Once upon a time, I was in a Beatles tribute band called the Moondog Beatles. During my 4 years in the band, there were a lot of stories to tell, good and bad, but this is by far the most indelible. It may be a funny story now, but at the time, it was a tale of horror bordering on PTSD.
Picture this, a bunch of lads, men?.. Well, a mixture of the two, in a Beatles Tribute band heading off on a 6-month adventure to Mallorca in an ex-Royal Mail van… I mean, what could go wrong? Everything is the correct answer!
Let me set the scene a little. I was the Ringo in a Beatles tribute band that was working successfully in the UK. We looked about 20% like The Beatles and sounded about 65% like them, maybe 75% on a good day, but we had great energy, musicianship and stage presence. We had taken the show to Liverpool many times and survived, and that’s the gold stamp of approval! The rest of the band, Our John (Mark), Our Paul (Jules) and Our George (Simon), plus Our Ringo (Me), completed the line-up. Ok.. The scene is set, I’ll begin the tale, and trust me, there is little embellishment in this story, in fact, I’ve probably left some things out..
It’s the beginning of Summer 1998, and I have just picked up a DAF 400 van that the band have bought for the trip. It’s parked outside my house, and I’m not happy. I’d been out and about with Our John and Our Paul, who were the ‘owners’ of the band, the week before, looking at a potential vans to buy and after looking at about half a dozen I’d said my preference was the VW which was a little smaller but by far the best mechanically. I had also said, ‘Whatever we buy, do not buy the DAF’. I’d driven vans for about 14 years, mostly legally, and of all the vans I’d driven, the DAFs had always been the worst and most unreliable. As I was the only person on this trip who would be driving (lucky me), I thought I had some say in the matter of which van we picked; however, I had mistaken this for a democracy with common sense, and it turned out to be neither. So as a result, a DAF 400 box van was sitting outside my home, on St Paul’s Road in Smethwick, with a look of defiance about it.
The DAF had a sliding door on the passenger side to allow access to the cargo space in the back and a cab that was open into the back with no dividing wall. At least the back was panelled by the previous owner, which was useful. In the cab, it had a bench seat on the passenger side, plus the driver’s seat (naturally), so obviously we were a seat short and lying on flight cases in the back, like we might for more local gigs, wasn’t an option. We managed to track down some bench seats from a minibus, a row of 4, with seatbelts attached and in decent condition. I bolted to the floor, but they weren’t anchored to the subframe. In a high-speed crash, these seats were heading straight for the front of the van, passengers intact. However, there was little chance of this with a DAF; its top speed was more of a relaxed jog… unless we were going downhill, more on this later. Now, at least everyone had somewhere to sit and sleep on the journey, and the side door gave easy access to the new bench seat. Then I fitted a partition wall, just behind the sliding door/executive seating, which worked pretty well. So, other than driving like a coffin on a pram, things seemed to be working out, and my heart warmed to the DAF… it was a moment of weakness I would regret later.
I, being the all-around handy guy, got on with further preparation for the trip. I built a rack for the new Peavy PA amps, flight-cased my old mixing desk, and put a basic electronic toolkit together to look after leads and general repairs, along with other things. I was a driver, PA tech and drummer (who also sang), but I didn’t mind. I loved this project, and I loved playing drums, and this was going to be an adventure. I did all the usual checks, and we were ready to roll. The one great thing about the box van was that it swallowed gear, PA cabs and instruments, all fitted with ease, safely locked behind the steel roller shutter, ready and waiting for departure.
Day 1: Ok, so we’re ready to go. We’ve packed clothing, tins of corned beef, spaghetti, washing powder, etc., thinking it might be easier when we first get there to have some of the necessities while we get to know the place. I’m doing the rounds picking up the lads from their homes, each of us saying goodbye to partners or parents for 6 months, and finally, I start the first leg of the journey down to Portsmouth on the M6 (joy). The van is filled with high spirits, typical manly talk of exotic Spanish Women with olive skin, cheap booze and beaches… bravado if you like, the typical male coupling you would expect, I don’t need to describe it, do I?
