Hello, have you missed me?
Sep. 3rd, 2005 05:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mad_andyGood lord, has it only been two days since I last made an entry?
Wow. Feels like longer.
Anyhoo.
Ha. We dropped the dog off at Annabelle's - he got so excited at going somewhere new that he bounced around the back seat, tangled himself up in his car harness and seatbelt so that, when the back door was opened, he fell out and hung there, upside down, wagging his tail - and managed to sneak off before he really knew we were gone.
Well, the journey went well enough, and we arrived in London. We thought we'd head off to Camden, off to the fabled Goth/Rock markets, and see what we could find.
Which was fuck all, actually. Why is it assumed that girls with enough flesh to sculpt won't want to do so, huh? Bastards.
Anyway, we had a nice mooch around the markets anyway. Then we headed off back into town, wandering along Oxford Street for a bit whereupon we came across the Boot Store...
Now, this is one of those hole-in-the-wall shops you get along Oxford Street. Most of them sell touristy tat, but you get the odd gem. The Boot Store has been there for years but is now closing down; under the word 'sale' we saw a range of New Rock boots to die for. We've been looking and admiring (OK, drooling) at this range ever since we first saw them at Donington three years ago. The salesman must have picked this up, because he was on us like a rat up a drainpipe. Several tryings on and stomping up and down the shop later he said he would make us a deal because he liked us so much. (Yeah, whatever...)
So we both bought a pair of boots. This is what mine look like:
His are very similar, but silver. Anyway.
Back to the hotel and met up with Caz. Super lady, we got along famously and headed off to hunt for more corsets in Soho. She said she didn't mind and seemed like a broad minded lady, so into the sex shops we went...
Still didn't find any corsets, but found lots and lots of other stuff!!!
Went for a pizza, met up with Clarkey (another IMBB-er), back to the hotel and bed. Slept badly.
In line for 8am. We were second - there was another lad there that had been there since 6!
Great day. Hanging out with lots of other mad Maiden fans whose idea of a good time is lurking outside a venue in order to get that coveted barrier place...
Hammersmith, as usual, cocked it up letting people in. I got my place more by luck than judgement; well, that and having a brick outhouse saving a spot for me. I'll confess, my temper slipped on the way in; a female attendant told me to slow down down and I told her to shove it up her arse. Rather loudly. Anyway, shaking with anger I got to the barrier only to be confronted by a very angry little man in a Showsec supervisors outfit - who informed me that unless I apologised to this girl I would be thrown out.
I admit, for a split second I thought about telling him to fuck off and letting them do it. Slay says he was getting ready to deck the bloke, as he saw the flash in my eye and was prepared to wade in. If I had told him to stuff it he would have grabbed me, and a fight would have broken out; don't push me too far, cos I come over all teeth and claws and I don't give a shit how big you are, if I go down you're coming with me...
Anyway, what stopped me was two things. One, he offered to hold my spot on the barrier while I apologised, and two, I realised he was shaking. He was shit scared of me...
I went and apologised. Apparently I'd frightened the girl (although she did say I was actually a much nicer person than I'd first appeared!).
Of course, if the front door staff hadn't been so fucking stupid I wouldn't have been so wound up. I got back, duty done, and the little man fucked off. Slay was vastly amused; he'd loomed over the little weasel and informed him in no uncertain terms why I'd been so furious. Weaselboy seemed to think I was with the little teenagers rather than the hairy mutant hanging over his head, baring his teeth in an approximation of a friendly expression. He looked like he was relieved to be away from us.
Anyway, normal barrier bollocks; the twits and whiners backed off, leaving the hardcore. Fine.
The support bands weren't bad; Nicko was compere, which was absolutely brilliant. He grinned at the crowd and said:
"I've always wanted to do this. SCREAM FOR ME HAMMERSMIFFFFFF!!!"
My goodness, but you could feel the floor shake with the force of the reply...
