Slimy
Git always tried to do things differently.
He spent days plotting unusual tours:
The Funny Shaped Tour was in the shape of a knob.
Then he tried ideas in a similar vein:
Hollywood, Dallas, Washington, Boston and New York was one plan...
This tour took in the delights of Birmingham, Speyside, Wearside,
Lincs and..
er... Lincs again.
Another wheeze
was 'Five Countries in Five Days'.
England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and Eire.
OK,- for the pedants....
'Three countries, a province and a principality in five days."
Sounds nearly as good.
This was a great week.
Into the Lake District, Dumfries and Galloway, through Ireland,
and back across Snowdonia.
Cumbria
This lot don't get out much.
Fucking hooligans.
They went absolutely mental, leaping around, scrapping, swearing,
and chucking anything that wasn't nailed down.
And then the band went on.
And it got worse.
Brilliant.
Scotland
This lot are easy to wind up.
Muttley sits at a table talking amicably with four Scotsmen, if
that is possible.
They talk about football, TV, alcohol, women, gerbils, music...
Then the heavens opened, there were pillars of flame...
and a jock bought a round.
Shake hands, time to go on: "Cheers lads, I'll be the fat one on
the stage..."
Three minutes later:-
"Fuck off y'inglish bastarrr! FUCK ARRRRRFFF!"
The same four stood three feet away, swearing, gobbing, and chucking
bottles, beer, piss and ashtrays at Muttley's head.
They threatened violence, boiled with hatred,
and whooped with joy each time a glass found its mark.
Afterwards they asked for autographs and details of the next gig.
Mutts wrote down directions and gave them some passes so they wouldn't
have to pay.
Days later, they left a message on the answerphone:
"You fuckin' English twat. You're dead. Fuckin' dead. Hear that?
Cost us a fuckin fortune to get here! Ken? Stornaway's a shitehole.
You're dead, pal. Ken?"
England 1 Scotland 0
Northern
Ireland
In England, you can draw a graph...
Starting in Cornwall, the amount of stuff chucked, and the velocity
it is chucked at, rises, with latitude, until the graph reaches
a crescendo in Tyneside.
So, if Belfast was in England would it be near Newquay or Newcastle?
Let's find out shall we?
The Lads took to the stage.
Polite applause,
cheering.
Songs.
Applause, cheering and dancing.
Huh?
Stez: "Mutts?You dry?"
Mutt:"Yup"
Beater: "Think so."
Mutt: "What is my mother going to say about
this?
If she sees my teeshirt, beerless, pissless, phlegmless, she'll
say:
'You bin playin' poofhouses again? Look at the state of this! Call
yerself a Macc Lad?
I wouldn't give yer crust off me clit! Now get to yer room, yer
faggot!'"
Etc.
One daring local timidly through half a pint.
Yippee!
Game on.
They got soaked.
Eventually.
But at least it seemed like a proper gig.
Unlike Dublin....
Eire
"Pint of Guinness please."
"Willyerbehavinpudayderswiddat?"
"Sorry?"
"Oh, yeringlish! Oive got a cousin in Manchester, dyernoim?"
Three hours later....
"There's yer Guinness, no charge, yer in dat band roit? Yer famous?"
"This is a glass. Its supposed to be all plastic glasses tonight."
"To be sure it is, all plastic."
"But this is glass (ping!!) see?"
"To be sure. All plastic. Except for Guinness."
"But you only sell Guinness."
"Well yer can't be sorvin' Guinness in a plastic glass now."
And did they
throw glasses?
Did they fuck.
Did they gob, fight, dance, applaud?
Nope.
....They weren't even interested in the gig. All they wanted to
do was:
a) Thank you
for coming, get your autograph, shake your hand, etc
b) Ask when you're coming back.
3) Be incredibly friendly, to the point of nausea.
However, at
the hotel, evil plans were afoot:
At 7am everyone was in the restaurant scoffing loads.
At 7-45 the van was loaded with every stitch of Sandbach's clothing.
At 8am Bach's alarm went off.
At 8-05 there is video footage of Bach careering around the hotel,
wrapped in a sheet, looking like a startled wilderbeest at the watering
hole.
A porter politely taps on the van door.
"Excuse me sor...
but de gentleman in room four tree tree would loik his trousers,
please."
VROOOM!
