Diagnosis? Bastard! Coming Soon...

The North West

Woke up feeling like absolute dog cack. Three hours sleep, still pissed probably. If my conscience would've allowed, I would have crawled down the aisle of the RV to Dutch in his bunk and told him to forget the sight-seeing trip into Frisco. But my conscience won me over.

It's always the way on tour. You have an early rise booked in, with plans to actually do something other than just travel in the van all day, something that is all to rare an occurrence, and you piss all over those plans by drinking until the sun comes up. I don't regret it on this particular day though. It's not every night you get to see your drummer mistakenly suck your merch guy's bobby. Everybody, except Gordon, was in a good mood today, sleep deprived or not.

Once we got out of the van and inhaled some Pacific air into our lungs, everything started to feel better. We only had an hour or so to look around the city, and so we had to choose what we wanted to see. I would have liked to have gone to Haight/Ashbury as well as check Amoeba Records out, but was content enough with the majority vote that decided we go down to the bay, look at the seals and have a glance at Alcatraz out on that island. We stopped for coffee first though, as functioning on any sort of level without a caffeine fix would have been impossible.

The seals were cute and it was fun watching them paddle about in the harbour waters, and Alcatraz was cool enough, although from our standpoint a little imagination was needed. By the time Dutch called time to leave, I was not for the first time on tour, left feeling that I wished I was here on holiday.

We made the short drive over to Sacramento, or actually Orangevale, which although Dutch said was Sacramento, was actually Orangevale. When we pulled up outside the venue, which was as usual in the middle of a nondescript nowhere, I asked Dutch how long it would take to journey into Sacramento. “Oh, well it's about twenty miles away.” Fuck sakes, sometimes this country gets on my tits. Twenty miles away in USA terms apparently equates to being in the same place. That's like me saying Corby is actually in Leicester. Although why I'd want to say that I don't know. So, that was that. We're stuck here in Orangevale, which isn't Sacramento, with nothing to do but wait for Nile to get soundcheck over and done with.

Today is the actually the first day we have any contact with the Nile guys. Fat Jeff actually came out to greet us on our bus. He seemed like a decent enough guy to be honest. He asked it was ok to come aboard the disco bus and then hung out for about ten minutes making half awkward small talk, referring now and again to his band's poor effort in the mingling stakes so far. He said something about them having a new bass player and some in-band issues that had been niggling away at them and that from here on in they'd be making a bit more of an effort to hang out with everyone. He then made a few comments about our band, saying he “digged it”, although it was painfully obvious that he didn't have a fucking clue about us. I doubt very much he'd even seen us in action yet. Still, nice enough of him to come over to us and make the effort. Funny thing is, this would turn out to be the one and only time any of us would have a conversation with Fat Jeff on the tour.

A little while after Jeff has left, and we're again going over the events of the night before, Chrissy walks on to the bus. Or, actually, I should say, she shuffles onto the bus, big duffel-coat wrapped around her but doing nothing to stop the apparent chill raging through her being, eyes sadly dipped towards the floor, looking like she's just been told she has a terminal disease. We laugh at first, assuming she's insanely hungover, which of course she is, but it turns out it's way worse than that. She asks us if we've seen her rucksack. “No..... why? What's happened?”

It turns out that she has lost/had her rucksack stolen somewhere between San Francisco and here. In that rucksack was her laptop and even worse, all of the takings from Decapitated and Hypocrisy's merch from the first week of the tour. About ten thousand dollars apparently. My first reaction is TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!!! Fucking hell, we must have sold about two hundred, tops. But that quickly subsides into a feeling of desperate sympathy for Chrissy, sickly almost. We tell her that we're sorry but we haven't seen it. She hangs out for a while, doing her best to hold back the tears. The worst thing is, she hasn't told the bands yet.. Dear Lord...

As soon as she's shuffled off again, Kev and Lasse agree that they recall a very drunken Chrissy the night before, opening her rucksack and showing them the bundles of cash inside, as they were sat partying at the merch stall. It's all to obvious that someone at the gig has been witness to this and taken the opportunity. Some fucker is considerably better off this morning, that's for sure!

I don't know how it plays out with Chrissy and the guys, but they obviously come to some understanding since Chrissy avoids getting the sack at least. Although the fact that she's seeing the Decapitated guitarist probably helps. That is, if she ever does indeed tell them. Whatever the case, we never hear word of it again.

The club in Orangevale is much more to our liking. It's a small club, the likes of which we played in San Antonio. I think it's sold out at about two hundred and fifty. The place looks more like a punk dive than most of the crap venues we've been playing so far, which suits us down to the ground. Thankfully for us, that actually translated to there being a healthy punk/hardcore contingent in the crowd and it ended up being one of the best, if not the best show of the tour. The place was packed, the stage was small, and the crowd went mental when we played. There was even stage diving and mosh pits at points and we sold a bit of merch afterwards. What a fucking contrast to last night, and the night before, and the night before that..

Apart from the gig, something else great happened on this night.

I've never known a bigger toilet enthusiast than Bloody Kev. I mean, I've never known anyone who takes as much pleasure in the act of taking a shit as Kev. He fucking loves it. He claims that when he worked at Virgin Records, he could entice as many as seven a day out. He hated his job so lucky for him he could break the day up with constant, and productive, shit breaks. As well as he can seemingly produce a turd at will, he can also hold on to one for a great length of time, in anticipation of finding a worthy toilet to release it.

The problem/quite frankly absurd phenomenon with rest-rooms (as they call them) in that States is that a lot of the time the stalls don't have doors on, and if they do then they most likely don't have a lock to keep the door closed with. This is at least how I've experienced this matter on the touring circuit. Just another quirky detail in the make up of this generally insane country. Anyway, the toilet at the club in Orangevale, although by no means anything you'd describe as luxurious, did at least have a door with a lock. In fact, the toilet itself was one big room with a door and a lock. Which is a little weird in that the shitter and the urinal don't come as exclusive items.. you get one, you get the other. Strange design fault but there you go. Anyway, Kev, as is his routine, had checked out the bog on arrival and had been looking forward to his toilet visit since we'd got here, leaving it for a while to build up the anticipation. You can imagine his fury then when as soon as he finally calls time on it and sits down on the pan, some obnoxious metaller bangs on the door, telling him to hurry up.

“Alright yeah,” an annoyed Kev responds, “I've just sat down, gimme a minute.” Within twenty seconds the guy is banging on the door again, shouting at Kev to hurry up. Big mistake. You don't not fuck with Kev and his turd time. Kev responds in a way only he could. He decided to wipe his arse and save the first piece of paper. With this he plans to open the door and shove it into the annoying cunt at the door's face. The thing is, when he opens the door he's faced with some big heavy metal bastard who looks like he could eat Kev for breakfast. Luckily Kev has the piece of shit paper hidden behind his back. With what can only be described as an ingenious bit of quick thinking, he stands aside and and welcomes the big metaller in, “It's all yours mate”. As he does this he pats the guy on the back and sticks the piece of shit paper to the guys leather jacket. And with that he makes a sharp exit out of there.

Only Kev could possibly think of such an action, and justify it. The thing that gets me is that this is before the show and the guy being at the gig, he's bound to run into Kev again during the evening. And unless he's really is as thick as he no doubt looked, he's bound to realise that it was Kev who stuck the shit rag on his leather jacket. Amazingly, Kev receives absolutely no back lash on the matter.

Although there were a few drinks drunk after the show, the night was considerably calmer than that which preceded it. How could it not be? Dutch was leaving early in the morning for the trip to Portland. I had set my alarm to six am so I could get up and listen to the Liverpool – Man Utd game on Dutch's internet radio. We got beat by a late goal, robbed as usual. It was the game when that bastard Gary Neville ran the length of the pitch to celebrate in front of the Liverpool fans at the end of the game, almost causing a riot in the process. Normally I'd complain that I wished I hadn't bothered getting up at such a ludicrous hour to listen to the game, but not this time. The scenery up in Northern Californian/Oregon was beautiful, really beautiful, like Twin Peaks landscape. It was soul soothing sitting up front with Dutch, having a deep conversation as the sun came up and we drove through the forest firs that the highway snaked through. I didn't even go back to bed after the game.

It was the first time I'd really sat down with Dutch and talked to him, and although I have to say he

definitely had his quirks (he probably still hates Lasse over Coffeegate), I got an insightful look into his life as we sat there and drank coffee together. It's a weird fucking life being a tour driver, or any kind of long distance driver for that matter. He told me about his wife and how much he was away from home, how he missed her. I could understand how it must have been for him... I enjoyed our long chat as everyone else slept. I still don't get the wresting thing though...

We arrived in Portland a few hours before doors and hung out with the Soilent guys for a while, again going through the events of the night in San Francisco. After hearing of Gordon's unfortunate act he had unanimously been elected their favourite person on tour. They were having problems with the Nile guys though, as were Hypocrisy. It seemed that Nile were kicking up a fuss about the amount of merch Soilent had with them on the road. They had told them that they weren't allowed to sell more than three different design of t-shirt, which is absolutely fucking ludicrous! It's bad enough that we all had to match their ridiculous t-shirt prices as it is, but this was just purely taking the piss! The Soilent guys were threatening to quit the tour. The Hypocrisy guys were fucked off too because Nile were clamping down on their set time, wanting them to cut ten minutes from it. This all seemed to be strangely coincidental with the fact Soilent were most likely selling more merch than Nile and a lot of people were leaving the venue's after Hypocrisy were done..

I spent a couple of hours walking about the nearby Portland streets. It seemed like a really cool place, very laid back. Portland is of course drenched in punk and hardcore history, with so many great bands coming from here. I'd found a pretty cool record shop on my travels that sold mostly indie stuff. I picked up a Trans Am record as well as the first Set Fire To Flames lp. Ben from Soilent found this to be funny. I was pleased with my purchases though. To be honest, it was just as well I hadn't found a punk store since I would've most likely pissed away all my money in it.