First up were Voodoo Six. Pretty good band, enthusiastic old school with a manic drummer (friend of Nicko's), awfully young looking vocalist (lots of Zeppelin-esque shape throwing), one quiet and one flash guitarist and a very bold bassist. No shrinking violet by the drums, this. He spent a lot of time right in front of me...
...looking right over my head at the jailbait behind me. Dirty old goat, he looked to be Maiden vintage at least. I got a few simultaneous headbangs, though; he at least recognised that I was getting into the music. (He also like the young lads next to me, pervert.) The quiet guitarist made up for it, though; I got several very nice smiles and winks from him. At least he appreciated someone that liked the music. *Sigh*
More Nicko (I love that bloke to bits) and a bit more screaming-for-me-Hammersmiff and then we had Pig Iron. Musically, they knocked Voodoo Six into a cocked hat; however, they weren't nearly as flash when it came to stage presence. Awesome blend of - how to describe it? - Irish Southern Cowboy Rock? Something like that. Fucking awesome stuff but the band ignored the crowd, on the whole. Their guitarist was Dave (somebody or other!) who was the man on the camera for BruceAir... member of Maiden's crew. Anyway.
It was nice to see Nicko, H and Steve watching the support bands from the side of the stage; what was even nicer was that every time a photographer tried to take pics of them watching, they edged behind a bit of set - presumably so as not to steal the other band's thunder. Very gentlemanly.
Bit more shoving, bit of a surge and wallop! Maiden hit the stage at a dead run.
Fuck me... I can't describe it, so I'm not even going to try right now. Suffice it to say that they were as incredible as ever! I got a nod and a smile from Harry (oh those eyes...), a grin and a wink from Davey and a nod from H. The crowd was tight, sweaty and happy and all seemed well...
For a while. Three songs in and things were getting silly house right, stage left. A large-ish group of pissed up blokes - having, I would imagine, spent the support act's sets in the bar - decided that they were going to get to the front come hell or high water. Never mind the fact that I didn't see anyone under six foot, and that they would therefore get a damn good view wherever they stood; no, they wanted barrier and by gum they were getting it. By force.
Tighter and tighter, hotter and hotter. I couldn't sing, because I could hardly breathe. I couldn't even lift my arm, as my shoulders were being forced inward so hard I could feel my collarbone bend. Hotter. Couldn't stretch my arm out to take a cup of water. Hotter still. Now they were climbing all over us, using their weight to crush everyone out of the way. My legs went numb. Time to escape...
Now, don't get me wrong. The barrier is no place for the faint hearted. I've been doing it for a long time.
It gets hot and sweaty, you get bruised and bumped and breathless. By all means lean on me, rest your arms on my shoulders 'cos you can't lower them, because I can ruck with the best when I have to. But violence? Deliberately using your weight and height to intimidate and terrorise until you get what you want? It wasn't that bad front-and-centre of the barrier for Saxon. I've been in bigger crowds and suffered some pretty impressing bruising, cracked a rib or two, cursed out piss takers and sweated buckets, but this?
I managed to wriggle my hand down to grab my jacket - easy enough, as my legs were having trouble holding me. Slay had seen this, and was trying to get behind me to protect me from these arseholes but he couldn't. I was carrying too much weight on my back and shoulders, and I had to get out before I fell down.
I have never been afraid for my own safety at a metal gig before. But I was beginning to think that if i went down, these bastards would surge over me and I'd never be seen again...
It's happened before. 1988, Donington...
Slay managed to lift me half way over, and the security guys grabbed me and pulled. The fuckers behind me surged, and my last clear memory is of my kneecaps on the barrier, front half being pulled and boots trapped by the bodies coming to take the space, forcing my lower legs down.
I remember it hurting, and I remember screeching and twisting, trying to pull my legs out. And then everything goes a bit hazy.
By all accounts i stumbled along the stage and out, assuring the medic there that I was OK. I remember that I planned to lean on the wall for a bit, get my breath back and then move in, get maybe five or six rows back so I could see and be behind the twats.
