It's taken as red that this will be the last show for many of us and certainly the last show for us as a collective, so Clive made a bit of a speech as we were all gathered around for the "fingering"* session.
The room was chocka with Harley Davidson owners. The similarity between these and other biker gangs such as The Hell's Angels or the Outlaws is that they are based on a collective of bike owners. That might be enough as a comparison but only when you know what the Hells Angels and Outlaws do as well as ride bikes you'll know that they are not to be compared, ever! Generally Harley owners are wealthy, middle class and law abiding in nature. Think smart suits/Mecedes/BMWs/executive lunches/accounts management/profit and loss assessment by day, relaxing with the wife, tucking the kids to bed by night. Leathers and bandanas at the weekend. Whereas for the Outlaws and Hells Angels it's drug dealing/having enemies "whacked"/battering holy shit outta folk/organised crime by day, ... And pretty much the same thing by night and weekends dispersed with a trip to the shops for milk or something but possibly on a motorbike as it's cheaper on fuel than taking the APC.
Anyway I digress. We fired through the set that was taylored for festivals like it was in Latvia and Isle of Man as well as other shows such like.
It went really well, the crowd loved us and for a small time there, it was almost like being in a decent show. The band played as well as it's done all summer and I for one was sad to play the last note. But life must go on.
After the gig Phil handed in his notice with John (who'd come to the gig) as he'd got Circus of Horrors in November thanks to me.
Being the last gig, a piss up the likes the whores of Babylon would have felt humbled to be a part of then ensued. Well that was the plan, what actually happened was a little tame in retrospect. Certainly Clive, Leonna and Laura got extremely wasted but me, not so much so. I do recall as I left the bar at the hotel to go to bed, Clive went to get up, fell off the seat to the floor and remained in an upright position for sometime unable to tell shit from dirty cakes.
Shit
Dirty cake
Another enduring memory was going to the bar to buy two drinks and being charged £12. I got a laugh from all that were there when I said outloud, "Credit crunch my arse, not for these charletan bastards!!!!"
Two pissed up northern Irish, ex squaddie twats decided to join us. They said, "do you mind of we join you?" but proceeded to sit down with us anyway before we could answer. As they had just basically jumped into a conversation that was in mid-flow, they didn't feel it unwelcomed to just pass idiotic comments from their side of the table. I knew at this point I'd be retiring to bed shortly. One of them had a glass eye that was shot out by an IRA terrorist in the 90's. If so, I'm not surprised, he was probably aiming for his mouth to shut him the fuck up. Then again, for all we knew it could have been a pile of steamy bollocks and he'd in fact lost his eye when he fell off his tricycle. Or maybe when as a child your parents would to say, "stop waving that (insert what you like here) about, you could have someone's eye out!" they were in fact telling the truth and his eye was taken out when his friend or sibling waved a piece of toast about... Or something. It could happen!!!!
The next morning, Phil and I had some breakfast before leaving. I wasn't hungry and could have certainly done with the extra kip but after spending a mortgage on drinks the night before, I was determined to get my money's worth. I was contemplating taking pockets full of salt, pepper, sweetners, napkins, plastic spoons, ANYTHING just to make it feel in my mind that I'd robbed them as much as they had me and everyone else in the company.
The trip back to the airport took us through some beautiful countryside that had everyone going, "oooooOOOH!" to because they'd seen a few trees in a hill or something. I did my "pah bollocks, it's fuck all like Merthyr!" bit as usual.
The others were flying on a different flight to Birmigham that was delayed because of a problem with the plane. Thank fuck we weren't going on that one. Ours was on time but it seemed like ages before we were to board. We all waited about, drank coffee and chatted about all sorts of shit to kill the time.
Inverness is a small airport andas we queued to board our plane, we watched as the others took off on the now fixed plane.
Their plane as it taxied to take off after having a new carbaretta fitted, or something.
Our much less shitty plane.
The flight back was ok, no pretty lady to distract anyone this time. The landing at Bristol was well shaky, Phil almost consumed the seat he was sitting with the chewing motion his anus was doing. Yeah, like me he's not a good flyer either.
Shaky - I did it before but I had to do it again Ian.
Safely on the ground, we all said our goodbyes and went our merry ways. The fucking end.
Phil and I were to leave for London to two days rehearsal with a 50's rock and roll band called goldstar (www.goldstarrockandrollband.com)
Maybe I'll put a post up about that, we'll see. But just for anyone from route 66 reading, it's been a honour and a pleasure working with you this year. Keep in touch, don't be a stranger and if you're ever in Swansea, don't even think about staying at mine, I live with my folks like a sad douche for fuck sake!!! Go and see Ian or Clive, they got loads of space.
Goodbye and farewell you set of bastards.
*fingering.
The act of sexually stimulating a female by inserting one's first, middle, index finger into the vagina and rubbing the vaginal walls... Apparently.
An expression that indicates a person has been identified as a perticipant to some degree in a criminal act or acts.
The pre-show ritual of Route 66 where cast members would gather in a circle side of stage with arms out stretched, fingers touch generally the person opposite with a wiggling movement whilst another more senior member wishes a good show to all.
-- Post From My iPhone
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