck off, I could probably drive this thing better than you, you drunk old cunt!”  What could he say? Turns out not much, he just took the keys away from Frank, asked him to get up and then slumped into his seat and drove.  It was then that the guilt really came and I felt pretty bad for him.  Frank didn't give a fuck of course, and even if he did feel bad he wouldn't show it.  He probably didn't though.

That was pretty much the end of Barry and Speedhorn.  We came home from tour and never heard from him or saw him again.  I don't know if he's sorted himself out or if he's even still alive.  Our days of travelling on tour buses were also numbered and Barry's was the last bus we were out on, except for a couple of short stints and festivals trips here and there.  I've seen Chop a couple of times when he's been in Stockholm with other bands since, but that was a long time ago now.  Things were changing for Speedhorn and the days of travelling on a tour bus would soon become a distant memory as we faced up to life back in a van.  We'd had a good run of it but it was never going to last forever.  The band was about to go through some major changes too, with Frank, Tony and Daz eventually leaving before we took up touring on a full time basis again, a couple of years later.  After a period of time battling record labels, writing a new record and playing sporadic shows we'd finally be back on the road, this time in our own tour van, Betty, an old school bus for the handicapped we bought and done up with the help of Gordon's little brother Sandy, who knew a thing or two about engines.  Sandy gutted the thing and built six bunks inside, as well as installing seats and a table, a tv, Playstation, electric sockets, everything.  Travelling in Betty would turn out to be as much fun, if not more, than we'd ever had.  And now we were doing it all ourselves again, which is all I'd ever wanted.  And now we had a new driver, not just that, a seventh member.  He did as much for our band as any of us did, and he would be with us wherever we went for the next few years until we called it a day.  Wee Lee.  One of the best friends I've ever had.