Dave R.'s October Tour Diary

31 Oct 1998
Written by Dave "Castle" Rotheray

Courtesy of M.Hartland

Wednesday OCTOBER 7 London - no gig

A glance through the tour itinerary reveals that the band have decided to travel incognito, to avoid being mobbed by crazed fans, etc. Everyone is booked into hotels under their "porn star names" (obtained by combining the name of your first pet with your mother's maiden name) - an idea that probably came from tour manager Click Wilson (Richard Jones) Travelling to Hull station with lead singer Cindy James, I get picked up by a female taxi driver (one in 40 cabbies in Hull are women) The Doncaster train (40 miles), laughably known as "The Super Sprinter" but generally referred to as "the snail crusher", takes over an hour and is the most depressing part of every trip, with not even a drinks trolley to ease the misery. On arriving at King's Cross, the cab we pick up at the rank is driven by a woman (one in 65 cabbies in London are female). This is the first time in 10 years of commuting to London that we've had a lady driver at both ends of the journey, but at odds of 2,600 to one against, I guess that's not surprising. While in London we take a couple of hours out to record a "B-side" (which they aren't really anymore, are they?) for the next single. Sickeningly, it comes out better than some of the tracks we've just spent three months over. Tonight is album launch party at the London Aquarium. Nobody goes.

Thursday OCTOBER 8, Hamburg

Up at 7 to catch plane for Hamburg, and go for breakfast with our head of merchandise, Currie Shenton (lan Coggin). A debate springs up over whether or not toast always lands on the buttered side, and I explain to Currie that if people were twice as tall toast would tend to land on the other side. We test the theory by dropping a slice of toast 100 times from various heights, but only 58 trials (buttered side 34, other side 24) before manager Shep Wood (Phil Cass) comes over and eats the toast. For some reason the hotel staff seem pleased to see us leave. '

In Hamburg (after some difficulty checking in as Cybil Barber), I scour the hotel for original features. The first involves the TV remote, which has two dedicated buttons labelled "non-stop erotic show". Now, most quality hotels have a choice of porn channels, but this is the first time I've seen them actually labelled on the remote. It usually just says "PAYTV". Wasn't "non stop erotik show" a Soft Cell album title? Well it should have been. The gig tonight goes well and everybody claps at the end. Keyboard player Cindy Harris (Damon Butcher) is super-drunk (he's been out drinking schnapps with percussionist Paco Deighton) but just about gets away with it, smiling throughout in a manner reminiscent of the chap who used to say "Aaah, Grasshopper" all the time in Kung Fu.

Friday OCTOBER 9, Dusseldorf

Meet up in the bar for the drive to Dusseldorf. Here I discover another original feature of the hotel - the milk for the coffee is served in a little cup made out of chocolate. Everyone else - except for "sensible" bass-player Tabby McDonagh - has been up drinking all night with trumpet-player Rags Maddox (Tony Robinson). Apparently they were all playing crown-green bowling with pumpkins in the hotel corridor, and for some reason the hotel staff all look pleased to see us leave. On the bus we amuse ourselves by attempting to define German place-names as sexual slang (examples: a "Dusseldorf" is an unusually long female pubic beard, "Bremen" is the downy hair on a young boy's testicles, and "Monchen-Gladbach" is an activity too obvious to explain). We stop at a few Autobahn service stations to mock German crisps (but still buy them).

Tonights gig is poor - the band play everything too fast and the set finishes 10 minutes early. I crash out but everybody else goes back to the hotel bar, where Deep Purple are in residence. Tabby tells me they all have grey ponytails now. There but for the grace of God...

Saturday OCTOBER 10 Day off

Up early for plane back, pausing just to pick up collectables from the hotel room. Cindy James and I are both compulsive magpies. He collects airline sickbags and hotel shoehorns, whilst I prefer airline safety instructions and complimentary bottle-openers. But neither of us can resist a good "do not disturb" sign - and these ones are satisfyingly Teutonic, with exclamation marks to lend a tone of authority and command.

On the plane, the breakfast comes in a cardboard box. On the inside of the lid is a picture of a gang of little smiling Chinese children eating sandwiches in a playground. Of course, everyone then has to nominate which one they would "have" - a task which, to the disgust of other eavesdropping passengers, we all take seriously and discuss for the whole flight. Hearteningly, the only female band member (vocalist Patch Houghton) joins in willingly and picks the one with the most innocent smile. The stewards look pleased and relieved as we disembark.

Sunday OCTOBER 11 Day off

No action.

Monday OCTOBER 12 Nottingham

Disaster looms. Although "blessed" with three vocalists we only have one fully fit for performance. Patch Houghton and Cindy James both have bad throats and Myrah Mooney - who usually only sings two or three songs in the set - may have to pinch-hit for them. But by dropping three of those "hard to sing" numbers (e.g. Let Love Speak Up) and juggling vocals around we manage a reasonable set. The album only came out today but a lot of the crowd know it already and that percentage should rise through the week. The only worry is whether those "precious" throats will survive the punishment. If not, then maybe we can take comfort in denying B*Witched a Number 1 album, as they did us back in Singles-land. Our manager, Shep, a worrier by name and nature, has gone out to buy a barrel of industrial-strength honey and lemon mixture.