It never happened, because that must be when I collapsed. My next faint recollection is of someone handing me a bottle of water, and me being unable to uncap it. After that there's only an image of being flat on the ground on my side, mouth open, panting, trying to reach out to tug on the hem of somebody's jeans because I needed help. I don't even know if I managed it, but I do know that the carpet of the Carling Hammersmith Apollo tastes fucking rank.
Anyway, it's a blank after that, so I've had to put the rest together from what I've been told.
Slay hadn't been allowed to follow me over the barrier, so he was frantically searching for me. Security told him I was fine, and had told the medic I was OK and walked off. By the time he found me, I have no idea how long I'd been there but security were bent over me and I was, basically, out of it. Unresponsive.
One of the larger security guys got me on my feet - sort of, Slay had hold of my belt - and off we went across the front of the stage, as the brain surgeons employed by Showsec had sent me to the opposite side from First Aid. Slay says that although I didn't recognise anyone (even him) and wasn't answering to my name, I tried to say no when they told me I had to get dragged back in front of the stage! I guess I didn't want anyone to see me in such a state.
As we made our merry way across between crowd and band, head hanging, feet dragging, Slay says he caught sight of one of the band - foot on monitor - leaning over with a concerned look on his face. Presumably - as his only impression was a flash of blonde hair - it was either Dave or Janick - whichever, it's nice to think that someone in the band noticed. And maybe had a concerned moment, however fleeting...
Well, from what I've been told I was a mess when they got me to first aid. Racing, thready heartbeat, white as a sheet, roaring temperature, no - or very, very little - pupillary response to light, no response to questions, trembling. To use the technical terms, hyperthermic, tachycardic, dehydrated and rapidly going into shock.
Slay gave them all my details; no, I hadn't been drinking alcohol, no, I wasn't using anything illegal, yes I had been drinking and eating through the day...
They turned a fan on me to cool me down (somebody had been throwing water over me, so combined with the sweat I was dripping wet), and things begin to come back a bit. A few sips of water forced down me and questions, questions. The first thing I remember is voices, and wanting them to go away and let me sleep. What wasn't numb hurt like a mofo, and being unconscious or, preferably, dead sounded like a cracking prospect to me.
Nope, more fluids shoved down and I was dragged into a sitting position. The medic tried to explain to me what was going on with my system, and I suppose it wasn't very polite to interrupt him and use every long word I could lay my brain on but I was feeling like shit and could hear that I was missing the gig. Not a lot I could do about it, and I wanted to cry. And drop dead. Not, you understand, necessarily in that order, either.
Anyway, they told me that they had no oral glucose - which is what my body needed to stop my central nervous system doing the funky fucking chicken - only intravenous. And if they stuck a catheter in my vein then hey ho, off to hospital, do not pass go and do not collect £200. I just stretched my arm out, past caring at that point. Slay, as humble as I've seen him, asked the guy if lucozade would be OK. It's a glucose energy drink, and I had half of that forced down me before I could speak.
"Is there," I croaked, "glucose in semen?"
The medic looked startled, and Slay frowned.
"I don't think so," said my dear husband, expression rather wary.
"Oh," I said, "'cos if there is, you can send Steve Harris round here and I'll be up and around in a jiffy."
The medic blinked at me and turned to my chortling husband.
"She's feeling better," he said.
Anyway, the gig ended and after a little rest I was fine, if a bit wobbly and weak. We made our way down into the emptying auditorium and I got to say goodbye to the guys; we were going to try and buy merchandise but the crowd was still thick and the temperature high...
So we went back to the hotel at a slow stroll, taking frequent sips of bloody lucozade and just generally taking it steady. Up in the room I got my first sight of myself in the mirror and was horrified. Paper white, hollow eyed... fucking awful. I know I stood for a couple of pics with the girls at the end (well, the girls and Frank) and I dread to think what I look like in those!
It was sad saying goodbye to Caz this morning; she's a lovely lady, and was a lot of fun to hang out with. They all were... so now it's back to waiting for the next gig, and trying not to be angry about the idiots that spoiled what should have been the gig of a lifetime for me.
