Helloooooooooooooooo!
Jun. 20th, 2006 12:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mad_andyI'm back!
The dog is asleep downstairs, the cat is asleep by my elbow, I've (sort of) caught up on my sleep and all is right with the world. (Kind of.) (Except everything still aches, I'm sunburned and I've lost my voice.) (Damn Leppard.)
Wanna know what I've been doing?
Nah, I'm lying. Right.
Friday, 16th June.
I had a revision course, so before I could do anything even vaguely exciting I had to drive down to Potters Bar (North London) and spend a day finding out if passing my exams might be a bloody possibility this time. Passed them all, had a pretty good time with some of the people I'd met before and managed to get out a bit early.
Now, I live further north than I thought; I'm used to being past Birmingham in half an hour. So hitting the M1 (the main north/south motorway) right at the bottom and following it up to Sheffield...?
Nightmare.
Especially combined with usual friday afternoon heavy traffic and a gazillion roadworks. Thank fuck for vast amounts of very loud rock music and cigarettes...!
Took a couple of stops - and frightened some schoolkids. It went something like this....
I emerge from the ladies, black hair sticking in all directions, looking rather tired and frazzled, boots and denim and ink and not looking happy.l A gang of lads is hanging out; clearly part of a school group, they clock Scary Woman and look away. Except one.
He's maybe sixteen, pale of skin and dark of eye, fine boned and beautiful, long shiny dark brown curls halfway down his back. He looks a lot like a young Steve Harris.
He's staring at me.
I meet his eye, and neither of us looks away - so I cock an eyebrow and say "What?"
He waves his hand over his chest, and says in a heavy Italian accent:
"I love your shirt."
Aces High, in case you're wondering. Eddie leers at the world from my tits as well as my shoulders.
His mates are staring at him with wide eyes, and I stop, look at him, grin and approach. He stands his ground.
"You think that's good," I say, and drop the jacket.
He grins at me, and examines my ink with delight. I tell him that they're all across my back too, but that although he's cute he isn't cute enough for me to strip off in the middle of a service station. He laughs, I wish him a safe journey and off I go.
His friends are staring at him with something approaching awe, and I shake with laughter all the way back to the car.
But damn, he was cute. The expression on his face when I effectively cornered him was priceless - determined to stand his ground but so not sure that he'd made the right decision! Bless teenage Maiden fans.
Anyway, that kept me amused for another couple of hours. (I'd been going past junctions howling WHY ARE WE NOT AT NORTHAMPTON YET?! for the past two hours. The stop was in honour of not getting quite level with home and still having a long way to go. Bah.)
Long dull story short, got to Mandy's and the AA route map happily sent me the wrong way. Still, turned round, called her, found it - and the first thing I see is my favourite inhabitant of Rotherham waving at me from the pavement. She was in the door as soon as I opened it, hugging me and laughing.
There is nothing like an exuberant welcome when you're tired and a bit fried and fed up, and that's the truth.
Silke, Jaynie, Mandy, Sharon and Kerstin - pretty much the whole damn crew! Lotsa hugs and laughter as they brought me up to date with recent shenanigans - they'd been in Zurich and Dusseldorf to see the band and had a few stories to tell. Then time to freshen up and head out to see if we could find them at the hotel a few of the guys were staying at. Stalkers? Us?
Nah.
Honest.
Settling down into the bar, beer and conversation and much laughing. I swear, my face hurts when I hang out with that lot - says something good when you've got friends like that. Sav was on the other side of the bar with some friends; he ignored us and we ignored him. If the guy doesn't want to be hassled you can't blame him - and we're not the sorts to insist that our chosen guys pay attention to us, either.
Lots of crew about - said hi to Wolfie (Viv's tech) and much to my surprise got a smile and a hi back. Bless him.
Mind you, that might have had more to do with cleavage and ink than anything else, but we'll give him the benefit of the doubt - right?
Silke, Jaynie and I kept vanishing around the corner for a smoke (couldn't smoke in the main bar) and shortly after returning from such a trip got a very nice surprise - Phil joined us. the football was on the bar screen, so we chatted about that, the new album, who'd had the idea for the pictures on the album (Joe, if you were wondering) - and we took the piss a bit about the trousers that he's almost wearing in said photoshoot!
Then somebody (I suspect Mandy's husband Craig but I can't be sure) asked Phil if he wouldn't prefer to wax rather than shave his chest. Yes, he shaves his chest. No, I didn't mention razor rash. Anyway, he said no cos that hurts - and in the subsequent chatter told me (in all seriousness) that he only shaved his chest, it wasn't like he shaved his balls or anything....
Cue sound of Andy sputtering and searching for something to say!
When Silke said she preferred a smooth chest because otherwise the hairs get stuck in your teeth I was really flapping. Assured Phil that I'd been trying so hard not to lower the tone, which at least made him laugh - oops, guess he knows me too well! Still, when on the subject of pain we had a nice long chat about tattoos, what bits hurt worse, why....good job I've been paying attention to Jon's technical discussions on the subject. Nothing beats talking to one of your favourite rockstars about a subject you're enthusiastic about and he's interested in - when he's in the chair next to you and looking straight into your eyes.