The show tonight was a rather chilled affair. The club was on the smaller side, the crowd of three hundred or so not quite filling it out. We'd been taking the piss out of the young guys in With Passion since they'd been having a laugh at Gords' AC/DC t-shirt. Both our crew and the Soilent crew had slaughtered them for that. It was all good fun, the little bastards. There was quite an obvious clique appearing within the touring ranks. Compared to the show the night before in Orangevale you'd have to say this gig was a tame affair. We had a few people down the front that were into it and there were no signs of aggravation from anyone. But considering the crowd had a greater contingent of punk and hardcore kids than most nights, it didn't kick off like I maybe hoped it would. I guess it was an early night and most likely somewhere in the beginning of the week. Who knows?

The funny thing is, Nile's stage manager, who was this rowdy little guy who reminded me of Gords' dad Moggy, had approached us before our set, a little sheepishly, and asked if we'd mind cutting our thirty minute set to twenty five. You could tell he felt bad and he was obviously getting shit from his employers about stage schedules. We laughed when he asked, telling him we'd be more than happy to oblige. Fuck, we'd cut it to twenty, fifteen if he wanted! “Really? Are you sure?” he asked, taken a back. “No fucking problems! The shorter the better mate, as long as we're still getting paid the same!” we happily confirmed. “You guys are fucking great! I love you!” And he did and all. From there on in we became his favourite band on the tour, he just loved the attitude. He shared with us his sacred nightly bottle of whisky later on that evening, which was happily accepted. We'd just made a new friend. And a pretty handy one at that. Not only that, their tour manager, this quiet guy with a pony tail who seemed to lurk in the shadows for the most part, offered us a crate of beer after the show, straight from the belly of the Nile tour bus. “They get loads and they never drink it anyway”.. Fuck me, what a winner! Somehow we'd managed to swindle ten minutes off our set, and at the same time set ourselves up with a steady supply of free booze and beer from the Nile guys. Win-fucking-win!

We arrived early the next day in Seattle, in the usual hungover state. We'd gone from the glaring dessert sun of Arizona to the grey, chilled sky of the north west in the space of a week. We must have experienced a drop of about fifteen degrees in that time. The chilly Seattle air was exactly what the doctor ordered though and Kev, John and I took a walk down town to check out the Space Needle and some other sights. Again it seemed like a nice place, kind of European somehow. We spent a couple of hours walking around. I was impressed with John since he isn't usually the type for long strolls. We had a good time walking about though, just the three of us. It's nice to break away from the bigger pack sometimes.

The venue tonight was another small place, which always suited us down to the ground. It had a low stage too, so there'd be a good chance of some crowd “interaction” if anyone gave us shit. The in-house cuisine at this place was fucking superb, as far as fat American junk-food goes. I ate the largest, and tastiest jalapeño poppers I've ever had in my life at this place. I swear I could fly back to Seattle just to taste them again!

It turns out it was a fun show anyway. Jeff from Zeke had come down to hang out with us, I'd met him a few years ago in Sweden and we'd been friends since. It was good to see him, down the front, drunk and going for it with the rest of the mosh pit. Good times. It was definitely one of the better shows on the tour. Again, the smaller the crowd the better the show seemed to be for us. There were probably no more than two hundred in tonight. It's strange, for Nile the headlining band, that must have seemed like a disaster but we were in our element. In all honesty though, I even watched a bit of Nile later on, the first time for a while, and they had a good show themselves. I even might say I enjoyed their set, although that probably had a lot to do with the fact Lasse was sharing a bottle of Captain Morgan with me and Jeff.

We ended the night back on the disco bus with Jeff, passing around a bottle of Jager he'd bought for us. It was one of those nights that we could have easily sat up until the sun rose, getting pissed on anything we could find but we had to call it curtains at around two am, unfortunately. Dutch was eager to leave since we had a long journey ahead. I'd asked Dutch a few days ago where we'd be spending our “day off” between the Seattle and Denver shows. “In the van dude, it's like a thirty hour journey!” came his exasperated response...

We said farewell to Jeff and the Soilent Green guys, and headed east, into the early hours of the morning. We'd be spending the next two days in the van...Luckily, we had enough booze to see us through...

Maximum RocknRoll!

I interupt the Speedhorn in the USA series to bring you some breaking news.

Excerpts of my tour diary from the Black Breath/Victims/Tormented jaunt will be in November's edition of Maximum Rock n Roll.  MRR is one of my favourite magazine's so it is a great honour for me to be included in it's pages.

Check it out!

San Francisco

San Francisco is one of those places I always dreamed of seeing one day. The Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, Haight Street, the original Amoeba Records etc.. I couldn't wait to arrive in the city and see some of those famous sights. I was chuffed that Dutch was driving through the night from Los Angeles so that we'd have some time to check the city out.

My dad was an adolescent of the sixties when San Fran had been the centre of the Flower Power movement and the shining beacon of the Swinging Sixties. When Flower Power was happening, my dad was working in the Steel Works in Corby, dreaming of what life must be like on the other side of the world, over there in California. Now I felt like I was living his dreams for him, although the culture I was now involved in was pretty different to his back then. I knew my dad would want a postcard from Frisco, so besides the sights, that was top of my to-do-list when I arrived.

Of course, I've long since learned that if you want guaranteed sight seeing then book a fucking holiday, because most of the time when you go to these fantastic places all over the world with a band, you end up seeing fuck all. As would be the case on this occasion...

We stumbled out of the bus sometime in the early afternoon, the lot of us hungover to piss. The first thing I noticed is that it was a lot colder here than in LA. I guess it was January and we'd travelled eight hours north, so it wasn't so strange really. The bus was parked outside of the club which was a nondescript building with a large parking lot out back, which was actually were the show was going to be. On a stage, in the car park. The show tonight was a coalescence of two tours. There would be the six bands on our package plus Anthrax, God Forbid and Sworn Enemy. We were all pretty chuffed to be playing with Anthrax, who were back as the original line up with Belladonna on vocals. Kev, in particular, was really buzzing. He loves early Anthrax. It had all the tell tale signs of a big party night. Except for Jay, who had come down with some illness. We'd originally assumed it was either a hangover or jet lag, or both, but he really wasn't looking too good and he spent the entire afternoon in bed in the van. It was touch and go whether he was going to be able to make the show..

The point I was getting to though, is that Jay didn't miss much. The venue we were playing could just as well have been on the Earlstree's industrial estate in Corby. There was nothing but warehouses and units to see around there. We were actually on the other side of the bay from where the real San Francisco was. I took a walk with a couple of the guys down to the outskirts of the industrial estate we were on, which eventually led us down to the water. From there we could just about see the silhouette of the Golden Gate bridge, although it was so grey and foggy a good deal of imagination was needed to confirm what we were looking at. So this is Frisco eh? Great!

We trudged back to the venue a little dejected and loaded the gear into the venue's compound. We soon cheered up though when Dutch told assured me that he'd take us into the city in the morning, since the next drive was only a couple of hours. Nice one Dutchy! Considerably happier, we started on the beer. Although the stage was out back in the large car park, the bar and the merch area was inside the club house, or whatever it was. Jay was still looking really pale and I was starting to worry about him. I told him that he should just stay in bed and forget the gig tonight, we'd be ok with just me on guitar, but he told me he wanted to play. I was proud of him. With the way the shows had been going on this tour I wouldn't have blamed him for taking the easy option and fucking the gig off, but he wouldn't have it.

It must have been around six pm when we took to the stage. It was still fairly light out and there was a good size crowd already in through the gates. It seemed like word had been spreading around the internet about us though, I can only imagine the hordes of death metal nerds on message boards slagging us off, as before we even started the set, in fact, before we even strapped on our guitars, some young guy who looked like he was straight out of Heavy Metal Parking Lot, shouted, “Fuck off back to England you wankers!” H.M.P.L. looked chuffed as punch with his witty remark. I looked over at a very pale Jay, hoodie tightly wrapped around his face. The two of us just smirked at each other. “Fuck me, we haven't even started yet!” laughed John as he got in to anger mode.

We kicked the living shit out of that stage. Tore the fucker apart. And apart from a couple of hardcore kids down the front, no one gave a cack. This was the first show on the tour where the boos started to come between songs, so to combat the cunts we just left the amps to feedback loudly when we weren't playing, Kev and John looking for a fight with anyone who wanted to come near us. Good show...

The night did get considerably better from there on in though. Kev was on top form. He was really chuffed about seeing Anthrax with Belladonna and to enhance his mood further he was throwing beer down his throat like it was going out fashion. Apart from Jay, who went straight back to bed after the show, the rest of us got on board with Kev. We hung out by the merch area for most of the night, with Chrissy who was selling Decapitated and Hypocrisy's merch, as well as the Soilent guys. It was just one of those spontaneous nights that ended up being a lot of fun. It was the first night that we'd properly hung out with a lot of the other guys on tour. You could feel the ice melting, aided by the flowing stream of beer and we were all in very high spirits, despite yet another shit gig.

By the time Anthrax came on, we were all pretty pissed up. Kev in particular. We were stood on this porch at the back of the club house that overlooked the by now packed parking lot, watching the first few songs of the Anthrax set. They played a few classics and they were sounding good. As they went into Keep it in the Family, a large mosh pit erupted in front of the stage. I turned towards Kev to comment on it, but before I knew it he was off. He'd hopped of the porch and was now running full pelt into the mosh pit. I watched him all the way in. He ran straight up to this big metaller and clocked him right in the fucking chops! The metaller barely had time to gather himself before Kev disappeared into the sea of mosh. Fuck me you old bastard! I could barely believe what I'd just seen. I stood there, watching the next couple of songs, wondering when Kev would return and in what shape. He eventually arrived back at the porch, with this really sad look on his face. “Some cunt stole my cap...” he muttered to me. “Ha ha, serves you right you wanker!” I laughed. Kev looked truly gutted...

