Dancing in the Darkness (10 page)

T
hreesomes are normally boring because there exists ‘yin’ and ‘yang’ but no ‘yong’. But men are religious when it comes to sex and a threesome with sisters is the holy grail –holier than mousetrap cheese in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. And let’s face it, if you look like me – a bulldog licking piss off a nettle to wash down the wasp he’s been chewing on – the only way it’s going to happen is if you’re in a band.

The two opportunities I had of partaking in said holy grail were a bit like cricket’s legendary contest The Ashes: the participants were English and Australian, no one really knew what was going on and it was boring. That should really mean no one else is interested. To anyone who still is, however, my message can be summed up as follows: it’s all forced fun at the end of the day.

Forced fun might as well be called forced labour. It’s hard work and there’s usually no pay-off. Any situation like a festival or a circus where you’re expected to have fun is an
organised
fun situation. The idea is that you
will
have fun – a Valentine’s dinner where you’re expected to be seduced or told you’re beautiful, that that was the best night ever and so on. And ditto festivals such as Glastonbury: it’s not just the hippy stuff, it’s being expected to have a good time that gets my goat. File dancing at a disco in the same category, along with all those other situations where you
have
to have fun. They all seem to short-circuit the spontaneity – and what makes people truly happy is spontaneity.

Maybe it’s something to do with thinking too much. Or just being plain hare-brained. I mean, people who think they’re clever don’t dance, do they? When was the last time anyone saw Stephen Hawking in a disco?

As crazy as it sounds, threesomes fell into that category for me, because I was a ‘rock star’ and they were part of the pre-prepared package. And that’s why, when I finally found myself in the
heavy-metal
holy land of a threesome with sisters (at a palatial hotel suite in Melbourne in February 2004
and in the Camden Holiday Inn six months later), I behaved like I was at my granny’s, preparing tea, coffee and biscuits for the girls while they got it on. My grandma would have been so proud of me; it was the politest I’ve been in my life. Of course, there’s always the suspicion that they may not have been sisters at all…

C
ontrary to expectations, we didn't crack the German market. They took their rock seriously and we didn't. It was simple enough to understand, but record companies rarely trade in such homespun truisms. So we kept plugging away, visiting Germany on a regular basis in the forlorn hope that British cock rock could dent the Teutonic consciousness.

Our record company, Atlantic, wouldn't even let us celebrate the biggest night of our lives, booking a late-night private jet after our victorious 2004 Brits appearance so we could appear on a German talk show the following day. The press made a big deal about us ducking out of all the parties after the event and going home early, which was embarrassing enough in itself, but what was worse was not being able to savour what should have, on paper, been ‘the greatest night of our lives'. The purpose of this explanation isn't to vent bitterness, however, but rather an attempt to excuse what followed.

After our appearance on Germany's most popular chat show the very next day, we checked into our hotel in Düsseldorf. We signed in, as usual, with our aliases – Justin as ‘Fray Bentos', Dan as ‘Bernard Matthews', Ed as ‘Roger Daily' and (after a brief ill-judged flirtation with ‘Pierre De Fille') myself as ‘Scot Free' – nothing to do with Scottish nationalism, but instead inspired by a knack of avoiding mini-bar charges.

Band, crew and hangers-on assembled in the bar for drinks. The German football squad, then managed by Rudi Völler, also happened to be guests and were having a team meeting in the next room. One by one, we headed to our rooms as night wore on, leaving Justin and Ed alone together.

Early the next morning, I was rudely awakened by a furious German hotel manager. After hammering on the door, he barged in, scanned the contents of my room and barked, ‘THE OTHER ONES ARE DESTROYED!' Then he slammed the door shut and bolted off again. I scratched my head in puzzlement and went back to sleep before
later knitting the story together from the horse's mouth (in this case, Ed and Justin).

Apparently, the bar manager had become nervous about insubordinate English rockers keeping the precious national football team awake. ‘You must keep the noise down, we have the German players here and they must have peace,' he urged, on more than one occasion. Considering that our band had booked out the best suites in the hotel and spent good money in that bar, Justin and Ed felt more than a little put out at his attitude.

