Free Dancing in the Darkness by Frankie Poullain Page B

headed to our rooms as night wore on, leaving Justin and Ed alone together.
    Early the next morning, I was rudely awakened by a furious German hotel manager. After hammering on the door, he barged in, scanned the contents of my room and barked, ‘THE OTHER ONES ARE DESTROYED!’ Then he slammed the door shut and bolted off again. I scratched my head in puzzlement and went back to sleep beforelater knitting the story together from the horse’s mouth (in this case, Ed and Justin).
    Apparently, the bar manager had become nervous about insubordinate English rockers keeping the precious national football team awake. ‘You must keep the noise down, we have the German players here and they must have peace,’ he urged, on more than one occasion. Considering that our band had booked out the best suites in the hotel and spent good money in that bar, Justin and Ed felt more than a little put out at his attitude.
    Eventually, he stopped serving them altogether and the pair headed upstairs intent on retribution. First they trashed Justin’s palatial suite – after obliterating the furnishings, they sabotaged the air-con and wedged plants in the mini-bar. Then they staggered next door and ‘Keith Mooned’ Ed’s suite into the bargain, before collapsing into bed, resentment spent.
    And that was how the manager found them the next morning, blissfully slumbering like babes in the wood. It was certainly amusing on a technical level – an angry German hotel manager is practically a Wikipedia definition of British comedy gold – Basil Fawlty meets ’Allo ’Allo! .
    I stumbled upon the warring factions inreception, trading insults with each other over a €30,000 bill for damages. The police would be called in unless the full amount was paid up there and then. Justin and Ed were still inebriated and slurring their words so badly that the manager might as well have invoiced a herd of wild elephants. Some of the German football squad looked on, doubtless remembering just how dangerous drunken English hooligans can be and keeping a safe distance.
    As I headed for the tour bus, leaving our tour manager Moz to sort the mess out, I was stopped by a smiling fräulein and her golden-haired twin daughters, around seven years old (perhaps they thought I was one of their footballers?). ‘You vill sign this poster [I was relieved to see it was a picture of our band and not the 2004 German European Championship squad] for the girls and please you vill tell me where the others are.’ They looked so innocent and unknowing. What a contrast. ‘They pay the bill now,’ I enunciated slowly, trying to talk as I patronisingly imagined a German person would. ‘Then they sign for you, I am sure.’ I heard the police sirens first and then smiled to myself at the sheer poetry of it all.

How To Present An Award To A Band You Don’t Like
    I t was more than a little surprising to receive an invitation to attend the 2004 Irish Music Awards and present an award, purely on the basis of being The Darkness’s bass player. Like most people, I love Ireland, the Irish and their way of doing things. What I don’t enjoy is pomp and ceremony, i.e. awards shows, but the Irish don’t do things like that so I accepted. Perhaps I’m just secretly addicted to the smell of Guinness farts…
    It was strange but quite liberating to attend a function all on my own without the rest of the band, and in no time at all I was actually feeling quite comfortable in the backstage area rather than suffering the anxiety that normally engulfs me. I chatted away to an actor from Coronation Street who had recently appeared in a Ken Loach movie, filling me with a warm glow of reassurance. Perhaps if Icould trick my mind effectively enough, there would be less chance of my stammer making a humiliating television debut.
    I kept asking which award I was going to present, but no one seemed to know or care