The partying continued after the show, long into the night. We all ended up back at the merch stalls, Lasse and Chrissy having now become friends. It seemed like everyone except for the Nile guys were on the piss. Before long we were all chatting merrily to each other, drinking shots and dancing.. At one point we were sat by Chrissy's table, looking at some photos on her laptop. The Decapitated singer thought it would be funny to draw a Hitler tash on a face on one of the images. We all laughed our tits off when Chrissy went to wipe it off only to find that he'd drawn it on with permanent marker. I don't think he'd really meant it since he looked pretty guilty as Chrissy went berserk at him.

The night rolled on and on. By about three am Kev was absolutely steam boats. You can always tell when he's fucked because he gets this stupid grin on his face and his eyes are half closed, like he could fall asleep at any moment. He wasn't falling asleep right now though. He had his sights set on these two young, good looking girls. We watched him hobble over to them and attempt to strike up a conversation. They looked less than impressed. Kev was not to be discouraged though and persisted with his line of approach. It turned out that the two girls were actually a couple. We heard them tell Kev that they weren't interested, that they were in fact lesbians. “That's alright, I don't mind”, he reasoned. “Well we do!” they replied sharply. As this truly classic conversation was in motion, Gords had gone behind Kev and pulled his jeans down, leaving Kev stood there in his boxer shorts with his jeans around his ankles, stupid grin in tact. The girls just walked away shaking their heads.

It must have been four am by the time we rolled back into the bus, and we were all pretty fucked. There was beer in the fridge though, so we carried on drinking. Once again we had the old disco bus theme going. Fuck knows how Dutch managed to sleep at all, if he in fact did..

And then, the funniest thing I have EVER seen happened...

Gordon was by now off his tits and had the crazy look in his eye, the one he gets when he's gone over the border. He got in to a daft argument with an equally drunk Darren over something trivial and before long the two of them were wrestling. Nothing serious. It went on for a while and eventually Gords had Daz cornered in the bunk area. Daz was recoiling into his bed, trying to escape the depraved clutches of Gords, but to no avail. We were filming the whole thing as we crowded round to see what was happening.

Daz had crawled head first into his bunk, but Gords had pulled him back by the belt and then ripped his jeans down. He then pulled Daz's boxer shorts down and started slapping his bare arse, the whole while shouting in mock American wrestling commentary, “Oh yeah! Here comes the big slap down! Now he's gonna get it!” and the like. And the like. This went on for a while, the lot of us pissing ourselves. And then Lasse turned to me with an evil grin on his face, “Watch this.” I filmed Lasse as he approached an oblivious Gordon from behind.

None of expected what happened next, least of all Gordon, the poor bastard. Lasse pulls his cock out and starts slapping Gordon on his left shoulder with it. Gordon is still bent over Daz, slapping his arse when he feels something from behind. In a blurry instant, Gords turns around, mouth wide open as he continues with his American commentary. Lasse's cock goes straight in to Gordon's gaping pie hole! All the fucking way in! And it's all caught perfectly on film.

Gordon's face turns white as a ghost and his eyes roll in horror. Lasse, who can't believe what just happened, falls back pissing himself laughing. And then the laughter erupts in the bus like a volcano. We're all laughing so hard that a few of us are crawling around on all fours, crying and choking. Gordon is fucking horrified! Lasse comes trundling back to me, crying with laughter, “Fuck me, I wasn't expecting that!”

My first thought is to show Jay the film. The poor bastard is lying in his bed, trying to sleep off the illness, unaware of what's happened. I wake him and tell him he has to see this film. He begs me to leave him alone, that he'll see it in the morning. I promise him it will be worth his effort though, “Mate, if I only ever beg of you one thing, then it's this, you must see this film right now!” He reluctantly crawls out of his hard bed and wipes the dust from his eyes. Within seconds Jay is rolling around on the floor with the rest of us, sick with laughter. I've never seen him so happy.

Gordon, absolutely gutted, decides he has to call his girlfriend Katy and confess what he's done. Fuck knows why but we don't hinder him. I guess Katy is at work or something since it's the middle of the day back home and is not expecting to hear from her lad. “Katy, I think I'm a gay!”. Holy shit, we all puke up laughing again.

Unfortunately the film has now been erased. In it's place is just a blacked out bit of film, where you can hear Gordon in the background exasperatedly asking us, “Why is it always me?”. We begged him to let us keep the film but it was not to be. Although the image is branded into my memory anyway.

Gordon was able to see the funny side of it shortly afterwards. We have him on film a little while later, singing Phil Collins, his head rolling insanely about his shoulders. Every now and again he looks in to the camera and says, “I'm sorry dad. I'm sorry big man!”

My stomach was in agony when I finally went to bed, sometime around six am. Dutch was going to drive us into the city around nine so we'd have a couple of hours to do some sightseeing. Have to get that postcard...

Arizona/SoCal

I awoke to the sound of Dutch turning the engine off, sometime around seven am. I felt wide awake despite the fact I'd only drifted off a few hours earlier. I hissed over to Kev to check if he was awake too. He was.

We'd pulled over at a service station in the middle of the desert to fill up on gas. The rest of the guys sound asleep, we decided not to disturb them and left them to their dreams. It was an incredible feeling, sitting with Kev on a bench outside the roadside café, supping on black coffee and staring off at the dusty, silhouetted mountains on the horizon, the sleepy sun hovering just above them. We were miles from nowhere in the middle of Arizona. The Unites States of America truly is a strange and wondrous land. No doubt it has a dark side to it but it's hard not to be blown away by scenery such as this, scenery that carries such weight you can almost feel it pressing upon you. I've drank coffee all over the world, but nowhere quite as beautiful as this.

We played one show in Arizona, stopping off in a strange little town called Tempe, on our way to the west coast and California. Tempe was strange in that it looked like a full scale model village, or small grid system city, brand spanking new and shiny, in the middle of the arid Arizona desert. It reminds you of the computer game Sims. It was boiling hot when we arrived at the venue. We had plenty of time to kill since Nile were sound-checking pretty much up until doors and we were simply line checking before playing. With better things to do than watch them wank their guitars off for a few hours, we took a look around Tempe.

Right next to the venue and looking down on the small city from a northern vantage point was this big dusty hill. I wouldn't call it a mountain but from the top of it you could see the entire city as well as the silhouette of Phoenix off on the horizon. Nervously ignoring the “BEWARE COUGARS!” sign, we climbed to the top for a peek. On the other side of the hill was a gigantic college football stadium that from our viewpoint we could look right into. It says everything you need to know about the USA that their school football teams have stadiums that hold forty thousand spectators! It wasn't like that at Lodge Park I can tell you... After spending an hour pissing about at the top of the hill we headed back down into the little Sims city of Tempe and found a coffee shop. The town was almost unnerving in it's quiet normality.

The Tempe show gave an insight to how the tour was starting to unfold and what signs we could look for in the crowd to gage how our set was going to go down. The easiest marker to study was how well Decapitated's set went. Or more to the point, how well their guitar and drum solo sections of their songs went over. A common theme during the tour would become the six of us stood backstage waiting to go on after Decapitated, all of us suffering some level of hangover, Kev peeking through the stage door to check out the crowd's reaction to a guitar solo and then ultimately announcing we're doomed. The show tonight was one such occasion.

The venue was big enough to hold around eight hundred people but it looked they'd only sold around three hundred tickets. However thin the crowd, they were lapping up the Decapitated set and cheering every time one of them broke into a solo. Not a fucking chance tonight boys! And so it was. The crowd looked irritated at best, amused at worst by the six of us going mental during our set. The stage was huge as well, must have been at least six foot high, so we couldn't even get in their faces and kick off with the cunts.

Funny thing is, the show wasn't much better for Nile. The night belonged to Hypocrisy and Soilent Green and to a lesser extent, Decapitated, with us and With Passion being treated merely as a joke. This was the first night of many though, when by the time Hypocrisy were done, the crowd thinned out dramatically before Nile hit the stage. Something that would start to cause problems further down the line.. I guess it could have a lot to do with the fact Nile seem to tour constantly whilst this was the first time Hyporcisy had played the States in over ten years..

Next stop was Santa Ana, California. Never been here before, probably never need to go back. The venue was on this soulless strip mall that disappeared proudly into the horizon. I felt like taking a walk around when I got to the venue but gave up after twenty minutes when I started to feel suffocated by the endless traffic. It was like taking a stroll down the fucking M1.

Typically enough, my friend Mark was coming to the show this night. He's an English guy living in Sweden who used to work with my wife. Insanely enough he is now the chairman of Sony Records in Sweden. Anyway, of all the places to hook up with a mate on tour, Santa Ana was a shite choice. He was on holiday in Los Angeles but couldn't make our show there the day after. He had a couple of straight looking friends with him who looked scoobied by the whole evening. To be fair, I can see why. The venue was this brightly lit theatre with a low stage at the one end and had all the atmosphere of a bus station. And of course, we went down like a fart at a funeral.

At least tonight the crowd were in striking range. As we rattled through the set you could almost breathe in the animosity we were creating. There were people at the front of the crowd who looked physically insulted by us. At one point, there were a couple of metallers who were stood there flipping me off and I got pissed off and swung my guitar at the cunts, all part of the show of course. They fucked off after that. If there are people in the crowd who want to confront us then we're more than happy to take them on, which makes things a lot more fun when the stage is low and close up to them like it is here.