Still...
You seen my new boots? ;-)
Wow. Feels like longer.
Anyhoo.
Ha. We dropped the dog off at Annabelle's - he got so excited at going somewhere new that he bounced around the back seat, tangled himself up in his car harness and seatbelt so that, when the back door was opened, he fell out and hung there, upside down, wagging his tail - and managed to sneak off before he really knew we were gone.
Well, the journey went well enough, and we arrived in London. We thought we'd head off to Camden, off to the fabled Goth/Rock markets, and see what we could find.
Which was fuck all, actually. Why is it assumed that girls with enough flesh to sculpt won't want to do so, huh? Bastards.
Anyway, we had a nice mooch around the markets anyway. Then we headed off back into town, wandering along Oxford Street for a bit whereupon we came across the Boot Store...
Now, this is one of those hole-in-the-wall shops you get along Oxford Street. Most of them sell touristy tat, but you get the odd gem. The Boot Store has been there for years but is now closing down; under the word 'sale' we saw a range of New Rock boots to die for. We've been looking and admiring (OK, drooling) at this range ever since we first saw them at Donington three years ago. The salesman must have picked this up, because he was on us like a rat up a drainpipe. Several tryings on and stomping up and down the shop later he said he would make us a deal because he liked us so much. (Yeah, whatever...)
So we both bought a pair of boots. This is what mine look like:
His are very similar, but silver. Anyway.
Back to the hotel and met up with Caz. Super lady, we got along famously and headed off to hunt for more corsets in Soho. She said she didn't mind and seemed like a broad minded lady, so into the sex shops we went...
Still didn't find any corsets, but found lots and lots of other stuff!!!
Went for a pizza, met up with Clarkey (another IMBB-er), back to the hotel and bed. Slept badly.
In line for 8am. We were second - there was another lad there that had been there since 6!
Great day. Hanging out with lots of other mad Maiden fans whose idea of a good time is lurking outside a venue in order to get that coveted barrier place...
Hammersmith, as usual, cocked it up letting people in. I got my place more by luck than judgement; well, that and having a brick outhouse saving a spot for me. I'll confess, my temper slipped on the way in; a female attendant told me to slow down down and I told her to shove it up her arse. Rather loudly. Anyway, shaking with anger I got to the barrier only to be confronted by a very angry little man in a Showsec supervisors outfit - who informed me that unless I apologised to this girl I would be thrown out.
I admit, for a split second I thought about telling him to fuck off and letting them do it. Slay says he was getting ready to deck the bloke, as he saw the flash in my eye and was prepared to wade in. If I had told him to stuff it he would have grabbed me, and a fight would have broken out; don't push me too far, cos I come over all teeth and claws and I don't give a shit how big you are, if I go down you're coming with me...
Anyway, what stopped me was two things. One, he offered to hold my spot on the barrier while I apologised, and two, I realised he was shaking. He was shit scared of me...
I went and apologised. Apparently I'd frightened the girl (although she did say I was actually a much nicer person than I'd first appeared!).
Of course, if the front door staff hadn't been so fucking stupid I wouldn't have been so wound up. I got back, duty done, and the little man fucked off. Slay was vastly amused; he'd loomed over the little weasel and informed him in no uncertain terms why I'd been so furious. Weaselboy seemed to think I was with the little teenagers rather than the hairy mutant hanging over his head, baring his teeth in an approximation of a friendly expression. He looked like he was relieved to be away from us.
Anyway, normal barrier bollocks; the twits and whiners backed off, leaving the hardcore. Fine.
The support bands weren't bad; Nicko was compere, which was absolutely brilliant. He grinned at the crowd and said:
"I've always wanted to do this. SCREAM FOR ME HAMMERSMIFFFFFF!!!"
My goodness, but you could feel the floor shake with the force of the reply...
First up were Voodoo Six. Pretty good band, enthusiastic old school with a manic drummer (friend of Nicko's), awfully young looking vocalist (lots of Zeppelin-esque shape throwing), one quiet and one flash guitarist and a very bold bassist. No shrinking violet by the drums, this. He spent a lot of time right in front of me...