While you are imagining the kind of conversation going on in the van at that time, I’ll just break down the itinerary here, nothing fancy, just a concise recap of ‘the plan’;
- A 6-month contract worth £40,000 playing venues in Majorca. This was a lot of money to us musicians, and it being guaranteed, without having to find 2 or 3 gigs a week, sounded great. No trekking up and down the country playing gigs, weddings and pubs. We were going to be playing clubs with stages, filled with people who want to party! We signed the contract, after a consultation with the Musicians’ Union. I mean, of course, we signed the contract!
- Our accommodation will be provided and paid for. An apartment in the middle of the Spanish quarter, with balcony/patio, 6 floors up. Looked like a dream to 4 Black Country boys with heads filled with adventure.
- We’d had to buy a van and upgrade our PA, which involved getting a loan, which we’d pay off in the first few months. We planned to save as much money as possible, only paying for food and fuel, as required.
The journey began at the final pick-up of ‘Our John’ in;
- Bentley – Wolverhampton. We would then jump on the M6 and head to Portsmouth, about 3-4 hours by road.
- At Portsmouth, we’d meet up with several other bands who were heading over with the same management company.
- Then on a ferry to Bilbao. This was an overnight trip, about 35 hours.
- Then drive across Spain to catch another ferry from Valencia, quite a tight schedule across some hilly/mountainous regions, about a 6-7 hour drive, little time for a break.
- Then a ferry from Valencia to Mallorca.
- And a drive to our digs in Palma.
Sounds easy, straightforward? Well, it was for the most part.. The drive to Portsmouth was fine, got there in plenty of time and met up with the agent, Mike, and several other tribute acts. The ones I remember were Oasis, Simply Red and the Spice Girls, all nice people. Once on the ferry, we got chatting, drinking and chilled out. I went off to bed at a reasonable time, I had a long drive ahead, had a great night’s sleep. I love the feel of the ocean.
Day 2: We pulled off the ferry the next day, we had a map and some basic directions, no Satnav back then, and we set off in convoy. Of course, the DAF couldn’t keep up with the Merc or Transit van of the other bands; it topped out at about 60mph on the flat and slower on hills. So somehow, we got off track and ended up on the outskirts of Madrid! But for the most part, the journey was fine… apart from the mountain roads. These put a strain on the van and took all of my concentration to keep us going, often switching to very low gears and willing the Van on more than driving it. I was an experienced van driver, with over 10 years’ experience in other jobs, but this was a challenge, and we managed to slow down traffic enough to warrant a good amount of horn-play from more local drivers. Anyway, we missed the ferry due to the lack of speed and the ‘detour’, so we had to get a later one. Passed some beautiful country on the journey, wish we’d had time to look around.
Day 3: Once we made the crossing to Mallorca, we were quickly at the apartment, and all was good, though there was something up with the van I’d need to investigate, but that could wait; time to get food and chill out. I parked the van in the street behind the apartment. I couldn’t read the street signs, so I asked a couple walking past if it was ok to park here. He told me it was fine to park there, no problem, no fine, all good. I thanked him and went back up to the apartment.
There were 3 bedrooms, 2 singles and a double with 2 single beds in it. Our John suggested that he and I should have the single rooms, and I didn’t complain; I wanted my own room, of course. Our Paul and Our George didn’t put up much more than a few moans, they were 18 and had been mates for a while. I took my luggage in and unpacked the essentials, an old laptop and a small stereo with a CD player. I brought a lot of music and was determined to finish my first SciFi Novel, ‘The Wager’ (still unfinished and sitting on my Google Drive).
We had Burger King that night and sat around joking and laughing. I slipped off to bed early, knackered from all the driving.
Day 4: Next morning, I popped downstairs to check on the van, I mean, it had got about £8k of gear in it. The van is fine, the gear is fine, but I had a lovely parking ticket on the windscreen. It seems you needed a permit to park in the street by the building after all. I headed back upstairs and told the band about the ticket and that I’m going to have to find a different place to park, somewhere in this town I know nothing about. Our Paul comes along to pick up some supplies, but before we get a chance to leave, our agent calls us to tell us we need to meet.
The agent arrives and informs us that the contracts were void. It seems that our contracts were only viable on mainland Spain and not on the Balearic Islands, apparently this was a law ‘he wasn’t aware of’. We now had to attend a Shop Window event at a club somewhere on the island; he’d brought the details. Then we could get the diary filled up with gigs and straighten this out. This wasn’t news we wanted to hear, but we accepted it, just an additional hoop to jump through. One good thing was that the agent took the parking ticket to sort it out.