Mark caught up with me at the bar after another stinker of a show and bought me a drink. “The people here tonight really didn't seem to like you” he innocently notes. “No shit!” I laugh. Mark seems completely confused as we get stuck into the beer. Funny really, this is the first Speedhorn show he's ever seen and it's in Santa Ana, California to a crowd that hated us..

There isn't much to stick around for in Santa Ana, and funnily enough Mark and his friends aren't too bothered about sticking around for the rest of the bands, it not really being their cup of tea, so as soon as we're packed down we fuck off in the direction of Los Angeles.

It's only a short drive and we awake outside the venue in Hollywood. We've played the Key Club before with some awful nu-metal band which turned out to be a good show simply because the band we were playing with was so bad we couldn't help but look good. The show tonight would be different though. It was obvious by now that these big city shows, where there is so much happening every night that people are spoilt for choice, were going to be tough for us. Even if there were kids in LA that were in to Speedhorn, they were not going to be that into us that they'd spend thirty dollars on a ticket just to see us..

I spent the morning waking around Hollywood with Lasse looking for his camera. He found it in a shopping mall on Melrose but then decided to haggle with the woman over the price and got nowhere. It's weird how they advertise items for sale in this country minus the tax. I mean, does anyone ever fall for that? It was a beautiful day in LA, hardly a smog cloud in the sky. Even though we were on a tour playing to some really tough crowds, I couldn't help but feel like a lucky bastard as I sat with Lasse outside a bar in Hollywood, drinking a cold Corona. There are worse ways to spend your days.

Our good friend Joe Barresi came down to the show this night. He's an absolute legend in the business who we've been lucky enough to have mix a couple of our albums. Despite his high status in the industry, he's one of the nicest guys you could ever meet. The dressing room for the show was an old hollowed out bus beside the venue, and we hung out there with Joe for the best part of the night. The thing with Lasse is starting to get a bit of a pain since he's grumbling more and more about having to sell shirts all the time. Most nights he's just got tanked up on Captain Morgan to kill the boredom. I feel bad about it since I'm starting to feel like I falsely advertised the job to him. Still, as soon as he pops the Captain open the rest of the guys usually swarm around him like flies around a turd, so he's rarely short of company for too long.

The show tonight is exactly as expected. Actually, it's beyond. The club is pretty packed and we're up on this high stage giving it our all as usual. The majority of the crowd looks either bemused or disinterested. There is one guy though, stood right at the front that seems to be having a whale of a time. He's laughing his fucking tits off whilst pointing at us, as if he can't believe what he's witnessing. After a while he starts scribbling notes on a piece of paper that he's found somewhere and gives it to Kev, who's screaming songs in his face. Kev looks at it and starts pissing himself laughing. The note says, “Your guitarist has a very tight t-shirt” with an arrow pointing at Jay. Kev loves this. I'm on the other side of the stage wondering what's going on as this guy continues to scribble notes throughout the rest of the set and give them to an appreciative Kev. “Your band is gay” and “Are you guys for real?” being a couple of examples of the guys quips. The guy doesn't even look like your typical death metaller, the likes of which have been giving us shit since Day One on this tour. I don't know what that says really. Seems like every fucker is against us.

Kev happily passes on the notes to Jay and John as the set progresses and ends up dedicating the last song to his new friend. As we finish the set and pack down, the guy grabs Kev, “You guys are fucking awful but I genuinely appreciate your attitude and sense of humour!”. Kev gives him a big hug and we leave the stage. Kev thinks this is by far the best show of the tour so far, despite the boos hounding us off stage as we exit.

We have a couple of drinks with Joe after the gig and watch Soilent Green play their set. They truly kill it every night. Ben is a great front figure. Whilst having a drink with Brian later, he tells us he loves the band, that we remind him of his other band Eyehategod. Apparently they'd once done a tour with Pantera where they were really thrown to the lions every night. He said at certain shows they'd literally be playing to a packed arena with everyone in it giving them the finger. It's comforting knowing that we have allies on tour at least.

We had an eight hour drive to San Francisco after the show in LA. Dutch drove through the night to get us there, leaving sometime around two am. We spent the night getting pissed on Captain Morgan and cheap beer, turning the RV into a mobile disco. Gordon and Lasse seem to be bonding. We're all pissed up and dancing to AC/DC and the likes as Dutch plods north up the highway. At one point, out of the blue, Lasse grabs Gords around the neck and starts to strangle him, all in good fun of course. The two of them fly forward and fall through the dividing curtain to where Dutch is sat at the wheel listening to his Ipod. The two of them fall through the curtain, almost ripping it down in the process and Gordon's head ends up in Dutch's crotch with Lasse on top of him. Dutch starts going crazy as he swerves about the road, that pair of idiots pissing themselves laughing. “What the fuck is wrong with you guys?”

Dutch looks back at the rest of us, as if in hope of explanation, but we're all pissing ourselves laughing too. “God damn it guys!”... Gordon is actually a little bit pissed off by the time the two of them are on their feet, claiming Lasse actually hurt him. They're soon friends again though. The two of them seem to be made for each other. I think Gords sees a lot of himself in Lasse. It must be five am by the time we all collapse into our hard beds, fucking steam boats, the lot of us. Next stop Frisco. 

Texas

We'd made it into the States and now we could relax. At Houston we didn't even have to show our passports on the way out, we just picked up our luggage and walked right out the door. It did strike me as a little strange that the conveyor belts delivering the arriving passengers luggage was situated in the public hall next to the street exit. There seemed to be no security whatsoever. If you were so inclined you could literally walk in to the airport, pick up someone else's suitcase and fuck off with it. Weird. Especially when you consider how tight the security is surrounding the rest of the air travel industry in this country. I guess things are a little slacker in Texas...

Dutch was waiting for us right outside the airport. I spotted the RV straight away. You couldn't really miss it. Just four hours earlier I was sure we were being sent home and the whole tour was fucked, now we were heading off on a big American adventure in a camper van. Chicago already felt like a million miles away.

Dutch seemed like a friendly enough guy, pretty normal. We told him all about Chicago, all of us still buzzing from the experience. Dutch assured us he'd heard it all before though. Stepping into the RV felt like stepping into one of those great 80's films like National Lampoon's Vacation or The Great Outdoors. It had that vibe about it somehow, I felt like a kid going off on road trip with my buddies.

As normal as Dutch first appeared, the tell tale signs of tour driver weirdness soon started to appear. I'd been mailing back and forth with him before the tour about all the usual logistical stuff, and during that time I'd asked him if there was a dvd player on the bus. He'd told me that yes there was and that not only that, he had hundreds of dvd's, so there was “absolutely no need” for us to bring any with us. Cool, I thought. Bonus. And it's true, there was a dvd player and there were indeed hundreds of dvd's to go with it. The problem was that ALL of them were wrestling DVD's. All of them. Wrestlemania this, Royal Rumble that, “Jake the Snake, the True Story”, “Mick Foley, the Man Behind the Mask”... John was chuffed enough, but the rest of us were a little inquisitive. I asked Dutch if he really only had wrestling dvd's to which he happily replied, “Yeah dude!” Ok, a little weird that our forty five year old driver is fanatical about wrestling but what the fuck do I know? Horses for courses and all that..

There were a few other things about the bus that weren't quite as described by Dutch, like the bunks at the back of the van were actually thin strips of plywood, attached very loosely to the walls, holding an oblong piece of wood with a slither of yellow foam acting as a mattress. It was like sleeping on a table and literally every time Dutch took a sharp curve the bunks on the left side of the van would sway away from the wall. But all in all we were chuffed. There was a lounge area at the front with a table, bench seats and a sofa facing a tv. There was a small kitchen area with a stove and microwave. Between the lounge and bunk area there was even a toilet and a shower, although you had to stop the van and wait an hour for the water to heat up, and then you'd only get five minutes of warm water. Even so, to us it was absolute luxury.

We drove into Houston and parked the van in the large car park outside the venue where the tour would be starting the next day. Even though it was the middle of January it was still twenty five degrees and the sun was shining brightly in the early evening sky. It was fucking miserable at home so being able to walk the streets of downtown Houston in t-shirts was sheer joy.

We walked around for a while, in and out of shops and shopping malls, just killing time really. I remember there was this one crazy looking black guy in a shabby suit, who had a handmade billboard hanging around his neck, preaching something about Jesus and the end of the world. He was literally following people along the side walks and screaming that the end of the world is nigh in their ears. The people just carried on walking though, as if he wasn't even there.

We ended up spending the evening in a sports bar, drinking pints of weak American lager. All in all, it was an easy going first night though, I think we were all emotionally worn out from the journey and the drama that went with it. We retired early, going by Domino's to pick up some pizza to take back to the van. I'd heard about Houston being the fattest city in the USA but still couldn't quite believe my eyes when, as we were sat waiting for our “small” pizza's to bake, what has to be the largest human being I've ever seen walks in and orders two XL Meat Feast pizzas, along with an XL diet coke.

The next day Nile's tour bus turns up in the early afternoon, followed shortly after by another tour bus that houses Hypocrisy and Decapitated. Soilent Green and With Passion's splitter vans arrive a little while later. Nile soundcheck for about four hours, something I put down to at the time as first night niggle and jitters, but annoyingly it becomes the norm over the course of the tour. It's immediately obvious to everyone that amongst all these super technical bands, musically, we're outsiders here. Our closest allies in both sound and attitude are Soilent Green, who we'd previously met in Japan and had a great time with. The other people we quickly align ourselves with are the boys in With Passion, who are a bunch of young guys from California with short hair like us, and seem intent on taking the piss out of everyone they meet, like us..

