Sticky Fingers Tour Diary: Part Two

30 May 2014 | 3:17 pm | Sticky Fingers

Internal head-butts and breaking-up kid fights - it's the UK, Sticky Fingers style!

“This might sting a bit.” The doc jams a needle in my face as big as a German sausage. She wasn't lying about the nip, though only a moment later my entire head is numb and watching my lip being stitched back together a real laugh! An hour earlier we're in a pie shop, Bristol. The band's all risen from golden slumbers still totally drunk. I don't wanna get into specifics on this one as none of it really matters. But basically, Dylan ordered a pint of cider to have with his pie. I say “no more drink, we gotta play good tonight”. The unstoppable force clashes with the unmovable rock (I'll let you decide who's who), I give Dylan a good head-butt, and next thing, my lips busted wide open. Two cops walk into the joint. They see all the blood on the floor, literally step over it, and order their meals. It really bothers me that we'll never know whether they thought my blood was tomato sauce, or if they were actually just too hungry to deal with us.

We don't know where his shirt ends or begins.


Seamus: Nice to be in the UK aye. Can already feel the difference.

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Me: The fuck do you mean? Eating Maccas on a highway? Story of our lives mate.


Things have been tense but there's also been enough highs to level it out. The night we sold out the Garage in London a good example. The vibe that night was mega. This is Arsenal town. It's extra time and they kick the goal that's won them the FA CUP. The entire town goes absolutely nuts and we get to play a gig right in the thick of it. Tops! One stage during the night, and against local advice, we saunter into some kinda hooligan haunt. I'm near immediately grabbed by a skinhead type lad who pulls me right up the bar. “We've done it mate!” he yells in my ear, and pushes a pint in me chest. A blink of an eye and I'm in a big rowdy circle of the lads belting some kind of Arsenal chant. “Come on mate you know the words!”. “Fuck it”, I think, “we've had a win tonight too”. The melody turns out simple enough to slur my words along and get away with the fact I know nothing about football.


Next morning we're driving off and a bunch a ten-year-old kids come flooding out onto the road. One of 'em's beating the hell out of another. I've never seen kids this young fight like this. Dylan & I jump out the van and break it up.

Me: Oi! Oi! Oi! What's going on here?

Bully: His mum's a slut she is.

Other kid: No! He just finks he can bully everyone 'cuz he's bigger than everyone!

Bully kid slips around Dylan and goes for another hit. I manage to get between them.

Bully: See my trainers? Fresh as mate. Look at your filthy old things. Your mum is poor.

Drunk Dylan: Oi! Oi! Oi! It didn't matter who's a poor and da' if yer rich n' that's we all here and same know'I'msayin'?

Me: … Where's home dude?

Other kid: I'm never going home!

Bully: Hey you is 'dat band Sticky Fingers aren't you?

Another kid: You guys played here last night!

Me: Yeah was a good one. Oi, can you two shake hands and forget about it? I reckon you could just be mates.

The two shake on it, but the kid who got beaten up don't seem satisfied …

Drunk Dylan: Oi! Oi! Oi! I tell you what!? This motherfucker right here is the coolest motherfucker of them all. Take this and remember that.

Dylan takes off his filthy shirt warn the past three days, and hands it over to the kid. The kid's giving Dylan this look. And it's hard to tell whether he's got the message in total awe, or if he is simply totally freaked out and offended.

Clearly loving life.


The sun's coming up celebrating a successful debut in Cardiff. We've convinced Crabs to pop on some rollerblades Seamus found. He falls big time. Classic.


Liverpool was horrible. We played this gig opposite The Tavern, which is where The Beatles played before they became bigger than Christ. Liverpool? We didn't have so much luck. The gig just didn't gel. To top it off, there we're these leprechauns having a party in the vents of our hotel room. And no matter how much we told them to shut up, we simply could not interrupt their affairs. At least they had a good time.

You are owning that throne Dizza.


Now we're at the channel crossing in the UK on our way to Germany. The bloke who's checked the passports is suspect, and asks us to step out of the van to be searched. Dylan is passed out in the backseat. So out of it in fact, that it didn't matter how much we slapped and poured water on his face. He simply wouldn't wake up. In the end we had to drag him out. We are told the band is unfit to cross the channel and would be lucky if we even tried the next day. We pop back in the van, sneak it around to the freight vehicle crossing, and boom baby, we're off to Germany!