I moved the van, it felt a bit sluggish and underpowered, I just put it down to the long journey. Me and Our Paul headed off looking for a place to park, which we found about 10 minutes walk away, a space on a busy street which had no parking-related signs on it. There would be no guarantee of this space once I left it, but it would do for tonight. Leaving all that gear on the road was a bit concerning, but at least we had taken the guitars out; they would be the hardest and most expensive thing to replace, and we didn’t want to leave them in the hotbox.
On the walk back we took in the sights a little and the relaxed culture, far from the madding crowd (sorry TH) as well as the beautiful women, dark hair and eyes, sun dresses and smiles, it was a lot to take in for some lads from the industrially scenic Black Country, this place seemed a million miles away from what we had left behind, which it might well have been.
Day 5: We headed over to the club where the Shop Window was happening; we had to be there by midday. The van felt awful, especially on any hills, and I was glad the club wasn’t that far away. We, Our Paul and me, decided to take a look under the hood the next day.
The club wasn’t big and we were to set up in the middle of the stage. Oasis, Simply Red and the Spice Girls were there; we were all in the same boat. We had a quick chat, set up a shared PA and Drum Kit so we didn’t have to set up too much gear. We were getting the idea by this point that this wasn’t the well-oiled adventure we’d signed up for, and sensing the bubble was about to burst, we weren’t the only ones; Oasis and Simply Red were beginning to think the same.
We dressed in our grey suits, I think we did 3 or 4 numbers. As a point of protest, yes I’m sure they got the point (I mean didn’t give a shit) we did Money (That’s what I want) and I wanna hold your hand ingeniously changing the lyrics to ‘We wanna park our van’, yes, we were that witty!
When the other bands played, they did something similar with ‘Money’s too tight to mention’ and ‘Do look back in Anger’. It was nice to see them play, they all sounded great, and we got to bond a little over the situation, wondering if this was going to work and if we’d be getting the work we were promised..
After the session, we all met with the manager, who explained the situation.
- There was no guarantee of gigs or a set fee, as each place would pay a different rate
- We might need to do 2 gigs a day, as some spots would be shorter
- We would have to start paying for our accommodation at the end of the first month
We all left the club pretty low, frustrated and needing to digest the new info. To top it all, the van struggled to start, which was worrying, and I realised the battery might be failing. We spent the evening discussing the situation, sharing a few beers and finally made the decision we were going home, there were too many maybes, and the very real risk that we could end up with nothing to show for all our work at the end of the 6 months, especially now we would have to start paying rent. Our John contacted the manager and arranged a meeting for the following day.
Day 6: Me and our Paul headed off to the Van for a morning of mechanical joy before things got too hot. I’d managed to find a spot on the same street as before, which was lined with shops, like any high street might be. Our Paul headed off to locate an auto shop, and I pulled the tools out of the back of the Van and tried to start the Van, but the battery wasn’t having it. I opened the hood and started checking the engine, looking for a possible visual clue to the loss of power. Nothing obvious, so I checked oil, water etc. Our Paul returned and had found an auto shop with the right battery in stock, but it was heavy, so he came back to get me. We decided to leave it for now and head back for the meeting, which was soon, and would continue working on the Van tomorrow (joy).
We met with Mike, it wasn’t a friendly meeting, it did get heated, but he agreed to pay our tickets back. It’s one of those rare occasions I felt hostility to a person, and I’m not sure how this would have gone if he had not agreed to pay for the tickets, maybe an introduction to a Spanish police cell for me. To me It was obvious we had been played, and his part in the process had been to get many bands over to the islands with the hope they would stay but work for less. As it was, we weren’t alone as the Oasis and Simply Red bands would also be heading back with us. The Spice Girls were going to give it a go; it’s a lot simpler when you have no gear to move about, I expect. There were other acts we had not met, but it was clear they expected some to go back, a lovely, manipulative tactic, I was fuming.
We headed back to the digs and stopped by a beach, spent about 45 minutes there talking, watching the people having fun, but I couldn’t enjoy it. My mind was filled with rage, thoughts of a long drive back across Spain and the fact that I needed to work on the van, hoping she’d get us home. Christ what a shit show. This would be the only time I spent on the beach over the 2 weeks of travel.