It's safe to say we're about a million miles away from Nile in every aspect of life and music. I'd always quite liked their records to be honest, I still think Black Seeds of Vengeance is a great record when it comes to that style of music, but I was disappointed as soon as I saw them soundchecking since the entire drum kit is triggered and even worse, the vocals are really weak. I mean, on record it sounds brutal, that deep guttural growl done so well, but in reality they're just putting the microphone as close to their mouths as is possible without actually eating the fucking thing and growling with absolutely no effort whatsoever. There is no strain in their throats at all. It all feels a bit like cheating when you consider that John and Bloody Kev literally tear their throats to pieces every night.

We soon have new names for the Nile guys. One of the singer/guitarist guys is re-christened Ghost Tramp, since he looks like the tramp from that scene in the film Ghost, the one Swayze meets on the subway. The other guitarist is given the moniker Fat Jeff, since he looks like a fat Jeff Hanneman and the bassist is called Zanussi due to the fact he is doing the Jason Newstead swirling headbang thing, even during soundcheck, and looks like a fucking washing machine on spin. I can't remember what we call the drummer but then I can't really remember the drummer full stop, since you never see him. It turns out Zanussi is only nineteen years old and this is his first tour with Nile. I can't help feeling sorry for him although he seems to be living the dream.

The first show is not so bad, for a first show. We're not all that tight and we're still figuring out Soilent's backline that we're hiring, but as far as the crowd goes, we'll face much worse on this tour. There are about five hundred in the venue. Some of them are down the front and seem to be in to it and then there are a bunch of people behind that are either disinterested or totally confused. I mean, right before us you've got Decapitated who play solid death metal, very technical, very fast, very long hair, very static on stage. And then we come on. Short hair, regular clothes, not technical in the slightest and performing what looks more akin to a scrap on stage than a gig. Even most of the other bands look confused. I guess I can see why.

Afterwards I hang out with Lasse who is sat at our merch table looking bored, something that will become a regular feature, and we share a bottle of Captain Morgan that Lasse has snuck off and bought from a liquor store, another thing that will become a regular feature, and watch Nile on stage whilst listening to The Bear Quartet on Lasse's Iphone. He has these shit hot earphones that block out all other sound and it's quite a trip watching Nile and the crowd bang their heads to a soundtrack of northern Swedish folk/pop. It's like being in a David Lynch film.

The next night is in Fort Worth, about an eight hour drive from Dallas. The venue is this large, brightly lit hall, that is carpeted all over. It's kind of reminds me of the lounge at the Silver Band club in Corby, only way bigger. The gig is a bit of a non event, we play, get little to no reaction and fuck off again.

I meet a guy here who used to live in Corby and was friends with my good mate Kimmins. I think they worked together or something. Anyway, he's moved back to the States and is here on Kimmins' instruction. He's a really nice guy and he was one of the few people who really liked the gig. He insists on buying us drinks and paying for a t-shirt. We'd all been pretty hungover during the day, something else that will become a regular feature, but the adrenalin from the gig has us all restored and we're ready to go again. We hang out at the merch table with Lasse, who is already starting to make the odd comment or two about not wanting to sit at the merch the whole time. I get the feeling this is going to be a problem but try to ignore it for now. I tell everyone that they have to take turns hanging out with Lasse at the merch and help relieve the boredom of not selling anything.

The night rolls along and we all get pissed up. Kev meets two big, shady looking guys at the bar who he befriends and they buy him some shots. When I meet up with Kev he's pretty pissed and introduces me to his two new friends, Uni Bomber and Tit Cutter. They've just got out of prison apparently. So the story goes, Tit Cutter got into a fight with his girlfriend and then got sent to prison for cutting her tit off. I don't know what the fuck that's all about but they seem to be lapping Kev up, who is happily drinking anything they buy him, the whole while that big stupid grin spread across his face.

The next day we're in San Antonio at a really small club. It's another eight hour drive and we haven't even left Texas yet! It's a luxury having Dutch drive the van though since he likes to drive through the nights and sleep during the days, so we wake up at the venue. We're in San Antonio so obviously we have to take a look at the Alamo. There are hundreds of people swarming around but it's very little to see. Just a brick wall basically. Obviously it has huge historical importance but if you didn't know it you'd walk straight past the thing.

The venue had a record shop right beside it, which I spent a few hours in whilst Nile were soundchecking. The fun thing about tonight is that there is this young kid here with big hair that is really into Speedhorn. The venue is packed out with about two hundred people, our kind of gig, and this kid is down the front singing along to all the songs. The crowd in general is much better for us this night, which becomes a general rule on the tour, that being that the smaller cities are way better for us, since it's not just purely death metal kids in attendance, but punk and hardcore kids too, which gives us more of a chance.

We're only three days in but we notice Dutch is starting to get a little weird. He starts a hate campaign against Lasse, who up until now had been the person making the most effort with him, because Lasse had stupidly put a plastic cup of coffee in the microwave to warm it up. Whilst Lasse is in the toilet the coffee explodes and Dutch goes fucking crazy. Alright, it wasn't Lasse's finest hour but it's not the end of the fucking world, nothing is broken, and Lasse cleans up the mess. But Dutch has decided that's him and Lasse done with and from this point until the end of the tour addresses him with utter disdain. I can't help finding the whole incident hilarious, as does the rest of the band. Although, we don't let Dutch know that.

Tonight is Daz's birthday and we all get pissed with him. The Speedhorn fan joins us as well. It's a good night. Daz ends up steaming, stood at the bar with a grin on his face and his balls hanging out of his flies, Lasse ends up hitting it off with this cute emo girl and suddenly seems chuffed to be hanging out at the merch stall, Kev is drunk and furious since he seemed to like the girl Lasse has pulled and is a little jealous, “I don't get it Gaz! How the fuck did he manage to pull her? He's got weird eyes!”

This turns out to be the first big party where we really hang out with the Soilent guys. Their tour manager Chris, this big loud guy with a great sense of humour, has decided he loves our attitude. Ben, the Soilent singer, has decided he loves Gordon, “that weird kid on drums”. The night turns into a blur as the shots fly down the hatch. At one point Gords heads back to the van in search of something he's lost, and finds one of our guys (not saying who) who had been preaching about how they're in a solid relationship and who's days of fucking around are behind him, tied up to the ceiling of the lounge in the bus with his top off, with some girl whipping him with her belt. Gords stands there shocked at the scene as our boy casually greets him, “Alright mate, what's up?” Gords just pisses himself and comes running back to tell us all. The thing that makes me laugh is that Dutch is trying to sleep in his bunk above the driver's seat whilst this is going on!

The next day is a day off in El Paso and we're all understandably hungover. The Mexican border city is an ominous place at night, our fears no doubt aided by Dutch warning us not to go near the border bridge, which is apparently a simple wooden bridge that people go back and forth over to pick up drugs. We spend the day flaked out in the van but by night time we've picked ourselves up and decide to go bowling. Unfortunately I get talked into going with Lasse in search of some electronic super store that has a camera he wants to buy.

I kind of want to go with the guys but feel bad for Lasse and tag along with him. I find myself regretting it shortly afterwards as we end up completely lost, walking around dark, unlit streets on the outskirts of the city. We're walking about for an hour and after a while the side-walk diminishes and it's pitch fucking black. Lasse has a map on his phone and insists we're on course, but I feel like shit and want desperately to get back to the boys and go bowling, where there is light and it's safe.

As we're searching for this store, we see what we think is a UFO in the sky. It's really weird. We figure it's something from the military base nearby, but this being UFO territory our minds can't help but wonder. It's a really bright light over in the distant dark sky, that seems to be moving in a very strange manner. It goes from seemingly hovering in one place to suddenly shooting off at high speed in all kinds of directions. The two of us stand there mesmerised by it for what must be twenty minutes before it finally shoots off and disappears into the night. I don't know what it was but it was fucking weird and we decide to get the fuck out of there. As it happens we soon come across the store Lasse is looking for but they don't have his camera in stock. Great.

We end up waking all the way back, which must take an hour, and head to a Mexican restaurant. Lasse offers to buy me dinner, which I happily accept. The food is very welcome and the beer tastes like heaven. Satisfied, we head over to the bowling alley and meet up with the rest of the guys, excitedly telling them about our UFO experience. We end up having a relaxed night and hitting if off with the bartender there, who happily pours us pints of Amber Bock. I think we end the night watching a wrestling film with Dutch. We decide John should buy some dvd's when he gets the chance. Not really because he has great taste in film or anything, more that he loves spunking his money on dvd's.

Dutch pulls the van out about two am and we head to Arizona. Most of us are soon fast asleep but Kev ande I lie awake, chatting through the night whilst laid up in our bunks. Despite the bed being as hard a table and the bunk frame tilting with every bump in the road of which there are many, it's still pretty cosy somehow. As we're chatting away, Gordon shouts out in his sleep, “If you fuck my mum in the arse then I'll fuck you in the arse!”. We stare at each other for a brief second and then burst into laughter! I hear Lasse giggling from his bunk too.

A little while later we drift off to sleep as Dutch shunts through the night, across New Mexico and on towards Arizona.

Chicago O'Hare

Getting through Heathrow wasn't so much of a problem. Daz's bass amp cost about sixty quid in excess weight charges, but he was willing to pay for that himself. He'd really wanted his own amp with him on tour so fair enough.

It's seems crazy to me now that we'd take so much obvious touring equipment on the flight with us and expect to breeze through customs. These days we don't take so much as a guitar pick with us, let alone a fucking bass amp. To be safe we rent gear in the States or ship ours over in advance and have a friend pick it up. Some of us won't even travel wearing a t-shirt with a band's logo on it, but that is maybe a little excessive. I mean, punks are surely allowed to go on holiday like anyone else, right?

