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..
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