Day 7: The next day, I started working on the van and discovered one of the glow plugs was dead. This was probably why we were having issues starting it, and it had taken its toll on the old battery. We replaced the battery, and she started up, at which point I should have chalked it up as a win and left well enough alone. This was hot work, and the sun was high in the sky when I started working on replacing the dud plug, something I thought would be straightforward, but no, the plug was fast in the engine block, and no matter what I tried, it wouldn’t shift until suddenly I felt a ‘crack’! Yes, I thought, it’s free, but no, the middle of the plug had come out, leaving the ceramic housing still lodged in the block. I’d been working with limited tools, and I had nothing that would extract this. This was major, as starting on 3 cylinders was fine, being a diesel, the 4th cylinder would eventually have ignited, but now I had an open cylinder, no compression, meaning a loss of power we couldn’t afford, and diesel being sprayed into the engine bay making driving back unsafe and impossible. I sat at the side of the road thinking over the options. We had no money for repairs in a garage, and we had no international breakdown cover. Fuck!
After a while, I decided the only option I had was to bung up the open hole with the part of the plug that had come free and secure it using anything I could find, sealing it as best I could. I applied some liquid gasket, hammered it home, used some metal strapping to secure it and fired her up. The fix held, at least for now, and it was all I could do. I squared up the tools and headed back to the digs, secretly hoping it would be nicked over the next few days!
When I got in, Our Paul was cooking some of the food we’d brought with us, lumps of corned beef in spaghetti… We’d brought a lot of it with us to help save money. There was washing in the machine and a huge open box of Persil sitting on the worktop. While I’d been working on the van, it seems some plans had been made, which I learned of while tucking into the grub.
Our John had suggested he’d take a flight back so he could start ringing around agents to try and find us bookings. We’d turned down a lot of work for this contract, and of course, those spots had been filled by other bands. I sighed a bit, it did mean the full responsibility of the trip fell to me at 32, Our Paul and Our George were both 18, so that made the Adult, I’m still not sure I’m an adult now, at 60!
After a brief discussion, I agreed it was a good idea. To be honest, it would be an easier trip in some ways. Our John couldn’t drive, tended to enjoy winding the other 2 up, and I knew the remaining three of us would have a laugh driving back at least. He could get a flight the day after next, and I’d drop him off at the airport. It would be a useful little test for the van.
Day 8: The next day was pretty subdued. Our John got the flight booked, I did some writing and hung out on the balcony garden with the laptop, filling time. It was an old thing, green screen, no MS Windows, it ran something called Gem Desktop and a Public Domain word processor called WordStar, but it was great to get ideas out of my head, something I’ve always done since.
Later on, the conversation turned to dinner, and Our John suggested that we go out to a restaurant on his final night, the last night we’d all be together, as we deserved at least one good night on the town. We all agreed and headed to a part of town where we’d noticed there were many restaurants and within walking distance, finally picking a nice-looking Chinese restaurant.
The food was amazing, and the Chinese waitress spoke perfect English, which was very helpful. It was my first Chinese restaurant. I’d had takeaways before but never been to a restaurant, certainly not like this. We ordered drinks, and I asked for a large brandy. When they arrived, my large tumbler was full to the top with neat brandy, my drink of choice back then. I downed it pretty much in one and ordered another. I’m not a big drinker, never have been, but this was one of the few occasions I felt like drinking. We ordered food and I think I hit at least 2 more large brandy’s, I felt relaxed for the first time in days. We were laughing, talking about the trip, what we could do when we got back.
Eventually, we’d eaten everything, paid the bill and left. As soon as I stepped out into the street the night air hit me, I felt the effect of the brandy, and was instantly drunk. I mean, I expect I was drunk before, but now I knew I was drunk. I started shouting, offering the world out for a fight, acting like a dick, saying some quite inappropriate bullshit. Luckily, the lads hadn’t drunk anywhere close to what I had and got me back to the apartment without causing an international incident.
