Dog Tales Page 4

  Talk about the white cliffs of Dover I couldn’t see a bloody thing it was pitch black! But I was somewhat glad to be on home soil, be it in a converted German beer wagon. We set our sights for London totally unaware of the congestion zone. We soon found out about it when Eddie got a warning in the post a month later – informing him you cannot drive converted German Beer wagons around the capital willy-nilly.

  As promised I was back in my darling Stephanie’s arms one hour after Halloween. However Eddie was still sitting drinking Guinness with us 3 hours later. During the three hours he informed us of the few hitches he’d had with the plumbing system, in the wagon more notably the bog. Somehow he had ended up covered in shite on two occasions.

  The next day Eddie and Diane set off back for Newcastle. He would return in a few weeks so we could finish off the tour in the UK. MH would be coming over as well. In the mean time I went to the Hospital as my cast was looking a bit ropey. The Doc at the hospital was quite excited and told me I had a Jones fracture which incidentally is known as a dancers fracture .They cut off the old cast and gave me one of those new air boots you see the footballers wearing on their days off. I must say it’s a fantastic invention. You can inflate and deflate it - but best of all providing your bone isn’t poking out through your skin - and you are well on the way to healing. You can take it off and have a good scratch – bath – shower - and even sleep with it off! Which is recommended, especially if you’ve trod in something. They told me I’d waited too long to have any screwing going on and it had healed slightly bent but was good as new. Though I must say to this day 2 years later it does ache when the weather is a bit dodgy, and my right foot is now size 11.

  Fast forward to the start of the UK tour, which would start in Bristol at Big Chris’s club Area 81. T’was a good night so we decided to stay up all night drinking cocoa and eating marsh mellows telling stories around a campfire. Still going strong at lunchtime the next day me an Eddie made our way to Swindon where another fine sing-along took place with me abandoning the stage to take up residence in the middle of the pub for a request spot. A good thing about playing solo acoustic, its very adaptable, and as long as I can remember any of my 200 plus songs I’ll give em a go, as long as people wants to listen, and the landlord is still up for serving and turning a tidy profit a good night is had by all.

  And so back to London. Upon parking the mighty beast round the corner from Stephanie’s I hopped out and proceeded to get my bag out of the back compartment, on opening the door I was greeted by the most ungodly of smells. The smell of shit and piss, I nearly barfed right there an then but averted my hooter from the stench. Eddie meanwhile stood there in full whiff distance scratching his head…

  - Wayhiiii! Blimey it’s happened again!

  We shut the door pronto.

  - I’ll have to take that an get it seen to, shouldn’t take too long. He came in for another 3 hour pint of Guinness or more ha! ha! The next morning he set off to get the bog fixed. What he didn’t tell me until recently (2 years on that is) was that when he drove off - the back door flew open and all my merch, which was mainly CDs, DVD’s and T shirts spilt all over the bloomin road! People were good enough to stop and help him pick up the carnage but he said they all had peculiar looks on their faces due to the slight pong in the air shall we say. Well he did buy a box and put all my merch in and give em a wipe, but I cant help thinking that there are people sitting in their living room to this day who purchased said CDs and DVDs etc.. Going, there’s still a funny smell in this room Ron. Sorry about that anyone, but it might account for the odd angry email I get telling me that some of my CDs are not only shit, but smells of it! I still stand by everything as done. It’s a musical diary and we all need to eat. I decided as much fun as it was in Eddies juggernaut that the amount I was spending on fuel and another mouth to feed as well as a wage was not viable for this low key tour, So MH reverted to plan B and we rented a Robin 3 wheeler. Once MH got used to driving on the wrong side of the road, his not ours, then we were fine.

  Whilst on tour you get to experience variants on peoples hospitality.

  It must have been the Tequila and orange and cinnamon in Cologne, cause when we went back a week later complete with bosted foot I remembered it, so when I was doing me show I decided to pull the old drinks are on me card and so ordered a round of Tequila’s complete with oranges sprinkled with cinnamon for everyone. But come the end of the night the club owner wouldn’t accept payment and the drinks kept coming, come to think of it I drank a few Sambuca’s that night as well, I remember insisting I could stand so MH was behind me and Iris in front so, in true tradition I fell sideways.