...looking right over my head at the jailbait behind me. Dirty old goat, he looked to be Maiden vintage at least. I got a few simultaneous headbangs, though; he at least recognised that I was getting into the music. (He also like the young lads next to me, pervert.) The quiet guitarist made up for it, though; I got several very nice smiles and winks from him. At least he appreciated someone that liked the music. *Sigh*
More Nicko (I love that bloke to bits) and a bit more screaming-for-me-Hammersmiff and then we had Pig Iron. Musically, they knocked Voodoo Six into a cocked hat; however, they weren't nearly as flash when it came to stage presence. Awesome blend of - how to describe it? - Irish Southern Cowboy Rock? Something like that. Fucking awesome stuff but the band ignored the crowd, on the whole. Their guitarist was Dave (somebody or other!) who was the man on the camera for BruceAir... member of Maiden's crew. Anyway.
It was nice to see Nicko, H and Steve watching the support bands from the side of the stage; what was even nicer was that every time a photographer tried to take pics of them watching, they edged behind a bit of set - presumably so as not to steal the other band's thunder. Very gentlemanly.
Bit more shoving, bit of a surge and wallop! Maiden hit the stage at a dead run.
Fuck me... I can't describe it, so I'm not even going to try right now. Suffice it to say that they were as incredible as ever! I got a nod and a smile from Harry (oh those eyes...), a grin and a wink from Davey and a nod from H. The crowd was tight, sweaty and happy and all seemed well...
For a while. Three songs in and things were getting silly house right, stage left. A large-ish group of pissed up blokes - having, I would imagine, spent the support act's sets in the bar - decided that they were going to get to the front come hell or high water. Never mind the fact that I didn't see anyone under six foot, and that they would therefore get a damn good view wherever they stood; no, they wanted barrier and by gum they were getting it. By force.
Tighter and tighter, hotter and hotter. I couldn't sing, because I could hardly breathe. I couldn't even lift my arm, as my shoulders were being forced inward so hard I could feel my collarbone bend. Hotter. Couldn't stretch my arm out to take a cup of water. Hotter still. Now they were climbing all over us, using their weight to crush everyone out of the way. My legs went numb. Time to escape...
Now, don't get me wrong. The barrier is no place for the faint hearted. I've been doing it for a long time.
It gets hot and sweaty, you get bruised and bumped and breathless. By all means lean on me, rest your arms on my shoulders 'cos you can't lower them, because I can ruck with the best when I have to. But violence? Deliberately using your weight and height to intimidate and terrorise until you get what you want? It wasn't that bad front-and-centre of the barrier for Saxon. I've been in bigger crowds and suffered some pretty impressing bruising, cracked a rib or two, cursed out piss takers and sweated buckets, but this?
I managed to wriggle my hand down to grab my jacket - easy enough, as my legs were having trouble holding me. Slay had seen this, and was trying to get behind me to protect me from these arseholes but he couldn't. I was carrying too much weight on my back and shoulders, and I had to get out before I fell down.
I have never been afraid for my own safety at a metal gig before. But I was beginning to think that if i went down, these bastards would surge over me and I'd never be seen again...
It's happened before. 1988, Donington...
Slay managed to lift me half way over, and the security guys grabbed me and pulled. The fuckers behind me surged, and my last clear memory is of my kneecaps on the barrier, front half being pulled and boots trapped by the bodies coming to take the space, forcing my lower legs down.
I remember it hurting, and I remember screeching and twisting, trying to pull my legs out. And then everything goes a bit hazy.
By all accounts i stumbled along the stage and out, assuring the medic there that I was OK. I remember that I planned to lean on the wall for a bit, get my breath back and then move in, get maybe five or six rows back so I could see and be behind the twats.
