Sticky Fingers Tour Diary: Part One

It's our second time back here in France. And Ill tell you what, it's a luxurious occasion compared to the last. In 2013 it was more parks and petrol stations. This time it's all long baths and large meals. That being said, some things never change.

Dylan still doesn't quite understand the language barrier. Last trip we were trying to get a photo outside this pretty looking thing. An older lady is walking past.

Dylan: Excuse me could you take a photo?

The lady looks at him blankly and walks on.

Dylan: Fucking bitch.

Seamus: She's French mate, she doesn't understand you.

Dylan: Yeah, but still.

This trip, we're having it large at a bar in Pigalle, which is the music/sex district of Paris. Yeah ,we were pretty much magnetised here the moment we found a park.

Dylan to the waiter: Excuse me, round of drinks for the table.

Waiter: What?

Dylan: Round of drinks for the table Gee?

Waiter: *Silence*

The band laugh. The waiter does too, though unsure whether or not we are making fun of him. 

We're a little unsure of what could be in those cups...

I'm currently sitting on my bed in the market district of Villiers. The others are arguing in the other room, about whether or not Beaks was wanking in the shower this morning. I reckon we probably all did. After all, we've spent the past two days working on a film clip, with a crew made up almost entirely of highly attractive French women. We've been on tour for a long time now. All around Oz and halfway through Europe, this is by far the longest we've spent on the road together. Morale is holding strong. Though we have definitely been pushing the relationship with our health. I stayed sober for the shooting of the Paris clip. And ironically, this is what has made me fucking ill. Taking it as a sign and not going to touch another pint until the bridge crossing to the UK. Fang us another baguette. Actually, forget that, I think I'm dying.

5am in Metz. Beaks is kicked out of the nightclub for doing a strip-tease on the bar. For the third time. The bouncers throw him out on the street, somehow don't notice the bottle of whiskey in hand, which he knicked from the bar. The rest of the lads all topple out into the cobble road wilderness, all bent as hell. Our tour manager is fed up with dealing with us; as in interrupting his drinking time by getting thrown out of places. He addresses the group.

Jimmy: You cunts are fucked. I'm outta here.

Jimmy turns around and starts marching down the road with his arm around a woman. Ten metres down the road he's misjudged a turn and walks full speed into a building. Not a pole. Not a sign. A fucking building.

Shit's about to go down, Sangria style!

Our first night out in Paris was top. Shared a beer with Jim Morrison at Pere` Lachaise (stereotypical, but mad all the same). Champagne sunset at the only rooftop bar in Paris and ended up getting invited to a rave party deep inside the tunnel of an abandoned train track. Literally had a bag of laughs railing on the rails, following the lights and music through the dark. Half an hour into our arrival, Beaks levitates over towards me and Seamus. He has an announcement to make.

Beaks: I've lost the bag.

Me: Where

Beaks: Dunno.

Seamus: (grabbing Beaks by the scruff of his shirt) Let's go.

So we're back wandering through the black tunnel. Though not as fun moving away from the party and the people. I turn on the light in my phone and shine on the rails as we stumble through. 

Me: Fucking hell, there's white dust all over these rails. Do ya reckon others had the same idea coming up?

Beaks: Nah man, I think it's just white dust from all these stones. See?

Me: The gear could be any of this shit. This'll take hours. Should we-

Seamus: Beaker, get on your knees and check this shit out. This is your fault.

Beaks: (five minutes later) Man I can't do this anymore, this is fucked! You have a go.

Another five minutes pass stumbling through the dark. Punishing our noses, testing the rails, to find our flavour. Seamus suddenly perks up.

Seamus: Oh wait, it's in my pocket.

About to sneeze or looking to the higher power for answers?

The following night is the Paris show. It's worked. The joint is packed out, and we've managed to get the French to dance. A mean feat. We celebrate, Drinks. Spliffs. More drinks. I'm exhausted tonight. I say my goodbyes and make it back the first to check in our hotel.

Me: Bonsoir monsieur, I have a reservation for tonight, s'il vous plaît?

(Grumpy reception) Dude: Oui. Name?

Me: Cornwall.

Dude: (typing …) No Cornwall.

Me: Frost?

Dude: No.

Me: Coyle?

Dude: No.

Me: Um-

Dude: No. No reservation tonight.

Me: (a little agitated now, mixing with the whiskey) Hey listen man, I'm staying here tonight. There's a reservation down for six people right?

Dude: No. Only one reservation left tonight. For seven.

Me: Yeah man that's the one

Dude: For seven. Not six.

Me: Yeah well it's a mistake. What name's it under?

Dude: Is French name.

Me: Yeah that'd be our French booking agent's name.

Dude: What is it?

Me: We only just signed the deal man, I got no idea.

Dude: Call him.

Me: I haven't got a phone.

Dude: I'm sorry I cannot help you.

Me: Can I use yours please?

Dude: (coming around the counter and gesturing outside). Sir, please leave.

That's not a Smirnoff - THIS is a Smirnoff!

We stare at each other in silence for a good ten seconds. There's a bunch of Americans sitting at the lounge talking to friends back home, but by this point they've dropped their iPads for the action.

Me: Mate, I'm staying here tonight, can you just let me in.

Dude: I am sorry sir, I do not believe you.

As we continue to stare at each other in silence I realise he isn't going to budge. I stick my middle finger up a millimetre away his nose and say, “Hey Dude, fuck you!”. He immediately snaps, grabs me, and starts pushing me out the front door. I instinctively swing a clip on his chin and next thing I'm out in the rain again. I catch a glimpse of myself in a cab window going by. Unshaven, long green trench coat, fingerless gloves, filthy cream coloured bucket hat. I don't blame the Dude for not believing me.

I have a new rush of energy following my little conflict. And head back and party with the lads. Hours later we all stumble back in to the same hotel reception. Blind. He scans the wobbly eyed group, decided he can't be arsed with it, hands over the key, and up we go! The story of our lives really.

All in all our time in France has been fantastic. These nights feel a lot like when we first started touring Australia; not massive, but there's a sweet cult fan base in the works, it's growing. Great response from the new tunes too. All we gotta do is keep smashing 'em, next thing we're having it large!

'Till next time France!

Words by Paddy Fingers