  Fast forward to Brighton a month or so later, I pulled the same trick half way through my set and ordered a few shots for the crowd. I remember they were green and in test tubes. After a song or two I noticed there didn’t seem to be anyone sortin’ the round out. So I shouted up again,

  - Any chance of these shots bartender?

  - We want paying first! Comes back the shout!

  - Where’s my man? I counter attack and send MH up to the bar to cough up a measly £42.50 for a round of happiness, tight bastards!

  Back to the present, well past- but you know what I mean. All was going dandy until we landed in Sheffield. Where I must say there is usually a good turn out, but as Mutley couldn’t fit me in at the Corp I went down the road, again all was fine, one bloke even gave me his whole Dogs D’amour back catalogue to get in on the guest list. Though it was only a fiver on the door - I didn’t know how to take that! I never got to thank him or shake his hand either. So if you are reading this, thanks mate! After the show a bunch of us including Fiona Long who’s inked a few of me tatts all went back to Gail and Les’s, yeah Rob was there from Wolves, who’s pastime is shaving peoples eyebrows off and probably worse. In fact I know worse. Like the time him an his mates opened up a hotel room door and slung a bucket of water over this couple, trouble was it was the wrong couple, they made a quick getaway. Imagine that? You’re sleeping peacefully, or worse having a kiss an a cuddle, suddenly a bucket of water is thrown over you, yer beloved and yer bed! And I’m sure if he hasn’t already, attempt the condom full of spit - on a pencil - inserted up an unsuspecting mates bottom one of theses days! (See practical jokes)

  We ordered a take away, an even little Charlie, age 9, Gail n Lez’s little un was allowed up. Around 2.30 am we went back to Fiona’s where I was gonna kip on the sofa with her 8 cats and corgi dog. I knew it was a bit dodgy around Gail’s area so I told MH to take my Gibbo and art folder into the house, he would have also stopped at Fiona’s, but declined as he’s allergic to cats! So as we left I needed to get my bag from our car and put it in Fiona’s car. I then put my guitar and a big bag of clobber on the grass verge next to our car and told MH to sling it in the house to be safe. I got in Fiona’s car with Rob and we headed off. We get to Fiona’s Rob goes to bed as he’s got an early start, he’s putting hair removal cream in all his mates sun tan cream bottles before jetting off to Malaga for the weekend stag do. I ask Fiona why she aint drinking, and she tells me that Tarzan who she met when we were all in India a year or so ago as gone an got her up the duff, in my surprise I dropped me flaming Sambuca on the kitchen floor and we had a good little fire for a while. She then turned in and I got me head down on the sofa with a bit of telly and the feline and canine gang all getting comfortable.

  I wake nice an early and we drive over to the tattoo studio to hook up with MH. We say our goodbyes and walk to our car, I look in and say to MH,

  - Where’s my guitar?

  - I thought you had it he said.

  - I told you to put it Gail’s last night.

  Gail drove me to hers, no sign of it. We then go to Fiona’s to double check my mind wasn’t going, nope. Then we realise the big blue bag with MH’s clothes, along with a hell of a lot of other stuff including our sat nav, films of all the shows in Europe, at least we didn’t lose the camera. But it was a mystery, where ha
d it gone? I thought to myself and if someone had broken into the car why was nothing else missing? And there was no sign of a break in. I phoned plod and reported it. We had CCTV footage of us leaving the gig, and it showed that we had both the guitar and the bag with us when we left. I went round a few guitar shops, I didn’t know what to do. I felt a bit sick to my stomach. I mean it was only a guitar I’d had for 20 odd years, only a bit of wood… but hold on! we’ve got another gig tonight in Ipswich - an I aint got a banjo – ‘kinel!