*Shakes self*
Oh my goodness yes.
Anyway, he went off to bed and Silke and I decided to go and buy Vivian a beer. Liz, one of the missing contingent (and sore missed indeed) hadn't been able to fly at the last minute and had asked us to buy Viv a beer from her. So, Silke and I feeling terribly brave, went up and asked him if he wanted one. Yes please, and while she ordered I chatted to Viv and another one of his techs, a very affable Irishman.
The beers were poured, and Silke tried to pay for them - which is when it all started to go horribly wrong.
"What's your room number?" asked the barman.
Er.
Being after 11pm, the hotel policy was to stop selling drinks to non residents. Not stop serving them, you understand, just not let any non residents actually buy a beer.
Problem. Vivian's watching us approach panic with amusement.
None of us have Phil's room number, and we wouldn't have used it even if we had - jesus, you don't get one rockstar to buy another a beer and then say it's from you, do you?
Panic.
Embarrassment.
The tech is in stitches.
The rest of the crew in the bar are sniggering.
Silke and I... are wishing the floor would open up and swallow us.
Vivian, may he be forever blessed, came to our rescue. And bought the beer. And wouldn't let Silke give him the cash to repay him.....
We thanked him as profusely as we could then slunk back to the table, wanting to do nothing more than hide under the damn thing! Of course, by this time everyone's incapacitated with laughter - and I don't blame them, but holy shit - talk about feeling small.
So off we went, everyone else still highly amused but Silke and I's tails still firmly between our legs. I so owe that dear man a beer - when, that is, we get to run him to ground in a bar not so damn sticky about its rules!
Incidentally, a certain Rick Allen came down to the bar as well, said hi; I tell you, he's looking fantastic at the moment, fit, tanned and happy. Relaxed and affable, it's a distinct joy to see him looking so well. He was his usual charming self, and seems to have quit smoking; I think they all have.
So we headed back to Mandy's via a convenient takeaway, ate, talked, then collapsed into bed - although it wasn't an early start, it had been a bloody long day for all of us. The plan for the morrow was to get in the queue and....well, wait.
So with visions of smiling irishmen and laughing blue eyes in my head, I fell asleep between one breath and the next.
Stay tuned for Saturday's tale of disabled toilets, sunburn, and a guitarist with the strangest makeup job ever...!
The dog is asleep downstairs, the cat is asleep by my elbow, I've (sort of) caught up on my sleep and all is right with the world. (Kind of.) (Except everything still aches, I'm sunburned and I've lost my voice.) (Damn Leppard.)
Wanna know what I've been doing?
Nah, I'm lying. Right.
Friday, 16th June.
I had a revision course, so before I could do anything even vaguely exciting I had to drive down to Potters Bar (North London) and spend a day finding out if passing my exams might be a bloody possibility this time. Passed them all, had a pretty good time with some of the people I'd met before and managed to get out a bit early.
Now, I live further north than I thought; I'm used to being past Birmingham in half an hour. So hitting the M1 (the main north/south motorway) right at the bottom and following it up to Sheffield...?
Nightmare.
Especially combined with usual friday afternoon heavy traffic and a gazillion roadworks. Thank fuck for vast amounts of very loud rock music and cigarettes...!
Took a couple of stops - and frightened some schoolkids. It went something like this....
I emerge from the ladies, black hair sticking in all directions, looking rather tired and frazzled, boots and denim and ink and not looking happy.l A gang of lads is hanging out; clearly part of a school group, they clock Scary Woman and look away. Except one.
He's maybe sixteen, pale of skin and dark of eye, fine boned and beautiful, long shiny dark brown curls halfway down his back. He looks a lot like a young Steve Harris.
He's staring at me.
I meet his eye, and neither of us looks away - so I cock an eyebrow and say "What?"
He waves his hand over his chest, and says in a heavy Italian accent:
"I love your shirt."
Aces High, in case you're wondering. Eddie leers at the world from my tits as well as my shoulders.
His mates are staring at him with wide eyes, and I stop, look at him, grin and approach. He stands his ground.
"You think that's good," I say, and drop the jacket.
He grins at me, and examines my ink with delight. I tell him that they're all across my back too, but that although he's cute he isn't cute enough for me to strip off in the middle of a service station. He laughs, I wish him a safe journey and off I go.
His friends are staring at him with something approaching awe, and I shake with laughter all the way back to the car.
But damn, he was cute. The expression on his face when I effectively cornered him was priceless - determined to stand his ground but so not sure that he'd made the right decision! Bless teenage Maiden fans.
Anyway, that kept me amused for another couple of hours. (I'd been going past junctions howling WHY ARE WE NOT AT NORTHAMPTON YET?! for the past two hours. The stop was in honour of not getting quite level with home and still having a long way to go. Bah.)