It never happened, because that must be when I collapsed. My next faint recollection is of someone handing me a bottle of water, and me being unable to uncap it. After that there's only an image of being flat on the ground on my side, mouth open, panting, trying to reach out to tug on the hem of somebody's jeans because I needed help. I don't even know if I managed it, but I do know that the carpet of the Carling Hammersmith Apollo tastes fucking rank.
Anyway, it's a blank after that, so I've had to put the rest together from what I've been told.
Slay hadn't been allowed to follow me over the barrier, so he was frantically searching for me. Security told him I was fine, and had told the medic I was OK and walked off. By the time he found me, I have no idea how long I'd been there but security were bent over me and I was, basically, out of it. Unresponsive.
One of the larger security guys got me on my feet - sort of, Slay had hold of my belt - and off we went across the front of the stage, as the brain surgeons employed by Showsec had sent me to the opposite side from First Aid. Slay says that although I didn't recognise anyone (even him) and wasn't answering to my name, I tried to say no when they told me I had to get dragged back in front of the stage! I guess I didn't want anyone to see me in such a state.
As we made our merry way across between crowd and band, head hanging, feet dragging, Slay says he caught sight of one of the band - foot on monitor - leaning over with a concerned look on his face. Presumably - as his only impression was a flash of blonde hair - it was either Dave or Janick - whichever, it's nice to think that someone in the band noticed. And maybe had a concerned moment, however fleeting...
Well, from what I've been told I was a mess when they got me to first aid. Racing, thready heartbeat, white as a sheet, roaring temperature, no - or very, very little - pupillary response to light, no response to questions, trembling. To use the technical terms, hyperthermic, tachycardic, dehydrated and rapidly going into shock.
Slay gave them all my details; no, I hadn't been drinking alcohol, no, I wasn't using anything illegal, yes I had been drinking and eating through the day...
They turned a fan on me to cool me down (somebody had been throwing water over me, so combined with the sweat I was dripping wet), and things begin to come back a bit. A few sips of water forced down me and questions, questions. The first thing I remember is voices, and wanting them to go away and let me sleep. What wasn't numb hurt like a mofo, and being unconscious or, preferably, dead sounded like a cracking prospect to me.
Nope, more fluids shoved down and I was dragged into a sitting position. The medic tried to explain to me what was going on with my system, and I suppose it wasn't very polite to interrupt him and use every long word I could lay my brain on but I was feeling like shit and could hear that I was missing the gig. Not a lot I could do about it, and I wanted to cry. And drop dead. Not, you understand, necessarily in that order, either.
Anyway, they told me that they had no oral glucose - which is what my body needed to stop my central nervous system doing the funky fucking chicken - only intravenous. And if they stuck a catheter in my vein then hey ho, off to hospital, do not pass go and do not collect £200. I just stretched my arm out, past caring at that point. Slay, as humble as I've seen him, asked the guy if lucozade would be OK. It's a glucose energy drink, and I had half of that forced down me before I could speak.
"Is there," I croaked, "glucose in semen?"
The medic looked startled, and Slay frowned.
"I don't think so," said my dear husband, expression rather wary.
"Oh," I said, "'cos if there is, you can send Steve Harris round here and I'll be up and around in a jiffy."
The medic blinked at me and turned to my chortling husband.
"She's feeling better," he said.
Anyway, the gig ended and after a little rest I was fine, if a bit wobbly and weak. We made our way down into the emptying auditorium and I got to say goodbye to the guys; we were going to try and buy merchandise but the crowd was still thick and the temperature high...
So we went back to the hotel at a slow stroll, taking frequent sips of bloody lucozade and just generally taking it steady. Up in the room I got my first sight of myself in the mirror and was horrified. Paper white, hollow eyed... fucking awful. I know I stood for a couple of pics with the girls at the end (well, the girls and Frank) and I dread to think what I look like in those!
It was sad saying goodbye to Caz this morning; she's a lovely lady, and was a lot of fun to hang out with. They all were... so now it's back to waiting for the next gig, and trying not to be angry about the idiots that spoiled what should have been the gig of a lifetime for me.
Still...
You seen my new boots? ;-)