  We managed to get through to the gig promoter and they very kindly sorted out a couple of guitars for the night. Meanwhile the mystery of my missing Gibbo deepened. In fact it was all but lost. I’d been in touch with PC Troman from the South Yorkshire Police and he had been around some possible fence shops, but came up with nothing. Someone even started up a Facebook group to try and find it, we even had a few possible sightings, but they amounted to nothing. After the tour ended I’d even resorted to going out and buying an old ‘59 Gretsch acoustic to replace her. Then almost 3 months later I got a call from Fiona telling me that Les and Gail had my Gibson. That’s all she knew. A few days later Rob drops it off to me in London. I opened the case, it was in fine condition except it had obviously been in a storeroom somewhere, all the strings had rusted and my harmonica and stand and set list were missing. What was in the case was our tour itinerary with just about every contact number you could want on it, plus my name and address was written in silver pen in big writing on the outside of the case. I called PC Troman to thank him and he said he wasn’t aware that I had got it back though very glad and said he would find out what he could about what had happened to it. From my end I knew that the Police had called Les, who at first said he didn’t know a Mr G O’Keefe (another story there lads an lasses) then Gail said that’s Tyla. Les is still confused bless him. Anyway they went to the station, signed a bit of paper and eh viola le geetar.

  A week later I get the full low-down from PC Troman.

  - On the night of the whenever it was at approx. 2.32am (two minutes after we had driven off) Patrol car Z Victor zero was driving up such an such street and noticed an article or two merely resting on the grass verge (outside Lez an Gail’s) the said guitar in case and big blue bag were then taken to a Police station and bunged in the lost property shed outback. (Remember that I’d actually called the Police and reported it missing. You would have thought they would have checked with some other Police stations eh?) There my items remained until a few months later a Police woman decided to have a clear out of the lost property and see if she could trace any of the owners. Apparently amongst the lost items was a quad bike, I mean who loses a quad bike? Probably the same twit who leaves his Gibbo by the roadside after a prawn vindaloo, that’s who!

  Anyway, do you remember that day in February that it snowed so heavily over night and so rendering the UK shut for the day? And that the only people who managed to get to work were people working on Telly and radio, just so they could report how no one was goin anywhere? ( You gorra love the Brits an their reaction to the weather ) Well it was a few days after that time when the lost property shed flooded in the thaw. And so the South Yorkshire boys in Blue destroyed everything including our beloved blue bag with about £2,000 worth of gear in. Still they compensated me for it - £200. But more importantly I got my beloved Gibbo back.

  The moral of the story? Don’t be a clot- keep yer eye on yer gear, at all times, its yer lively hood.

  On reflection I’m just a lucky bastard. I’m a lucky bastard most days come to think of it!

  Ian Dury gave me a collapsible blind mans stick once,

  - Here you go Tyla, you never know when you might need this. I thought he was implying I might suddenly be struck blind, but then he gave me an example of how a 12-inch stick expands into a 36-inch metal weapon.

  - A flick stick Tyla, a flick stick innit. STRANGLA! He’d bellow at the top of his voice. Strangla was his minder when I knew him around 86/87. We met backstage at the Fulham Greyhound. We’d be playing there for about a year on an off and had built up a following to a couple of hundred. A year later we’d be packing them in at the Hammersmith Odeon (now Labatt’s Apollo). Strangla loved to be a minder, an of course when you’re an aspiring young Turk, it looks good to have a minder, not only was he minder, he was massive, nearly 7 foot on a clear day, and he always dressed flash with lots of silver jewelry, he must have had 10 earrings in one ear. One night in Gossips, (a club which was off Dean Street ) Nasty Suicide the guitarist from Hanoi Rocks was with us and for some reason he had his dogs lead in his pocket. He decided to clip the bit you would normally clip onto the dogs collar on to one of Strangla’s earrings. He actually managed to do this without him noticing then slipped the other end over some random bloke’s hand who happened to be standing up the bar minding his own business. The bloke felt Nasty put it on his hand and in the process of trying to remove it - it pulled on Strangla’s earlobe, Strangla turned round saw this bloke with the lead in his hand which was attached to his earlobe and saw red. Strangla just used to do this GGGRRRRRRrrrrrr thing, which was a bit comical if you knew him, but a bit bloody scary if you didn’t I would imagine. It had to be seen to be believed Well Strangla must have come over all-biblical and decided an ear for an ear. He grabbed this bloke by the lobe with one hand and lifted him up so high the blokes head went through the sound tiles on the ceiling. In the meantime we’re all shouting and heckling and trying not to laugh telling Strangla to ‘heel boy’. Meanwhile I look down and there’s Max Splodge taking a piss into Nasty’s cowboy boot - while this is all goin on. Then in the middle of all this Mick - the boss of the club randomly starts having a go at me for spraying Dogs D’amour on the wall in the Girls Toilets.