Daz was a notoriously nervous flyer, and I remember sitting in the airport bar with a view over the runway with him, me drinking coffee, him nursing a pint. He said that watching all the airplanes take off and land made him feel a bit better about the journey ahead, but his pale expression betrayed him. I felt bad for him, it must be horrible to fear something like that. He wasn't the only one who was nervous though. My thoughts were churning over the journey ahead. There were always stories doing the rounds about band's being turned away at the border. And we were flying in to Chicago, one of the major ports. It was not going to be a stroll in the park.

We lift off and settle in to a nine hour flight. Even though the booze on board is complimentary I abstain. I want my clearest head on until we're sat in Dutch's van that is due to meet us at Houston airport in about fourteen hours time. I try to settle in to sleep but it's not happening. I have a hard time sleeping on flights at the best of times. It's not really a fear thing, more a comfort thing. I'm a light sleeper as it is and trying to drift off whilst sat in a tight, airplane chair is quite a challenge. That together with the customs control at Chicago O' Hare airport haunting my thoughts making it nigh on impossible to nod off.

We land nine hours later, some time around noon, Chicago time. We've got two hours until our connecting flight to Houston and not only do we have to make it through border control, we also have to pick up our luggage and check it in again. I'd been so busy worrying about the cops sending us home that I hadn't even thought about the fact that we're on a fucking tight schedule just to make it on to the next flight. At least we're not playing tonight. The first show was due to be in New Orleans, but the horror that was hurricane Katrina had put an end to that. The first show was now going to be in Houston, which as much as I was disappointed about New Orleans, made things a lot easier. We would've had to have driven from Houston airport, all the way to New Orleans, play a show and then head all the way back to Houston the next day. We're not talking any three hour drives here either.. So, all being well, we'd spend the first night in Houston recuperating from our travels, resting up in wait for the first show the night after. We just had to get past the “first port of call” and after that it would be plain sailing, of course..

Sometimes you get a friendly cop, one with an amiable demeanour that genuinely welcomes you into the country. Sometimes you get a grim looking bastard with a face like a slapped arse. The seven of us had separated after disembarking the plane, I had no idea how it was going for the other guys but as I shuffled closer and closer to the end of my line I could see that the cop I was going to be dealing with today belonged firmly with the latter category of cop that I have just described. I put on my friendliest face and approach him. I say hello, he looks at me like he despises my very existence. I go through the usual eye and fingerprint scan and then he grunts a few questions at me. Stuff like how long I'm in the country for, what's the meaning of my visit. He doesn't seem to like the fact that I'm going to be in his country for a little over four weeks. He gives one last disgusted look at my passport, as if telling me he knows something doesn't add up, and then shunts it back in my direction and turns his stare at the next poor bastard in line behind me. With a considerable sigh of relief, I continue my shuffle towards the luggage belt on the other side of the room, where a few of the other guys are already standing with our gear.

Soon, we're all gathered and ready to continue, all except for Gordon. “Where was he in the queue?” we enquire amongst ourselves.. It seems like some of us had it easier than others on the way through but nothing to suggest that we were in real danger of being turned away. We're stood there with the gear, waiting on Gordon with one eye on the clock and our connecting flight.. And then we see him.

Wearing a t-shirt and long skate style shorts, he's walking behind a pair of cops along an aisle towards an interrogation room looking as pale as a ghost. When I first spot him my heart sinks. To make matters worse, and in true Gords style, he starts making the slicing action with his hand across his throat, the kind directors use on set when saying “cut”. As if that's not bad enough, he then starts shouting across the hall to us, “We're fucked!” and “We're going home!” and even “They know!”. Poor Gords, I really feel for him, I know how stressed he can get. But fuck me buddy, try and keep a lid on it. The six of us are stood there with a shit load of band gear, shocked by what's unfolding in front of us. I remember Kev being stood beside me, saying through gritted teeth, “I'm gonna kill the cunt! What the fuck is he doing?” I honestly didn't know whether to laugh or cry. And then Gords disappears into the room with the cops.

For a moment, it's sheer panic. What the fuck are we going to do? I soon get myself together and I know I can't leave my best mate in there. Lasse approaches me and suggests we go over to the room and try and talk them around. After all, I have everybody's travel details, I can present myself as the leader of the party. I realise that if Gordon is getting sent back then so are the rest of us and I don't want to leave Gords to face the music on his own.

Lasse and I sheepishly approach the room where Gordon is sitting inside, no doubt shitting himself, the poor bastard. There is a female cop stood guarding the doorway. I tell her that one of my party has been taken by them and I ask her if there is anything I can help with, trying to explain to her that I have everybody's travel details and all, being the self selected leader for the merry band of men. I'm doing my best to put on the most charming Englishman persona I can muster. I'm therefore surprised and to be honest a little insulted that she merely barks at me, telling me to step away from her. This seems ridiculously over the top to me. I stupidly attempt to continue with my line of approach, Lasse stood behind me backing me up, She simply cuts me off, “Sir, do you want to join your friend inside?” Fucking bitch! I can't believe this. Before I can say another word she comes back at me, “Actually sir, the two of you, come with me!”. For fuck sake. What is wrong with these people? Can't they just be fucking normal?

By now it's fairly obvious that the proverbial faeces has hit a very big fucking fan.

We're lead into the small room where we meet Gordon who is sat by a table that his suitcase is resting on. When he clocks the two of us a smirk spreads across his face that sends a glimmer of relief through me. At least he's ok. We're faced with the classic good cop/bad cop routine. Whilst we're awaiting the arrival of mine and Lasse's suitcases, the woman (bad cop) and the man (good cop) start firing questions at us. The usual stuff.. what are we doing here, how long are we here, how much money are we carrying.

“Are you guys a band or something?” I'm considering what line of bullshit to take when my suitcase turns up, and then I realise there is no point lying because when they open up my case they're going to find about one hundred cd's of our Live and Demo's album. I shoot a glance at Lasse who knows exactly what's in there and the two of us utter something to each other in Swedish, along the lines of “Bollocks!”

I tell them that we're a band and that we're recording for a while in Austin, and that the cd's are for promotional purposes. I have Dutch's name and contact details and hand them over. I know we're fucked by this point. Upon admittance that we're a band they immediately start with the drugs questions. Something about Cot? I genuinely have no fucking clue what they're talking about. And I think it shows. Good Cop starts asking what kind of music we play, feigning interest. I'm a little surprised that they don't go into the making money/visas question. Maybe there is hope here. They continue firing the drugs theme at us but I guess our genuine perplexion convinces them. They give the bags a search and then see the name of the band is Raging Speedhorn. They want to know what that means. I can't even fucking remember what pathetic lie I come up with for that one, but I remember thinking that they must be thinking what a shit band name we have.

Just as there seems to be a light at the end of the tunnel, and hope arises that they might just let us through, Lasse starts pushing them about our connecting flight..This really pisses Bad Cop off! She starts shouting at Lasse that she doesn't give a Good God Damn about our connecting flight. For a second Lasse continues to plead but I kick him in the leg, and shoot him a glance that tells him to shut the fuck up.

I don't know why, but somehow we're allowed to pack up our bags and continue on our journey. Good Cop throws one last enquiry, smile spread across his face, “Sure you guys don't have any cot?” Bad Cop looks at us as we shuffle past her at the door, as if she's about to spit in our faces. As soon as we're out of there we leg it across the arrival's hall, dragging our cases behind us to where the rest of the guys are all waiting with a huge display of relief and bewilderment on their faces.

No time to even explain to everyone what happened, we have another plane to catch and we still have to check all our gear through security. Of course, there is a huge line ahead of us and our flight is taking off in a half hour.

Somehow we make it. A feeling of total elation washes over me as I sit in my seat and the half empty plane lifts off into a clear blue sky. The relief on everyone's faces is plain to see. Me and Lasse look at each other, “How the fuck did we make it through that?” he asks me. I had been planning to wait until I got to Houston tonight before treating myself to a drink but as soon as the seatbelt sign goes off and the air steward comes along with the trolley I order myself a gin and tonic. No drink has ever tasted to good!

In three hours time we'll land in Houston and meet the final member of what will be our touring party, and he'll be driving what will be our home for the next month. I order another gin and tonic and stare out at the United States of America below me.  

Preparation

It didn't start too well. We'd applied and paid for work visas that would keep us on the sweet side of the authorities whilst we were in the old US of A. Not something we'd usually do, but since it was a big tour that travelled right around the land and there'd been a fair amount of national advertising for it, we thought it might be a bit risky to chance it. We shouldn't have bothered!

The visas cost a small fucking fortune for the six of us, as well as a lot of energy obtaining them. They don't just let anyone into their precious country. After a month or so of pissing around with the authorities we finally received conformation that our applications were approved. This was sometime in November. The tour was to start on January 12^th in New Orleans.

With the green light finally given, we set about putting the tour into action. We got flights booked from Heathrow to Houston, via Chicago. There was the six of us in the band as well as my mate Lasse, who was coming along for the trip. He'd broken his leg whilst waiting for a blind date just a few weeks before, and feeling sorry for him I asked him to come along and sell shirts for us. I told him we couldn't afford to pay him for the actual work but that we'd cover his flight, giving him a working holiday in effect. We didn't have a visa for him but he could just enter the country as a tourist.

Bianchi had sorted us a van for the tour. He found some guy online by the name of Dutch, actually his name was Job but he was Dutch. Dutch had an RV camper van that he'd kitted out into a tour bus and he had a decent price on a deal that included him as driver. Bianchi had also been in touch with the Soilent Green guys and fixed us a pretty cheap deal to hire their backline. It seemed like we were all set.

Then in December we got a call telling us our visa applications had been pulled from the system on a routine check. Ok, we thought, typical, but hopefully it will only mean a week or two delay, tops. Two weeks came and went and still there was no fucking sign of the visas in the post. Bianchi tried calling the American Embassy, stressing that we needed them for the start of January. That of course, did not impress the cunts. They simply refused to give us a time-scale or guarantee that we'd have the visas in time. I could barely fucking believe it. They cost around seven hundred quid each and it looked like that money was about to get shat down the drain. The embassy took great pleasure in telling us that there would be no refund in any case.

