Did I happen to explain the name of this band before, no? Ok, we are NOT a Queen tribute as such, hence none of us other than the Freddy dude dresses up supposedly to impersonate any of the members. Which is just as well as it would be a fucking debacle if we tried. I mean, imagine me with a "Choose Life" T-Shirt, Blonde spikey wig and a pair of Ray Ban shades!!! Not only that, me trying to sing I'm In Love With My Car or something. Then Poor Phil with tight as fuck black jeans, tight striped T-shirt and a curly black wig that he'd have to fight Anita Dobson for to obtain. Then Darren, who's as far removed from John Decon's build that Nelson Mandela would more likely pass as a double. Then Ian, where would he come in? He'd have to be the session muso at the back on the live gigs that no one knows or gives a fuck about! (So what's new about that then Ian eh?) So, yeah, we are not a Queen tribute as it would be so woeful, blind folk would turn down a chance at sight if it was us they'd see first!
- Queen
But Gary does a pretty mean Freddy Mercury, especially when done up so I was to find, so that's as far as a normal Tribute act as we go. Though musically, we have tried to remain as faithful to the original Queen act as we can. So, on with the gigs.
After the brush up rehearsal, we packed the gear into Phil's van and proceeded along the M25 to Gatwick Airport. At the Dartford tolls, I had my normal rant about how the fact they (Tolls) are the sole cause of the miles and miles of tailbacks everyday; The tolls shouldn't even be there as they were originally put to recoup the costs of the tunnel/bridge, which have since been paid long ago. Fucking Charlatan Bastards! Same as the price of Fuel, Oil prices dip, Fuel remains high, Rip Off UK!!! Bring on the revolution, French Stylee!!!
- my proposed idea on how to deal with our self serving, plum talking, pompous prick politicians, French Revolt Stylee!
At Gatwick, we stopped into a nearby pub and ate something before parking up the van and checking in at the Ryan Air desk. I made that sound like it was routine and speedy, was it fuck! The hours of queues and hanging about I generally skipped but rest assured they happened. I hate Airports, well I do when they are chocka with Jonny Foreigner, but most appear to be leaving so I shouldn't be too down on them, I should in fact be helping with their bags and being generally really supportive!
Before I am bombarded with hate mail, that was just a joke for all you liberal do-gooders!
Then it was all the security checks. Despite them bastards being caught (Walthamstow Terrorists) they still won on some level with all the crap we have to go through just to take a plane. Before the flight we pitched a last attempt to get shit faced in the pub in the terminal, then it was the frantic rush to get to our gate.
On the plane, the stewardess, sorry, flight attendant (for fuck sake, TROLLY DOLLY!) was going through the whole, "This bit, goes through this fucking bit! And should cabin pressure decrease, Oxygen masks will fall down as if by bloody magic...." Meanwhile Phil was watching Night Rider on his iPhone. Miss T. Dolly took umbrage to this and proceeded to talk rather condescending to Mr. Walker.
"Excuse mee, doo yoo Jnow, jwhere, zee lif jackits 'r kipt?" (with J pronounced like you're clearing your throat of Phlem)
Phil was quite humbled by her Russian tone and demeaning manner with his response, "no I don't I am sorry!" This made her day this would seem, she felt rather smug about have to point out where there are. But seriously, if there was a crash, we'd all be fucked quite severely including miss T. Dolly and her all important life Jacket.
"News just in, a Boeing 737 has smashed into a mountain in the northern region of Spain after losing power in both engines at 33,000 feet... Fortunately, all but one passenger survived the crash. The reported casualty wasn't wearing his life jacket!"
- this was the face he made when she was talking down to him, the EXACT same face!!!
With us up in the air and levelled out, it was refreshments time; "Bring it on!!! Oh, excuse me what's that? We have to pay for it nowadays??? FUCK THAT!!!! I'd starve before I lined your pockets" The conversation with Miss T. Dolly went something like that.
Two hours later, we were on the ground in Alicante. It was approaching midnight and Ian was gagging for a power fag and a power pint! (For power fag, check blog entry Jersey show one)
Alan, the agent, met us, loaded us up into his car and proceeded to fuck off all that normal check-the-band-in shit and find us the nearest pub open at that time. Fortunately, the one he found us was only a yards from where we'd be staying. Within moments, we were suitably liquored up and my mind was awash with so many memories from when I lived in Spain. There's something about even the simple things that brought it back. In this case it was the typical design of the bar and the folk that ran it. It was like I had never left.
Alan, the agent, is a northerner and has been living on the Spanish coastline for about 7 years. But he typifies everything about an ex-pat. Think the TV shows, Duty Free and shit failed Soap Opera Eldorado and you'll know what I mean.
The Villa they gave us was lovely, though it could have seriously benefited from Air-con. I said Air Con, not Con Air!
It wasn't a problem for me as I'd been used to living in far stuffier environments to this, but the others weren't dealing with it that well. But it was very nice none the less and I wouldn't have rather been anywhere else.
We crashed out around 4 am. 6 hours later, we'd be up to go to the bar where were set to play and go through some hassle with the PA company. More on that in the next entry.
No comments:
Post a Comment