Fast Forward by Stephen Morris

Author:Stephen Morris [Morris, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

William Blake’s Nebuchadnezzar

Gillian awoke with a sleepy ‘What time is it?’

Now too weak to even crawl, I collapsed in a heap on the itchy hotel-room carpet and groaned, ‘Ill!’ and puked again.

Gillian tutted. A bit unsympathetically, I thought.

The next three days were back-to-back gigs and, as everybody knows, the show must go on.

Likewise the bedroom lights, which seared my eyes that were still doing their best to remain closed.

‘You don’t look well,’ was Gillian’s analysis.

But being a trouper I managed to get dressed in haphazard slow motion, stuff whatever was lying on the floor into a bag and, on the second or third attempt, stagger dragging two suitcases out into the dazzling corridor.

I stumbled into Bernard.

‘Fucking hell, Steve, you look a bit shit.’

‘I know. I’ve told him,’ said Gillian, as though I hadn’t noticed.

Bernard giggled. ‘You look like Rock fucking Hudson.’ Comparing me to a Hollywood heart-throb might have sounded like a compliment, but he had recently died of Aids.

I collapsed on to the bags and groaned weakly.

I really couldn’t move and felt like I’d been hit by a runaway steamroller.

‘Go back to bed for a bit, you might feel a bit better,’ was Doctor Bernard’s sympathetic advice.

It must have been bad for Bernard was not normally given to such displays of sympathy.

I felt the reaper’s dry hand on my shoulder.

‘Wwwooooaghkayyyy.’ I resumed crawling.

‘I think we’d better call a doctor . . .’

Rob summoned a French physician and I was inspected and prodded while Rob and Gillian looked on. The medico eyed me with suspicion. I was whiter than the sheets I was lying on.

‘He has eaten poison. Rest . . . don’t move.’

‘He’s got a gig to do. Can’t you just give him something?’ Rob asked like I was a pit pony gone lame.

The doctor shrugged and shook his head. ‘Non. Rest. Don’t move, absolutment.’

He did some scribbling on a piece of paper. Rob, expecting amiracle-cure prescription, brightened.

‘My bill.’

Rob got his wallet out. ‘Er, does this include service?’ He tried to work out what a GP’s tip might be.

‘Have a cig, Steve, you’ll feel better, go on. I’ll have one.’

‘Uurgh.’

Lunchtime had been and gone and the hotel were keen to see the back of us. We were already late and the next gig was in Rennes, a four-hour drive away. The cig didn’t help.

But on the show must go.

I wondered if Abba had been inspired to write ‘Super Trouper’ by a similar experience.

Our transportation for this tour de France was Rob’s recently acquired Audi Quattro – a production version of Ingolstadt’s fastest rally car. ‘Vorsprung Durch Technik’ built for speed not comfort. I was bundled into the back seat, wedged between the door, Gillian and Rob, a case on my knee and a plastic bag and bottle of water to deal with any unwanted eruptions. With Hooky at the wheel, the nightmare terror drive commenced.

The Quattro had a top speed of 135 mph. Hooky seemed to think that was the only speed it was capable of. There was much heavy braking accompanied by lurching, screaming, groaning and ‘spillage’ from the back seat.

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