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« BACK | HOME » ABOUT » THE SPIRIT SPEAKS » NO SLEEP TILL FROME PART 8

NO SLEEP TILL FROME PART 8

2007 Tour Diary Part 8  - posted Dec 20th 2007

(continued from last week)

As Red Steve lead me thru the filth quagmire that was the children’s field, and the Methylenedioymethamphetamine lit up the sparkplugs of my hippocampus, and I felt a special glow of pride. It's not everyday that a high ranking biker offers to show you his magic dragon.

And what a fine beast it was. There, nestling in that soggy tent was the most magnificent and finely-wrought example of the species I ever laid eyes on. About 8 foot long and three foot high, its structure and dimensions had been worked out with an architectural precision, not a scale out of place. People often forget, amid the sensational reports of stompings and gangbangs that real bikers are highly sophisticated craftsmen; their best work transcends the genre of engineering and attains something like the status of art. Red Steve, apocalyptic high priest of this Phyric sacrifice cast a Blakean kind of figure in those Elysian Fields.

'My god this is brilliant!' I exclaimed, rushing off my nut. ' I must find a camera crew immediately to document this sacred moment!' and dashed out of the tent, immediately slipping onto my face in the mud, where three teenagers in fairy wings pointed at me and laughed.

Six months later, back at the Bristol Hell's Angels 'CLAB - ASS' things are hotting up. I'm locked into conversation with a very garrulous blonde girl who has also been drinking from the Angel's sherbet fountain. She must be built of sterner stuff than me; she's chewing my ear off nine to the dozen, whereas l I just want to toss my cookies. It's all I can do not to puke my supper all over her lap. I make a dash for the gents where I sink to my knees, yodelling extravagantly into the porcelain. The blonde follows me in, still babbling.

Then, as I'm tearfully ejecting the last remnants of my major intestine, and blonde girl yabbers incoherently, our Irish Manager, Jonathan, bursts into the cubicle, aggressively demanding to know what the 'Craic' is.

Thru that tiny window of epiphany that opens up after the act of vomiting, a voice whispers  'Are we having Fun yet?'

Back at the bar, after my emetic purge, I'm feeling much better. But not as good as Jonathan; Jonathan's on fire. I've seen him like this before. His Fists are coiled like a prize cagefighter. Blue eyes blazing, his soft blonde hair seems to blow in some furious celtic wind originating from a high-pressure point inside his own brain. He's with his boys, he's Representing; he's the Daddy.

We clasp hands, and he looks me in right in the eye, with a strange smile on his cherubic face. I don’t know if he wants to kiss me or kill me.

'What the fock was that focking invoice you sent me, are you taking the fucking piss or what?'

Ah. The Invoice. Before the tour I sent Jonathon a bill for all the writing I'd done for the website. We'd agreed a price when I started, a certain amount of pence per word.... time passed, those coppers accumulated...by the time of the tour I figured I was due a nice little cheque. Quality hackwork like this don't come for free, eh, readers?'

But John, I've given you over ten thousand words! That takes a bit of work, y'know?'

He puts his arm round me, and squeezes hard. It's a beautiful gesture of protective affection. But a couple more kilojoules of pressure and you'd have to call it a Headlock...

'Listen you fucking cont. I fucking believe in you. You know I’m gonna fucking look after you, roight? I've got all kind of shit going on that you don’t even focking know about.'

'Yes. Of course John. I know you're going to...look after me.'

There's a weird look in his eye...I hope to God he hasn't had a swig on Larry's bottle of 'special mouthwash' that he bought back from Limerick... Christ No.


Yes.

Yes Children, Tonight, Larry Love has given unto Brother Jonathon, hitherto a novitiate, a righteous Confirmation; several thousand milligrams of Holy Sacrament.

LORD SAVE DISCO!!!

And God help Jonathan. He's Larging it in the bar of the Angels Clubhouse like he owns the place, Clearly up for it, Lording it to the sound of some psychedelic gypsy battle-jig only he can hear. Oh Jesus. Not here, not now. The longhairs are beginning to form a circle round the benighted Irishmen, their moustaches twitching with irritation.... Oh God. It looks like it’s going to be Armageddon.

Armageddon Outta Here!

Like a true coward I duck out the fire exit with Steve and a lovely journalism student called Rose.

Next day, our only day off on the tour, and Rock Freebase and I are nursing our hangovers in some flophouse in Cambridge. 'So what happened to Jonathan? Who are we going to get to manage now he's dead?' Rock fills me in on the sordid details.

Its fair to say that Jonathan couldn't have pissed off the Angels more if he'd gone into the Clubhouse in a pink tu-tu and a tee-shirt saying " Bikers ride it up the Bourneville Boulevard"
Rock, who is friends with a couple of the Angels, had to plead with them not to take Jonathan into the clubhouse office and whip him with rusty bicycle chains. Then he rounded off the evening by headbutting the assistant tour manager.

But you know the really sick thing? After all that, at the end of the evening they were all mates again, arms round each other, laughing and hugging and slapping each other like a bunch of lovely chums.

Bor-ing! In my day me and Red Steve would have taken him out to the car park and made him wear his Pancreas as a Hat.

(c) Orlando Harrison 2007