June 8 to June 10

Thursday June 8

This will prove to be a day of abject madness. Up at 7.00 a.m. to catch 9.00 a.m. flight to Madrid for TV show. Only: the flight is delayed for a couple of hours. At Madrid airport (after a couple of Lufthansa bloody marys) they are expecting big 'Poz" Macartney, but accept us anyway. They (M's record company) whisk us into town (gee let me tell you what Spain looks like ... uh kinda like Italy) and the hotel is "hot shit'. But to get the feel of Madrid life, Teddy, Daubney and I adjourn to a slimy neighbourhood bar, dining on a stream of beers and a platter of pork crackling. Very agreeable - until interview-time beckons. Oh well. This continues (including hilarious TV interview) until dinner - a sleepy, stuffy, creamy affair. By this time I'm ready for a meaningful relationship with Club Fartsack, and I retire. The bedsheets feel awfully nice and I turn the air conditioning up full ... beautiful ...'BRROOING! goes the wake up call. It's 11or I2 a.m. unfortunately time to Brock oneself up for the TV show, due about I.00 a.m. Shit. Shamble into crushed stage clothes, stumble downstairs. Kip out for five minutes in the foyer. Lie on the floor of the van (driven by Alphonso) taking us to the tacky club named Oh! Madrid! and try and sleep some more. The club is brocked up MTV style. Fine Young Cannibals are miming. What a load of tossers. Everything a bit on the surreal side. Looking out from white balcony to poolside disco the night-time scene reminds me of Freshwater Bay Yacht Club, no less.

Brace myself with V&T or 22. Golly - given the opportunity of INTERNATIONAL MEGASTARDOM, at times like these I'd choose CLUB FARTSACK no worries - or what!! Sensing impending avalanche of ZZZZ’s the angelic Shaz Collins convinces two ageing TV technicians to "chop out” a couple for Daubney and your humble scribe; Ok I'll no longer fall asleep in the first chorus of "Trick of the Light' - but will the Triffids pull off a dynamite, tight, professional, convincing performance? BOLLOCKS THEY WILL!! Hey Daubney! Hey Ted! You make Guns'an'Roses look like the Moscow fuckin' Ballet Company - OR WHAT? Jill and Alsy perform well. I'm not the best, but not unbearable! The rest do a facsimile of a deaf, dumb and blind retarded paraplegic "thespian" class's impression of the Beastie Boys on a wee "bit" of Ecstasy and fookin' truckload of mogadon thickshakes. Oh let's forget this sorry scene shall we? Just between you and me dear reader, let's pretend this “Night in Madrid” was just the hazy punchline in a bad scriptwriter's deathbed "gag''.

Friday June 9

And by the airport it's clear that Sally wasn't exactly a BIG fan of Ted and Daubney last night. And - hey, big surprise! - nobody LOOKS VERY WELL! The queue for CLUB SICK-UP lengthens. And guess what? Yeah – 2 1/2hour flight delay on account of French air traffic controller's unofficial 'bugnerisation'. LAUGH? I nearly joined the Spanish army - or what??

Hey Amsters!! It's good to see you, you miserable platter of ham and cheese - Hit the Feebo outlet - mine's a sate croquette. Hit the streets - a Dutch hippy! The Quentin Hotel never looked more Schnookie, nor the Paradiso. Hello Pam (delivering highly important Keyboard thingy OR WHAT). Hello Doug, Justin, Rox, Tim, hello Helena (UK FAN - OR WHAT), hello Putzie twins - Evi and Kirsten, hello Liz - merchandise the fuck out of these cheesebreath-heads! (again let me assure you Mr McComb has a very high regard for the Dutch.)Hello Peter - Mr. nice intellectual Dutch journalist with whom I have a conversation concerning the duty or lack thereof that ART owes to REALITY (hmm the Newcastle Times and the Daily News won't be quite the same after this spate of no-holds-barred shameless arty European intelligence and sophistication OR WHAT). We dine in the old faithful Italian restaurant. The show is very good, Ted and Daub on good behaviour bonds, the capacity audience only unbridled towards the end SO WHAT'S NEW? Nothing's changed since the Stoned Crow.

Saturday June 10

Thanks Philip- or was it Frank, for the wake up call. After breakfast (ham and cheese WE ACCEPT NOTHING LESS, GUV) Pamela and I proceed to the American Discount Bookstore (best Bookstore in the world, no contest) and proceed to blow at least £30 each on spurious books - Brodsky's collection of C 19th Russian poetry, Kundera's “Art of the Novel", biog of Fassbinder, “Death in Venice" G. Greene's "End of the Affair", Warsh's "Methods of Birth Controls", the Eighth Edition of the Paris Review's "Writers at Work" series. Then off to Utrecht. The Tivoli again. Sold out. Silly German interview. Soundcheck. Procrastinated, but tasty, Thai meal in canalside eaterie. Obscene UK support group. Weird motherfuckin' hotel. No beds in Marty and Liz's room. I have no key and have to be escorted to room by receptionist. Rooms aren't ready until 4.00 p.m. Weird.

Good show of course. Bit of an aspro Ted disco in Pam's room with "Paul's Boutique” and “Avalon Sunset” but I say one too many stupid Ted jokes and Graham gets fed up and I feel like a right twat. Sometimes it's wise to grow up, no?

© Copyright David McComb

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