What happened next is a bit of a blur. I know we got back to the flat, though I don’t remember it. I know I went back to my room, which should be the end of the night. However, according to survivors and some sketchy memories I have, moments later, I emerged from my room. I was only wearing boxers and brandishing a lighter, a can of WD40 and a Joker-like smile. I proceeded to chase other members of the band around the flat, brandishing my makeshift flamethrower and shouting. I have to admit I remember this vaguely, but I don’t have a clear recollection of this… But according to other members of the band, it was both funny and traumatic, and I was crazy. When telling Our George about writing this post, he reminded me of the details, ‘You were chasing me around the flat in your underwear, pulsing the WD40 and yelling, like a member of the All-blacks with a flame gun. At one point, I hid in one of the built-in closets, staring out through the louvred doors, watching you running through the hall searching for me and other members of the band. Harrowing, It was like living in a slasher movie.’ I expect I eventually either passed out or ran out of WD40, but no one was hurt in this production; otherwise, this would be a very different story!
Day 9: The next day, I woke up feeling like a rat was sleeping in my mouth, and that light was my enemy. It wasn’t the worst hangover I’d had, but it wasn’t fun. Eventually, I emerged from my room, and everyone was laughing about the previous night’s goings on. I have to admit it sounded like something I’d do, having an unnatural love of fire, but I did feel a little bad about it.
Mid-afternoon, I took Our John to the airport after practising his signature so I could use the Band’s credit card for fuel and the journey home. Back then, you had to sign a counterfoil most of the time; chip and contactless transactions were a thing of the future. With some relief, the van started and I took him the short drive to the Airport, dropped him off and headed back. As much as we all felt this was a bit of a ploy by Our John to get out of the hot, long trip back in the van across Spain, we were happy he’d flown back as he could get quite intense about the business and this way it would be a far more relaxing journey back. I don’t remember the rest of the day, to be honest… it was most definitely a recovery day for me.
Day 10: The next day, we packed everything away, ready for the following morning, when we were starting the first leg of our journey back to the UK with the first ferry crossing to mainland Spain. I was the adult now (maybe), feeling the responsibility of getting the other 2 back home, so I felt if anything went wrong, it would be down to me to fix it. In hindsight, it was a disservice to think of them like this; they kept me going and sane for the 3 days.
After we’d finished packing, we spent the evening playing guitar, singing and watching Eurovision in Spanish. We got a little merry, not drunk, and I ended up playing harmonica… a lot… and I can’t play harmonica, not sure what the neighbours thought, but we didn’t hear from them. I broke a very ornamental stool, which really shouldn’t have a man my size sitting on it, let alone standing on it while playing the blues. We hid it in one of the bedrooms.
Day 11: The next morning, I fetched the van, we loaded up, did an idiot check and set off to the Port. A lot of the items we’d brought with us, like tins of food and washing powder, were coming home with us, but instead of packing items carefully into the van, this time we put them in a few bin sacks and lobbed them in the back, something we’d regret later..
We got to the port about 10 am and drove onto the ferry soon after, and met up with Simply Red and Oasis, who were going to head back with us. It was hardly a convoy, but we’d decided, for the most part, to travel back on the same route so we could keep an eye out for each other where we could. The ferry departed around 11 pm, which meant once we got to Valencia, we’d need to travel through the night to get to Bilbao for the following morning ferry to Portsmouth. This wasn’t ideal, but there was plenty of time to get across Spain, and we were keen to get home.
We landed at Valencia about 7 pm, drove off the ferry and started the first part of the journey across Spain. The drummer with the Oasis band had decided to ride with us as there was a little more room in our van, not to mention seats, than in the Transit they had. Also, living up to their namesakes, the band were participating in smoking a large amount of weed (and who knows what else), and he didn’t fancy it!
I drove for about an hour before stopping as I’d got off the main road by mistake and was on a quiet side road in the middle of nowhere, though about 200 meters down the road, there was a police car with a couple of officers in it. After a short consultation with the map, we all jumped back in the Van and I did a U-turn heading back to the road we should have been on. It was at this point that the police flagged us down. It seemed I’d broken traffic code by making a U-turn on this dirt road highway. They were speaking in Spanish, of course, communicating this via hand signs. I’d like to point out I’m not a person who loses his cool quickly (I seem to be saying that a lot); I’m usually patient, but I was stressed and less patient than usual so I began to get angry. I started to raise my voice and move towards the officers, who were smiling. One unclipped his pistol, and I saw red! Thankfully, Our Paul, one of the ‘teenagers’ I mentioned, put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘It’s ok, Dave, it’s ok.’ He turned to the cops and handed them the 40 euros they were requesting. They smiled and walked back to the car. Our Paul got me to head back to the Van and calm down. We didn’t get a ticket receipt, of course.