Long dull story short, got to Mandy's and the AA route map happily sent me the wrong way. Still, turned round, called her, found it - and the first thing I see is my favourite inhabitant of Rotherham waving at me from the pavement. She was in the door as soon as I opened it, hugging me and laughing.
There is nothing like an exuberant welcome when you're tired and a bit fried and fed up, and that's the truth.
Silke, Jaynie, Mandy, Sharon and Kerstin - pretty much the whole damn crew! Lotsa hugs and laughter as they brought me up to date with recent shenanigans - they'd been in Zurich and Dusseldorf to see the band and had a few stories to tell. Then time to freshen up and head out to see if we could find them at the hotel a few of the guys were staying at. Stalkers? Us?
Nah.
Honest.
Settling down into the bar, beer and conversation and much laughing. I swear, my face hurts when I hang out with that lot - says something good when you've got friends like that. Sav was on the other side of the bar with some friends; he ignored us and we ignored him. If the guy doesn't want to be hassled you can't blame him - and we're not the sorts to insist that our chosen guys pay attention to us, either.
Lots of crew about - said hi to Wolfie (Viv's tech) and much to my surprise got a smile and a hi back. Bless him.
Mind you, that might have had more to do with cleavage and ink than anything else, but we'll give him the benefit of the doubt - right?
Silke, Jaynie and I kept vanishing around the corner for a smoke (couldn't smoke in the main bar) and shortly after returning from such a trip got a very nice surprise - Phil joined us. the football was on the bar screen, so we chatted about that, the new album, who'd had the idea for the pictures on the album (Joe, if you were wondering) - and we took the piss a bit about the trousers that he's almost wearing in said photoshoot!
Then somebody (I suspect Mandy's husband Craig but I can't be sure) asked Phil if he wouldn't prefer to wax rather than shave his chest. Yes, he shaves his chest. No, I didn't mention razor rash. Anyway, he said no cos that hurts - and in the subsequent chatter told me (in all seriousness) that he only shaved his chest, it wasn't like he shaved his balls or anything....
Cue sound of Andy sputtering and searching for something to say!
When Silke said she preferred a smooth chest because otherwise the hairs get stuck in your teeth I was really flapping. Assured Phil that I'd been trying so hard not to lower the tone, which at least made him laugh - oops, guess he knows me too well! Still, when on the subject of pain we had a nice long chat about tattoos, what bits hurt worse, why....good job I've been paying attention to Jon's technical discussions on the subject. Nothing beats talking to one of your favourite rockstars about a subject you're enthusiastic about and he's interested in - when he's in the chair next to you and looking straight into your eyes.
*Shakes self*
Oh my goodness yes.
Anyway, he went off to bed and Silke and I decided to go and buy Vivian a beer. Liz, one of the missing contingent (and sore missed indeed) hadn't been able to fly at the last minute and had asked us to buy Viv a beer from her. So, Silke and I feeling terribly brave, went up and asked him if he wanted one. Yes please, and while she ordered I chatted to Viv and another one of his techs, a very affable Irishman.
The beers were poured, and Silke tried to pay for them - which is when it all started to go horribly wrong.
"What's your room number?" asked the barman.
Er.
Being after 11pm, the hotel policy was to stop selling drinks to non residents. Not stop serving them, you understand, just not let any non residents actually buy a beer.
Problem. Vivian's watching us approach panic with amusement.
None of us have Phil's room number, and we wouldn't have used it even if we had - jesus, you don't get one rockstar to buy another a beer and then say it's from you, do you?
Panic.
Embarrassment.
The tech is in stitches.
The rest of the crew in the bar are sniggering.
Silke and I... are wishing the floor would open up and swallow us.
Vivian, may he be forever blessed, came to our rescue. And bought the beer. And wouldn't let Silke give him the cash to repay him.....
We thanked him as profusely as we could then slunk back to the table, wanting to do nothing more than hide under the damn thing! Of course, by this time everyone's incapacitated with laughter - and I don't blame them, but holy shit - talk about feeling small.
So off we went, everyone else still highly amused but Silke and I's tails still firmly between our legs. I so owe that dear man a beer - when, that is, we get to run him to ground in a bar not so damn sticky about its rules!
Incidentally, a certain Rick Allen came down to the bar as well, said hi; I tell you, he's looking fantastic at the moment, fit, tanned and happy. Relaxed and affable, it's a distinct joy to see him looking so well. He was his usual charming self, and seems to have quit smoking; I think they all have.
So we headed back to Mandy's via a convenient takeaway, ate, talked, then collapsed into bed - although it wasn't an early start, it had been a bloody long day for all of us. The plan for the morrow was to get in the queue and....well, wait.
So with visions of smiling irishmen and laughing blue eyes in my head, I fell asleep between one breath and the next.
Stay tuned for Saturday's tale of disabled toilets, sunburn, and a guitarist with the strangest makeup job ever...!