They simply never came. We never had sight nor sound of them ever again, or the four grand we'd paid for them. I wonder how much money the wankers make that way each year. Completely gutted but none the less determined that the tour would go ahead as planned, we decided we'd simply travel in to the country as Lasse intended to, as tourists. Hell, we were going on tour after all. Of course, this made things pretty nervy for us. The US customs authorities were bad enough before 9/11, they were fascistic now.

To add to the drama, the night before we head off to the UK, where we'd be playing a couple of shows before leaving for the States, Lasse rings me and tells me he'd totally missed that his passport has gone past it's validity date. Unfuckingbelievable! He has to take the train out to Arlanda airport and fix a last minute temporary passport. I go to bed that night wondering if we've just blown another four hundred quid on that gammy-legged twat. In true Lasse style though, he managed to sort it out, although it was tense there for a while. I wake up the next morning to his text message telling me that he's sorted and he's coming along.

So it's off to the UK we go.

We had a couple of small, local shows, local to Corby that is, booked to warm up for the tour. One at the Attic in Rushden and one at Sawyer's in Kettering. The Rushden gig was great. It was in a carpeted function room above a pub and it was packed. We played on the floor and the crowd was wild. The thing I remember the most is this one huge skinhead guy in the middle of the crowd. He seemed a little out of place at the show, since most of the people there were young metal kids and then there's this guy, who must have been a foot taller than everyone else in the crowd and at least fifteen years older. I don't know if he was pissed or drugged up or what, but he definitely had a huge excess of misplaced energy. The kids moshed around him as he stood there staring at the band, kids simply bouncing off of his considerable bulk. After a while he starts throwing random kids about the place like rag dolls, at one point almost toppling the PA speakers with one poor kid. No one dared utter a fucking word of complaint to this bear of a man though, including us, and everyone just got on with it. Didn't stop the kids from moshing though. Weird show.

The second show in Kettering was a tamer affair, as far as crowd violence goes anyway. There were still a lot of people in the small venue and it was a good gig. It was the first show Frank had been to since he'd quit the band six months earlier. It was a bit strange at first but the night ended with him getting up and singing the lyrics to Knives and Faces with Bloody Kev. It was a nice touch. It still felt awkward afterwards though because we were going to the States for a full on tour, something we'd never got around to doing with Frank in the band, and I could sense that he regretted his decision to leave. At least at that moment in time anyway.

We'd arrived in the UK a couple of days before the Rushden show to practice. The first night, after practice, we'd gone over to the Sawyer's for a drink. Rich, the landlord was a big Speedhorn fan and by now a friend of ours. We were gagging for a pint after practice and Gords had rung him telling him we were coming over, in typical Gords style, having the cheek to tell him instead of ask him if it was ok. Rich had just closed up for the night and was on his way to bed but Gords was having none of it and Rich eventually agreed to let us in for a sneaky pint. We'd turned up around half eleven, a tired looking Rich cursing us for being cheeky cunts as we traipsed in to the pub. One sneaky pint became a few, and then a few more and eventually turned into shots and then five am. We all left there feeling pretty fucked. When we'd arrived I'd introduced a quiet, shy Lasse to Rich, his wife Leanne and the other bartender who had also been unlucky enough to have been trapped at work by us. Well they weren't really working any more I guess since the three of them were drinking as much as we were. Lasse was a little quiet then, before you got to know him, or before he had a drink in him at least. It didn't take long for the fucker to loosen up though. Within a couple of hours he had his balls out at the bar, zapping them with an electric buzzer that belonged to a quiz board-game, much to the amusement of everyone else.

The other funny thing with Lasse, something I'd never really experienced before, was hearing him speak English. We'd always conversed in Swedish until this point. He seemed to have no concept of the gravity of swearing in the Queen's, or at least when it was and was not appropriate to do so. We'd sat at dinner with my parent's the first night, my mum having made a slap up meal for us all. Lasse was overjoyed with the food and the hospitality that my parents are infamous for, and he also seemed to be embracing the opportunity to practice his English. He kept saying stuff to my parent's like “Oh, this food is so fucking good” and “this is fucking great”. He literally said fuck in every sentence. My parents thought it was hilarious though and they took a real shine to him. He helped my dad tune in his new tv too, and then bought him a pint at the Rock afterwards, after which my dad was totally sold on the buffoon.

So after one practice and a couple of shows, we were off to the States. Considering that the situation had been made a little nervous thanks to the whole work visa débâcle, you'd think we would have thought about being extra pre cautious with customs. You'd think we'd have put some effort into maybe not so obviously looking like a band going on tour without work visas. You'd think. Unbelievably, not only did we take all our guitars as luggage, as well as a suit case full of albums, we even had Daz's Ampeg bass amp with us which was packed in a cardboard box. What the fuck were we thinking really? We had printed the merch in the States, but only because it was cheaper to do so, so the only precaution we'd taken in going through the notoriously paranoid US border customs was to make sure we split up in the queue. Our lackadaisical approach to the matter almost fucked the whole tour up before it even started..

Speedhorn in the USA

Raging Speedhorn toured a lot. If you look down at the list of previous shows on this blog, everything you see from 2008 back to 1998 is Speedhorn. I experienced a wild contrast of highs and lows during that period, and unlike the cheesy cliché, I would change a fair few fucking things if I had to do it all over again, but you live and you learn don't you? Either way, I'm grateful for those ten years.

One thing I do regret is not writing about it at the time, like I do now when we're on tour with Victims or whoever else. So much nonsense took place back then that it's hard to remember the fine details a lot of the time. I did write a tour diary for a short while that we used to put up on our website, but it only lasted one tour. I guess the reality of the matter is that I was probably often too hungover to have the energy to write every day back then. I'll try and dig that tour diary up at some point though.

I often think back to the Speedhorn period with the false impression that all the crazy shit happened exclusively during the first era of the band, when Frank, Tony and Darren were with us. Although a lot of the nonsense stems from this period, it wasn't all tea and biscuits after Jay and Kev, and later Dave joined. Far from it in fact.

One jaunt I have a lot of memories of was the nationwide tour of the States we played in early 2006, the band then consisting of myself, Gordon, John, Bloody Kev, Darren and Jay. The tour, which lasted a little over a month, was a six band package bill, a package that we stood out like a sore fucking thumb on. Didn't we always? When we were offered the tour I didn't really think about the other bands on the bill, my ears pricked up only at the list of cities that the tour took in. In retrospect, touring with Nile, Hypocrisy, Soilent Green, Decapitated and With Passion wasn't the best choice of bands for us to hit the road with. I mean, Soilent Green are great, both as a band and as people, and most of the other guys on the tour were decent enough people, but the crowd attending the shows hated us for the most part. I learned on this tour that the scene divide in the States stretches over a far wider ravine than it does here in Europe... Still, we didn't give a fuck. In fact, playing in Speedhorn was always most fun when we were up against the odds. We excelled in pissing people off.

So, since there won't be any new tour diaries on the blog for a while, I thought I'd dig up the highlights of the Nile Annihilation of the Wicked Tour. I know...just the name of the tour has me wondering what the fuck our name was doing on the poster.

Punk Rock Stories: Me and Mary Goodnight

One of the main reasons behind me starting this blog a few years ago was to share some of the weird and wonderful stories that I've been a part of since I started playing in bands as a teenager. And playing in a band, touring all over the place creates a lot of stories. Fucked up things happen on tour because touring is a fucked up way of living. I have many friends who have lived the life and they all have tales to tell.

Obviously playing in a band like Raging Speedhorn for ten years has borne many tales of idiocy, all of which I'll get around to telling at some point...

Anyway, as I was out walking Bonzo today, checking Facebook as he ran around the field chasing his frisbee, as we do, I noticed my friend Lucas had written that last night he dreamt he'd met Britt Ekland. And that reminded me of something that happened a long, long time ago...

I've always been a quiet, calm guy at heart, usually one to walk away from trouble rather than towards it. And to be fair, the same could be said for the rest of the guys in Speedhorn, well, Frank wasn't that quiet I guess, but I would say that even he never actively looked for trouble. None of us did. It's just, being six young guys from Corby who liked a drink or two, and who happened to spend most of their twenties doing just that, for free, well, sometimes trouble found us.

When we formed Speedhorn in the summer of 98', our one main ambition was to get a gig supporting Iron Monkey, the band that inspired us more than any other. It just so happened that a friend of a friend of ours, a fellow Corbyite then living in London, was managing Monkey and that ambition was soon fulfilled. And it just so happened that the Corbyite in question, Dave Bianchi, soon became our close friend and manager too, and things really started rolling from there. Rolling way beyond any boundaries I ever imagined, to the point where it gave me the shits if I'm honest. In the space of two years we went from supporting Monkey at the Bass Clef in Northampton, in front of sixty people, to opening the main stage at Ozfest in front of forty five thousand. I can't honestly say which gig I enjoyed more. Of course, playing in front of thousands was fun but the buzz I got when Bianchi rang and told me we could open for Monkey takes some beating...

To us, Speedhorn was just a shitty little hardcore band. The fact that the band got so big, for a while at least, in the UK and Japan at least, was really quite surreal. And things never got more surreal than the night we attended our first Kerrang! Awards...