  - It wasn’t me I said.

  - I know your handwriting Tyla - it’s the same as all the bloomin flyers you lot leave everywhere!

  - It’s a fare cop Mick. Am I barred then?

  - No you can do a free bloody gig to pay for the removing, I’ve only just had them painted as well!

  - Well a spot of paint in the dressing room wouldn’t go a miss either you know.

  - Watch it now Tyla. Strangla, can’t you keep your boys under control, an what the fucks this? Has someone pissed themselves here, Tracy get a mop here luv will you?

  One afternoon me an Steve were sitting watching ‘Predator’ in our 3rd floor flat in Kentish Town above a kebab shop/ gambling den. When out of the blue there was a wallop on our window - we turned and looked but nothing - maybe it was a bird we thought. Then a few seconds later there was another wallop. Steve and me turn and look in amazement at each other.

  - Was that a leg? I said.

  - Yeah it looked like a leg to me, or an arm? Steve answered. We opened the window and there below was Strangla sure enough he was holding a leg. He came up and explained that Ian Dury had a prosthetic leg and he’d been sent to get a new one from the limb shop, which was unknown to us next door but one to our gaff. Oh well that’s all right then innit?

  Alas dear Strangla is no longer with us. He gave me the blue jacket, which I wore in the Trail of Tears video, and in a few photo shoots, I have no idea where it is now though.

  1987. The outskirts of Amsterdam. Holland

  Scabs had finally run ‘old faithful’ into the tour bus graveyard. The old girl had served us well for at least two months! She’d been driven at maximum speed up and down every A, B and C road in the UK. Sailed across the seven seas, well the English Channel, and it was on a ferry I guess.

  -Well I drove as fast as I could before the petrol run out lads. He pronounced in his broad Yorkshire accent.

  -And we’ve got triple A coverage, I’ll gerruz a brand new un int’ mornin.

  I was still suffering the aftermath of the over consumption of a one ‘Uncle Tom’ bourbon. I don’t know what the hell it was made from but my sweat over the next few months took the varnish off my beloved 1962 Chet Atkins Gretsch, which had managed to hide the years until she fell i
nto my debauched hands for £800 from Chris at vintage and rare guitars located then in Earls court, now located in the avenue of a million riffs, otherwise known as Denmark Street W1. Now she looked like a cracked aged oil painting. Had I acquired the Dorian Gray of axe’s? I would ask myself many a time over a Jack and Coke, Valpolicella and Fettuccine Alfredo. Maybe the guitar will age and I will remain ever naughty, and up to no good. Once I’d penned a few melodies and stroked them out over her F holes I renamed her the ‘hit-maker’ for she spat out such little ditties as ‘ No GypsyBlood and ‘Satellite kKd’ on many a dark and stormy night.

  And so it was on one dark and stormy night as the Eighties speedily crashed towards the Nineties that we found ourselves in what one can only describe as a ram shackled motel somewhere in Holland. It was late, so late that even the hardest of rock n roll bands felt that they needed to rest their weary heads after a good few weeks of ripping it up and at a furious pace in support of Ian Hunter and Mick Ronsons’ European tour. We the Dogs D’amour were knackered. As usual were paired off into double rooms, Bam and Jo, the Deptford’s and Scabs (work that one out pop pickers!) and Steve and myself opting for the room with a balcony and a view of a tree. Without a bedtime story in sight we both hit the sack - me in the farthest bed from the door (incase of monsters). My plan was that it would get Steve first and be too full up to eat me, that’s if it could catch me, out on the balcony and shinning down the tree as fast as my gran bota cowboy boots would take me. Lights out. The distant sound of an owl was all that could be heard. I had barely slipped into another dimension when I was awoken by a scuffle going on in the bed next to me. Steve’s bed! I reached over and grappled around in the pitch black for the bedside lamp. I found it and as the brightness filled the room I witnessed the most extraordinary thing. It was the vision of what seemed to be a tail of some sorts leaving the room - grey and white in colour, big and bushy but low sweeping the floor behind it, then whoosh! It was gone. I jumped out of bed and looked down the small corridor in our room that led to the bathroom and the exit door. But nothing was there. Steven meanwhile had got himself all tangled up in his bed clothing.