“You’re talking out of your hat…you’re talking out of your hat and you’ve got one on. I would say ass but I can’t say ass and I don’t want to say donkey because that’s disrespectful to donkeys…”
And so it goes. Come the 4th December, I will extrapolate myself from my Peter Criss wig one last time, scrape the white, black, green, silver & red from my fizzog and prepare to hand over the DRESSED TO KILL drumstool to another poor undeserving sap.
Do I want to leave DTK? No, absolutely NOT! Since I joined in 2005, I have played my favourite songs from my favourite band to some of my favourite people – the UK KISS Army…and beyond! However, sometimes in life you have to stop doing things you love no matter how much you want to continue.
It’s constantly drummed into us (excuse the pun) that moving house is the most stressful day of your life and nothing ever comes close to matching the levels of irritation and blind panic that come with such upheaval. Last year, for example, it took Natalie and myself over 12 hours to move just 400yds up the road to our new place, with removal men who clearly thought that a vehicle equivalent to one of those Daihatsu mini-vans was sufficient to carry the worldly goods of a married couple with 4 children all under the age of 10.
Unfortunately, it’s not a name that will conjure many hedonistic rock and roll images up in anyone’s minds, save for the lucky lucky few that got to witness their punishing half-hour set in the auspicious surroundings of the now-legendary Heart of England School Assembly Hall…I’ve barely started writing this and you’re already seriously pissed off you missed it aren’t you?
It's amazing how your pre-conceptions about a person or a situation can be so wide of the mark as to be laughable, and shows you up for how narrow-minded you can be at times.
I met David Watkins at his house near Leamington the other day. David is just like hundreds of thousands of 11-year-old boys...he eats, sleeps and breathes football (Cardiff City being his 1st love), will talk with anyone about the beautiful game until it's way past his bedtime and harbours a desire to become a sports journalist/broadcaster when he's older.
It’s September 26th 2010 and I’m forced to dig out the thermal vest for a football match – the game’s gone.
To be fair, the old Damart faithfuls can come in handy for a pre-season friendly in late July at Stoke’s Brittania Stadium, such is the way the wind whips through the Potteries, but whilst the wife and I have so far resisted in putting the heating on at home, I couldn’t risk a trip to Bolton without a bit more insulation.
PLENTY OF YOU HAVE EMAILED TO ASK IF I HAVE ANY FUNNY 'ROAD' STORIES FROM MY YEARS AS A MUSO OF NO FIXED ABILITY...I HAVE ONE OR TWO ;o)
SO HERE'S ONE LITTLE TALE FROM MY EARLY DAYS OF TRYING TO ACHIEVE ROCK STARDOM...IF YOU LIKE IT, LET ME KNOW BY WAY OF A COMMENT BELOW AND I'LL DREDGE UP SOME MORE EMBARASSING NONSENSE FROM MY PAST LIFE! THERE MIGHT EVEN BE ENOUGH FOR A WHOLE BOOK IF ANYONE CARES!!
Sometimes, Spinal Tap can seem like the most disturbingly real on-the-road documentary ever filmed.
A typical DRESSED TO KILL gig weekend is not a walk in the park – 2 shows on successive nights with all the setting up and breaking down of equipment that entails, coupled with the 2 hours it takes the 4 of us to get make-up and costumes on to perform (and the half hour it takes to disrobe and get back into your civvies), not to mention the driving from one end of the country to the other overnight with just one crew member assisting us…who doesn’t drive.
It was approximately 10 minutes after arriving in Birmingham International Airport’s departure lounge ahead of our long-awaited honeymoon to Mauritius, and I’d already spotted someone I know – namely an old Gems TV cameraman I’d not seen in 4 years. I make a habit of this when I’m in and around Brum, which has irritated people I’ve been with before, but Natalie isn’t the least bit bothered by my constant chance meetings with folk – her primary concern was getting a window seat for the 2 long flights ahead, first to Dubai, then onto Mauritius.
New show, new timeslot, same old garbage public transport that attempts to get you to work at a reasonable juncture.
This is my lot with working Sundays as I have for nearly a decade with one station or another - you are more at the mercy of train, bus, underground and motorway networks than at any other time of the week. You feel like Reggie Perrin when you finally stumble into the maelstrom of the talkSPORT office, announcing "55 minutes late - escaped hippo at Harrow and Wealdstone"