From there, I drove to a cafe near the foot of the mountains we were about to drive across and met up with the other bands. We ate some food and drank coffee, and at about 10 pm, in the dark, we started into the hills, leaving the other bands still eating. We just needed to stick to the right road and follow it through the night, and that would be most of the journey. I was concerned about how the van would handle this, but I felt as long as we didn’t push it too hard, it would be ok, which is why we set off before the others. We just needed to take our time, use the gears appropriately, and we’d get there nursing the DAF all the way.
As it turned out, we did ok on the roads going up, they were fairly gradual and I took my time and travelling at night meant little traffic. It’s amazing how dark it is away from the city, and I was very aware of the edge of the road, very different for a city boy. I’d been driving a little over 2 hours when we started our descent, it was a lovely clear night, and the 3 lads in the back were joking and laughing, lifting my mood. I had some strange prog-rock music on, I expect, and thought to myself, ‘Ok, the van made it, just another 4 hours driving to the next boat’ and started to relax a bit.
Day 12: At about 1 am, we start driving downhill, and I could feel that the slope is increasing. I’m steering into the bends, cutting off the curves where I can, very aware of the drop on the right of me. I’d tried using the brakes to slow us down, but they kept jumping out as I couldn’t get the speed down low enough, and the clutch was obviously worn. I needed to slow us down or stop the van now as steering was getting more challenging, so I pushed down hard on the brakes… nothing… I release and push hard again, this time pulling on the handbrake… nothing, we were accelerating, down a mountain road, in the dark;
Me, ‘Shit, we’ve got no brakes!’
From the back of the van, ‘What?’
Me, “No fucking brakes, get that door open!’
Our Paul, ‘What, have you tried gears?’
Me, ‘Yes, won’t stay in gear, handbrakes not helping, get ready to jump out of that side.’
It was at this point that we suddenly came across a slightly flatter area, which was covered in gravel. I steered into it, pulling on the handbrake and standing on the foot brake, and… we ground to a halt.
I switched off the van and slumped over the steering wheel and took in a large breath, relieved, ‘What’s the flickering lights, under the van?’, I sat up and jumped out, looking under the front wheels… the brakes were on fire! I grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the dash and got under the van, quickly putting the brakes out and just lay there a moment, spraying them again just to be sure and to cool them down. “OK, brakes are out’ I said as I got back in the van, slumping back over the wheel. It turned out we were on the driveway of a house, maybe a farm, in the hills. The gravel had slowed us down and ultimately brought us to a stop.
After about 10 minutes, me and Our Paul checked the Van out as best we could. ‘You guys are going to have to follow the van down, I can’t have you in the van with me, I don’t know if the brakes are going to work properly.’ Just as we were talking about that, the Simply Red Merc flew past and not long after the Oasis transit, we weren’t the only ones having issues. I got back in the van, ‘Ok, I’m going to limp it down for a bit, just follow behind’.
Luckily, the brakes seemed fine, I kept it in a low gear and after a short while, they all got back in. I was happy to see the road was beginning to level out, and all seemed ok, though I did keep checking the brakes regularly for a while.
When we got a little further on, we found the Simple Red Van parked up. It seemed they had cracked one of the brake disks on the way down, but were confident they could make it back. A little later we caught up with the Oasis lads; they had made it down and were taking a break at a street bar, drinking coffee and eating snacks on a lively street, around 3 am. We joined them and traded guesses if the crowd of incredibly attractive women standing around a club entrance further along the road might be transvestites or ladyboys. Soon we got back on the road and were heading to Bilbao, it was still early and we got there about 7 am, a good few hours before departure at midday, we napped in the van..
Once on the ferry, I relaxed, we were in the home straight. I was thinking no driving until we were back in the UK and under the protection of the AA. We hung out with the Oasis group in the bars on deck, returning their drummer in one piece, and having a few drinks before heading to the cabin for some sleep. We were going to arrive in Portsmouth the next day, about 10 am, YAY!