For a fucking start, what the hell was our band doing at the Kerrang! Awards? Somehow we'd ended up being nominated in the “Best Newcomer” category, along with bands like Hundred Reasons and My Vitriol. I just couldn't take it seriously. We'd released our first album, that although sounded as rough as a hungover turd, somehow through endless touring and some top notch guerilla marketing ala Bianchi, had sold a fair few copies. That was weird enough, but being invited to the Kerrang! Awards on the back of it was just too much. I knew fine well that we had no fucking chance of winning the award, that we were just there to add a bit of drunken spice to the proceedings, but as far as we were concerned, if there was free booze all night then fuck it. Makes a change from hanging out at the Rockingham Arms in Corby.

We were due to be at the award ceremony around two pm if I remember correctly, which I probably don't. It was early in the afternoon anyway. For some reason, even though we knew there would be free booze on offer all afternoon, we still fancied a pint of two at the pub before we headed over to the venue. Bianchi was chuffed, most likely salivating at the thought of seeing us goons mixing it up with the celebrity elite of the rock n' roll world. To be honest, being near those people just made me feel strange. I know I don't belong in such circles and I'm happy out of it. The rest of the guys seemed to be up for it though, but in all honesty I was drinking a couple of pints in that pub beforehand to loosen me up for the awkward afternoon ahead.

We take a cab over to the venue, some hotel in the west end I think, and as soon as we arrive the bullshit hits you. It's proper red carpet crap. Not for us, we're hurried along it and shufftied inside the building, but the likes of Iggy Pop, arm in arm with some plastic looking woman with rock-like tits, are stood there getting their photos taken by hordes of photographers. “What the fuck are we doing here really?” I wonder to myself.

We arrive into a brightly lit lobby area, where there is a lot of mingling going as everyone waits to be ushered inside to the main room where the awards will be held. I soon find a glass of champagne in my hand. I've since learned that champagne and I don't see eye to eye. I've learned that the hard way, just ask my wife about the state I was in at our wedding.. But I didn't know about the dangers of champagne then, so there I was, stood with Bianchi, couple of pints down the hatch and a glass of bubbly in hand, already starting to feel tipsy. I really should have eaten some breakfast. The other guys have gleefully jumped feet first into the spirit of things. Frank has acquired his own tray of champagne and is walking around with it, emptying the five or six flutes that stand on it at a rapid rate as he flits between famous faces who are standing around small-talking. Darren, also already quite pissed, has latched on to Iron Maiden guitarist Janick Gers and is repeatedly chortling in his ear, and everyone else's in his vicinity, “Don't panic, it's Janick!” Daz thinks this is a damn sight funnier than Gers seems to.

After a while they open the doors to the main event, and we all shuffle in to our allocated tables. This main room is a lot darker than the lobby. It's just like every award show you've seen on tv, big stage at the front with a podium on it and lots of tables decked out across the floor. Funnily enough, our table is right near the back, along with the likes of Napalm Death. Unlike the Oscars though, instead of being catered with champagne and Filét Mignon or whatever other poncey crap you might find at the Oscars and it's ilk, each of the tables here display a huge assortment of booze. Bottles and bottles of the stuff. There is vodka, rum, brandy, cheap bubbly, a few crates worth of beer and of course the compulsory Jack Daniels. Every single table in the room comes with this complement. I don't remember there being any food though...

We sit down, most of us half pissed already, and scan the room. Right up front, head table are those silly looking guys in Slipknot, decked out in the costumes and all. There is this weird buzz about the room as they sit there, as if something dangerous is about to happen. Gimme a fucking break! I feel way out of my depth here.

Our award is the first up. By the time it's announced I can barely see. Most of the booze that was on our table has vanished in a drinking frenzy. We're literally like a gang of crazed, alcoholic sharks. The table looks like a bomb has hit it. Tony has fallen backwards off his chair, just lying there on his back pissing himself laughing. I remember Larry and Colin from Hundred Reasons on stage giving their acceptance speech, somewhere on the distant horizon that is that stage. Like I said, I knew we didn't have a paedophiles chance in prison of winning that award.. We barely noticed it coming and going.

By the time they're moving things on to the second award of the night, we're off in search of more booze. We spend the best part of the rest of the night, stumbling around in the dark from table to table, pinching booze from others. We are all completely fucked by this point. After an initial smattering of giggles and smirks from the rest of the room, I get the feeling we're soon starting to get on people tits. Frank is fucking bombed, he's found a punch bowl and thrown absolutely everything he can find into it and is hysterically serving it up to people. His secret ingredient being Tony's mobile phone. John is stumbling about getting his photo taken with anyone and everyone, whether they like it or not. Daz is still on the trail of Gers... I have a vague memory of trying to engage in a conversation with Lemmy but getting absolutely nowhere. I guess he's seen it all and done it all before. The whole while the awards are rolling on in the background.

During an interlude, either they turn up the lights or I'm starting to drift off to some other plane, but it seems to get a lot brighter for a while. I remember being stood in the toilets at the trough, using all my concentration to keep myself from pissing on my trainers. As I'm leaving, Marilyn Manson walks in, normal as you like, except for his mad make-up. As I pass him on the way out I'm starting to realise how surreal this night is becoming.

I come back out to the main room, lights are still on, and Dani Filth from Cradle of Filth has latched on to John. He seems to be enjoying the carnival that is Speedhorn. The singer from Muse is hanging around somewhere, telling one of our guys he loves the band. I'm starting to get weirded out again. Who the fuck are these people and where the fuck do they come from? You like our band? Really? I guess you like Iron Monkey and Eyehategod too? I fucking doubt it.

The lights go back down and the carnage continues. At some point in the night the Slipknot guys set fire to their table, or at least, something on it. I can't help thinking what a bunch of cunts they are, whilst seemingly completely able to dismiss our behaviour up to this point. It's just, with us it's simple. We're a bunch of harmless piss heads with a shit load of free booze on offer. The whole Slipknot thing to me seems like a big pose. Weirdly enough, within a year we'll end up supporting Slipknot on a couple of shows and befriending the guys, who turn out to be an alright lot, as far as superstars go.

A couple of years later, after having played and partied with Slipknot a couple of times, we're sat backstage at Full Force Festival in Germany, shamefully hungover after our shabby show, when Corey, the Slipknot singer sits down at our table. He's just played, unmasked with his grunge band, Stone Sour. “What did you think to the set guys?” As I'm pondering how to answer this question politely Gordon barks, “Fucking shite!” He's serious of course. Corey just laughs, “Why the fuck do I hang out with you guys?” Haven't seen him since though.

Anyway, back at the Kerrang! Awards. Slipknot have set fire to their table, causing a bit of a stir in the room you might say, at least for a while. It all settles down again and the award ceremony marches on. And then one of the weirdest things that's ever happened to me, actually the weirdest thing that ever happened to me, occurs.

Frank and I are stumbling about the room, going from table to table trying to pilfer booze, completely oblivious to all that is going on around us. As it happens, Britt Ekland, the Swedish actress and my favourite Bond girl, you know, Mary Goodnight from Man With The Golden Gun, is walking to the stage to present an award. Like two planets set hopelessly on a path of collision, our fates seem to be determined to meet. I hadn't even noticed her walking behind us until it was too late. I just happen to look up at Frank as he nonchalantly throws an empty bottle of beer over his shoulder. Like a car crash, the next few seconds sink down into slow motion. Just as Frank throws the bottle over his shoulder, Ekland is right behind him. She treads on the bottle, causing her to slip and hit the deck. Hard. Holy fucking shit!!! Frank and I look at each other in stupefied amazement for a second, like that scene from the Matrix where everything else freezes and it's just us, and then like being sucked down a plug hole, the silence disappears and we're thrown into chaos. And we piss ourselves laughing. There is an immediate swarm of people to Ekland's aid. I'm soon in there, trying to help her up, but she's obviously in a lot of pain. She tells me in no uncertain terms to fuck off. My response? “ But you're my favourite Bond Girl!” Frank, not really grasping the seriousness of the situation wades into the conversation, “Ah, fuck her!”

If Ekland's “Fuck Off” doesn't convince me to do so, the burly security guard who's face has turned crimson with rage, certainly does. I didn't know it at the time, but it turns out Britt had broken her ankle. Obviously it was an accident, albeit one that our tit behaviour had caused. All the credit in the world to her though, she still made it up to the stage and presented the award, before heading off to the hospital.

The rest of the night kind of peters out after that. I mean, what the fuck could top that scene? By the time the awards are over, about eight pm, I'm ready for bed. I end up passing out in a hotel room nearby, praying God for forgiveness as I drift off into the abyss. Some of the other guys make it to the after party with Bianchi. A couple of them end the night, smoking a pipe with the Deftones bass player in a back alley somewhere, and someone goes white. I can't remember who it was, but I think it was Deftones.

The next morning I feel like I've been hit by a bus, and then reversed over, and then run over again. Did that really happen last night? We rendezvous for breakfast somewhere in Notting Hill, Bianchi getting serious with us for a minute. The news is out that Britt broke her ankle last night. What's more, Cradle of Filth are claiming it. Something about a banana.. We all knew the truth. Bianchi, manager head back on, tells us he's going to have to resist what could possibly be great publicity and avoid a court case, and let Filth take the credit on this one. All these years later, I find myself wondering if it really did happen as I remember it. Maybe it was Filth with a banana. Maybe...

Like I say, we weren't wankers by nature, we just couldn't control ourselves when we were pissed up. Things could have so easily gone off the rails for any one of us. It's mental enough being that age and most young kids get into situations they shouldn't, that natural way of things is amplified massively when you're in a band touring the world. Thankfully, we all made it through to the other side, relatively unscathed. Although we had some near scrapes.

Five months later, whilst on a European tour, we'd end up spending the best part of two days in a Spanish jail. It was destined to happen. We couldn't go on thinking we were invincible forever. Reality was bound to hit us hard and throw and cold slap in the face at some point. We took a lot of publicity for that one, publicity that this time Bianchi was more than happy to exploit. Funny thing is, the cunt was in the jail with us. But that's another story..