"One day during our Italian tour the Pope died. A day of respect and reflection was declared, and the band had a day off on the Italian Riviera. By nightfall the road crew - obviously the worse for a day’s drinking - led by Geoff (road crew boss) - decided to take a stroll on to the beach, where they came across a small boat. Following in the great British seafaring tradition, they set off in it, and after about 50 yards the inevitable happened and the boat capsized. The day had been really quiet out of respect for the Pope, but the evening silence was absolutely shattered by the shouting and splashing coming from the seafront. Lights were being switched on all over the place, and our two boys just about made it back to the shore. Needless to say the locals were definitely not happy. It cost the tour manager a few million lira to pay off the boat owner and the local police." What John fails to write is this: these are my words.
"Later that night John – also the worse for wear – was dropped off on the wrong floor of the hotel, on purpose of course, as all floors looked the same. He spent five minutes trying to get into 'his' room, only to be accosted by an hysterical Italian woman shouting 'rape' after he broke the door down. That one cost the tour manager a few million lira too. The morning after nearly every gig Geoff, after studying the map to see where the next gig was and how long it would take to drive there, used to come out with the line: 'There's no fucking way!!' Well this time there nearly wasn't, as it transpired that the van keys were now on the seabed from the escapades the night before. And this was just one night.
A couple of thousand people packed into a ground where the average attendance was a hundred on a good Saturday. Great memories of a great few years.