Tuesday OCTOBER 13 Hereford

Our first gig ever in a place named after a cow. Everyone's hoping the singers are OK so that we don't have to milk the audience too hard (ker-tish!). We play the "reduced" set list again, and the audience are strangely silent, bursting into applause for Perfect 10, but not seeming to know (or like) most of the set. The trick in these situations is to fix your attention on one person in the crowd who's really into it, to give yourself an illusion of the gig going well. My boy is three rows back from the front in a rugby shirt, and when we do the fast bit at the end of 36D (always a high point), he actually starts pogoing - this moment, for me, saves the gig and possibly the whole tour. The rest of Hereford claps politely and seems genuinely upset to see us leave (after "only" the reduced two-song encore). Later, while I'm typing this diary in the hotel (no porn channel, no "do not disturb" sign, hot tap runs faster than cold) drummer Topsi Dawson comes over and points out that on the last tour we played in Aberdeen (home of the Angus). Oh well, what the hell.

Wednesday OCTOBER 14 Wolverhampton

Today is a dull day, enlivened by one piece of news. Last night a member of the crew accidentally picked up the wrong room key and wandered into the room belonging to Click Wilson (Tour Manager), where he found a brand new (brand new!) copy of ropey porn mag Men’s World (Men’s World). Now, Click being a solemn, bespectacled young chap, the thought of him indulging in this kind of "assisted tugging" really does exercise ones laughter glands. Songs ("Men's World! Party time! Excellent!" to the tune of ''Wayne's World") and puns ("Could you just pull up here a minute?") dominate the three-hour drive to Wolverhampton. It's moments like this when us workers can really get one over on the management classes. By the end of the day I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. If the gigs were only half as entertaining as the journeys between them, this tour would have been absolute classic. The somewhat moderate success of the gigs so far is causing some debate (should we put some old numbers back in? Should we try drinking more on stage?), but all anxiety is dispelled by the "midweek" chart position; we are riding high, with Phil Collins and B*Witched jostling for second place. In your face, ladies! Anyway, it’s Wolverhampton tonight, and we always play a good one in Wolverhampton. Onwards!

Thursday OCTOBER 15 Day off

No action

Friday OCTOBER 16 Dundee

The six-hour train journey up to Dundee is dominated by the mobile phone - the artist whose work we are using for the album cover is threatening legal action in order to try and get more cash. Inevitably, to keep the show on the road, we decide to give in and throw a few more grand to the sharks. Despite this minor irritation, tonight’s gig is the best so far - we seem to be getting the hang of it at last. The rest of the band had a night off in Dundee last night, and managed to fill up the (previously blank) guest list. Strangely, nearly all these "guests" appear to be generously bechested young ladies, with a smattering of earnest (but ugly) males. Discuss, with diagrams where necessary. Not that your correspondent has any aversion to "pneumatically gifted" members of the opposite sex but why can't they pay for their tickets like everyone else? "Because then they wouldn't come at all," is, of course, the correct answer. Proceed directly to hotel bar, do not collect £200

Saturday OCTOBER 17 Liverpool

Today I elect to travel with the T-shirt lads in their minibus, and end up driving as they are still all over the limit. In return for taking the wheel, I get to lay my tapes in the van. As we pass over the Forth Bridge in the rain, Oh Child by The Five Stairsteps comes on and everyone gets emotional. Music like this makes grown men cry – several in the back even appear to be holding hands. I turn my rear view mirror away, out of respect.

On long journeys like this, daft games are definitely the order of the day. Today it's the "stupidly repetitive headline" game. Example - there is a music conference and all the people and equipment present and correct except for Tracy Thorn. The headline is, of course, "Everything but the Everything But The Girl girl". Second example - famous Greek songstress Ms. Mouskouri slips on some yellow fruit and is picked up by an ambulance with an old-fashioned siren The headline? "Nana 'nana ner-ner". This game goes on for several hours and we all feel slightly sick. We stop off at a village called "Crookland" for a drink. It is an unwritten rule that we can only stop for a drink at places with stupid names. Well, I suppose it’s a written rule now.

Tonight's gig is a goodie. Myrah Mooney wears a pair of pink ladies shoes throughout and pockets a massive £300 bet. Afterwards, we strut about backstage shouting "back on track"' and giving each other high-fives.

A photographer arrives, spends half an hour arranging us under flashlights and those puffy looking white umbrellas that photographers carry around. "Just act normal," he says. "Pretend you're having a laugh." This strikes me as strangely apposite, and I note it down in my diary, pausing only to wonder whether to file it under "Rock Epitaphs" or under "Autobiography - Possible Titles". Both these sections are starting to get rather full now.