Day 13: The Ferry landed in Portsmouth at about 9 am, and we pulled onto the docks following the Simply Red van and followed by Oasis. We approached the customs guys who were letting all the vans through… except for ours, which they waved to one side. We watched the Oasis lads drive past, waving and laughing, chuffed not having been pulled over, I swear the cab was filled with a smoky haze and yet off they went while we parked up. Good job really. They were carrying some serious amounts of weed and who knows what.
We were pulled into a parking space and were asked if we had packed the contents of the van and no one else. I confirmed that and opened the rear shutter. They took our Passports to check documentation and asked us to remove a few items from the back of the van so the dog could get in and have a sniff around, it was a lovely black Labrador.
We sat on the pallet we’d unloaded our gear onto, chatting a bit in disbelief at yet another unexpected stop. After about 5 minutes, the same customs officer comes back across and asks me the same question, ‘Did you load this van yourself? ‘ I confirmed we had, and asked why, to which he replied, ‘Our dog seems to be interested in its contents’, to which I replied, ‘£50 and he can have the lot’. This was the day I learned that humour was not always welcome and Customs officials had no sense of humour, though on reflection I’m sure they’ve heard it all before. He then asked us to remove more items so the dog could get further into the van. Once we’d done that, we sat back and waited, worrying about what the previous owner used the van for and what might be behind the panels in the back!
Finally, he returned and said everything was ok. It turned out that the open packet of Persil had spilt in the back and that had got the dog excited about it, thank god. We quickly reloaded the van, jumped in, and I said, ‘Breakfast and then not stopping till we get home’, which is what happened, full English and a very sweet coffee.
The van had taken a beating on this trip, and we decided to leave at Our Paul’s parents’ house; unloading could wait for another day. After coffee, he ran me and Our George home. My arrival was met with surprise; I hadn’t been able to let anyone I knew that I was heading back, it was both frustrating and good to be home.
A few days later, we had a band meeting and decided to continue with the band. On reflection, this was probably the wrong decision, but it felt like the right thing to do. Why did I decide to act like an adult all of a sudden?
Our first job was to assess the van and carry out repairs. Once the van was empty, I stripped back the dashboard as, at some point on the mountain joy ride, most of the dashboard lights had stopped working. This was when I found 3 of the longest, thinnest spliffs I’d ever seen, which must have rolled behind the dash, lost to the previous owners of the Van, most likely to their frustration. We had been very lucky that the custom dog had got sidetracked by the Persil in the back and never got to the cab; otherwise, yet again, this could have been a whole other chapter in our lives.
We quickly decided the van needed to go into a garage to assess the engine, brakes and electrical issues to which they said, ‘Scrap it’. I would be finally free of the DAF… there were no tears.
For the next 2 years, we hired vans, travelled around the UK and played 100s of gigs, paying off the debt of this contract debacle. I’m not going to lie, we had some fun, plenty of experiences, but it was a long road.
To summarise;
- Parking ticket
- Lost £40k earnings
- I became a fire-wielding monster
- Threatened by a Cop
- The brakes failed on a mountain
- Putting out flaming brakes
- Nearly arrested for drugs
- 2 weeks of travelling to a beautiful country and working on a van most of the time
- About 30 hours of driving a lump of coal on a roller skate
- And… I had to drive a DAF
It was just a lot, and from such a high at the beginning of the adventure, because it was an adventure, to the final low of dropping the van off at a scrap yard (got to meet Pat Roach though 🙂 )
On a positive note, this did get me to look at my education, which was zero. I left school with a couple of CSE’s which were next to pointless. On return from the trip, I decided I needed to get a qualification so I was employable and felt less vulnerable. I went to Sandwell College in Crocketts Lane, Smethwick, and signed up for a 2-year HND in managing digital media and 3d design, but that’s another story and one of my best decisions.
Note: Not sure how, but even after the ‘flamethrower’ incident, Simon (Our George) and I have remained great friends, more like brothers. We’ve played in numerous bands together, worked on music and eaten way too much junk food. Our meetings often led to choking for breath or nearly crashing a car because of laughing too hard after sharing some very inappropriate remarks.
Sandblasting < only you’ll get this, Simon, love you, bro!