Eventually, he stopped serving them altogether and the pair headed upstairs intent on retribution. First they trashed Justin's palatial suite – after obliterating the furnishings, they sabotaged the
air-con
and wedged plants in the mini-bar. Then they staggered next door and ‘Keith Mooned' Ed's suite into the bargain, before collapsing into bed, resentment spent.

And that was how the manager found them the next morning, blissfully slumbering like babes in the wood. It was certainly amusing on a technical level – an angry German hotel manager is practically a Wikipedia definition of British comedy gold – Basil Fawlty meets
'Allo 'Allo!
.

I stumbled upon the warring factions in
reception, trading insults with each other over a €30,000 bill for damages. The police would be called in unless the full amount was paid up there and then. Justin and Ed were still inebriated and slurring their words so badly that the manager might as well have invoiced a herd of wild elephants. Some of the German football squad looked on, doubtless remembering just how dangerous drunken English hooligans can be and keeping a safe distance.

As I headed for the tour bus, leaving our tour manager Moz to sort the mess out, I was stopped by a smiling fräulein and her golden-haired twin daughters, around seven years old (perhaps they thought I was one of their footballers?). ‘You vill sign this poster [I was relieved to see it was a picture of our band and not the 2004 German European Championship squad] for the girls and please you vill tell me where the others are.' They looked so innocent and unknowing. What a contrast. ‘They pay the bill now,' I enunciated slowly, trying to talk as I patronisingly imagined a German person would. ‘Then they sign for you, I am sure.' I heard the police sirens first and then smiled to myself at the sheer poetry of it all.

I
t was more than a little surprising to receive an invitation to attend the 2004 Irish Music Awards and present an award, purely on the basis of being The Darkness's bass player. Like most people, I love Ireland, the Irish and their way of doing things. What I don't enjoy is pomp and ceremony, i.e. awards shows, but the Irish don't do things like that so I accepted. Perhaps I'm just secretly addicted to the smell of Guinness farts…

It was strange but quite liberating to attend a function all on my own without the rest of the band, and in no time at all I was actually feeling quite comfortable in the backstage area rather than suffering the anxiety that normally engulfs me. I chatted away to an actor from
Coronation Street
who had recently appeared in a Ken Loach movie, filling me with a warm glow of reassurance. Perhaps if I
could trick my mind effectively enough, there would be less chance of my stammer making a humiliating television debut.

I kept asking which award I was going to present, but no one seemed to know or care – we were in Ireland and, as long as everyone was merry, what did it matter? I felt OK right up until the moment my sweet messenger Mary told me I was down to present the award for Best Irish Band.

‘Who is it, then?' I asked.

‘It's Snow Patrol,' she replied, beaming.

I was horrified: ‘But I can't stand them, and they're not even Irish, they're from the north!' But it was too late, I'd been flown over for this, and it was the last presentation before the long-winded Special Achievement Award. I felt like I was about to have my prostate examined.

When it came time to hand over the award, I was smarting so much that I clean forgot to stammer. That part was fine. What really hurt was that Snow Patrol thought I'd flown over as a fan, specially for them, and I spent the rest of the evening going through the motions of ‘bonding' with the various band members. I have a vague memory of jumping up on a table at one point and stamping my foot, before ranting: ‘YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! I
H-H-HATE YOU, I H-HATE YOU, I H-H-
H-HATE
YOU!'

To round off a quite bizarre evening, The Rolling Stones' Ronnie Wood, whom I'd been sneaking vodka to backstage while his wife's back was turned, was now jamming on stage with The Thrills at the aftershow party. In between numbers he slurred for someone to get me to come on stage: ‘Is Frank out there? Can someone get Frank?'

It was five in the morning, and I'd had so many large Jameson's I'd unlocked the secret to seeing things in quadruple – I thought I had eight hands and four cocks.

Even in that state I was vaguely aware this was a unique opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to jam with a Rolling Stone – something to brag about to your grandchildren, anyway. Instead, I grabbed the Snow Patrol bassist and ushered him towards the stage. Then I staggered back to the bar away from the almighty din that musos like to call ‘jams'. I vaguely remember chatting with the four members of The Corrs – though, looking back, it may just have been one of them. Little did I know at the time that Snore Patrol's next album would take the world by storm while I was busy digging a sand pit in rural France.