The Alice Cooper Allegedly

Wembley, Saturday 16th November 2002

and so begins what Des so skillfully observed at Kings Cross as none other than "the journey into madness".

The pink double decker tour bus from Starline UK is not actually a salubrious tour bus at all but is evidently an enormous hearse with toilet facilities for dwarves. The upper deck comprises comfortable lounge area used for receiving guests and comprises a vast dvd and cd library for our edification and aural / visual stimulation. Or so said the company bumpf, in actuality it comprised one damaged copy of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre DVD and David Cassidy's greatest hits CD. The opulent snuggly upholstered sleeping quarters were in fact 14 old reject coffins nailed together in a large pile resembling the black hole of Calcutta. jollyjon was fortunate to acquire two (yes two - are you reading this fellow buskateers) windows in his death box whilst Mr Forsyth was less fortunate obtaining what can be best described as a dog kennel with plush curtainage. Downstairs was housed a toilet designed for those who were vertically challenged having a headroom of under five feet i'll wager. It took a great deal of skill and accuracy for those of us of a masculine persuasion to, what we shall coloquilly call, take a wazz at 70 miles an hour in the outside lane of the motorway. Number twos were banned on the bus - we didn't want a log jam forming. The rest of the downstairs comprised a number of faux leather airline style seats salvaged from a fleet of 1970's Hillman Hunters, a fridge, microwave and a dark mysterious cupboard that had lurking in its recesses a tin of minestrone soup bought back when Harold Wilson was at Number 10. Behind a chocolate brown carpet clad door was the driver's abode. Three things will remind me of Tony, for that was the driver's name, his cantankerousness, his need to sleep far too often, his bran flakes fetish and his enormous accelerator foot. Sorry four things.

Lunched on iffy chilli and then queued for hours outside Wembley in weather that penguins would have avoided, it was so cold that parts of my anatomy shrunk and withdrew like landing gear behind a couple of old bomb bay doors. Mrs H it seems could quite easily get a job with the coastguard. Her stentorian voice, with which she bellowed "I am the front of the queue" could quite easily be used by HM Coastguard who could float her out into the Channel during foggy weather and get her to shout at shipping.

Mr O has food poisoning.

Spike the chanteur with the Quire Boys is into recycling it seems taking the opportunity at the end of their set to hurl his microphone and the large lump of aluminium it is attached to into the audience striking Jill on her waving hand with sufficient force for her to require medical attention after the show. What a naughty boy he was, he was gonna regret that later on in the week for Mrs H was on his case ...

Note to Pat Novak. You are to be applauded for the bulk purchase of stage blood that you made for tonights show. He wafted around a large economy Buxton Spring bottle crammed to the neck with blood. We were absolutely drenched. It would seem that the Blood budget must have been blown that night as the remaining UK shows were pretty lacking in the sanguine department.

Michael Bruce joined Mr Cooper on stage for Schools Out.

We are joined on the bus by Mr Bruce after the show. Dolly and he, well how can I put this delicately, got to know each other intimately. Not really sure what to do with the photos. Mr Bruce played some of his new tunes on the bus hifi and was accompanied by Chris (who we understand has appeared on Stars in Their Eyes as Mr Cooper). We were forced to ask them to leave in the wee small hours as they had outstayed their welcome, drunk all our Horlicks and we had places to go.

jollyjon's lovely new friends the Dingles and Pseudo Dingle joined us in the Entertainment lounge for a tincture too....

As we left for Brighton Dolly (for she was the most alert at this moment in time) noticed that Mr Forsyth's kennel was ominously empty. We were only 12 for the journey south, where the chuff could he be ? Rumours abounded that he had run away and joined a strange religious cult. All would be revealed later in the tour.

Sunday 17th November Brighton

I learnt today that "Canadian toilet flushes are considerably more powerful than American ones" and I thought therefore it was only polite to share that bit of vital trivia with you.

Mid morning we were joined by a mysterious blue van from which poured an orange T shirt sporting baldie. Would you Adam & Eve it , it was Mr Forsyth who had undergone an amazing Hare Krishna conversion. Although I have to say I have my doubts over the fervency of his conversion as how many Krishna dudes do you know travel loaded up to the gunnels with Black Rum (no ice) and a Karaoke Machine ?

Regarding the pink bus can I just let you know that I'm struggling to include what's long, pink and thin ? jokes in here somewhere but all the punchlines I know talk about sailors and seamen. Never mind. We parked up on the local drag racing strip near the lovely seaside adjacent to the nudist beach. It was far too chilly willy for that kind of mularkey though, although I'm told one of our number did expose himself partly that frosty morning.

Lisa in a stunning spidersweb face and dress was first in line. Stuck to the pavement she received several coins flung her way by well meaning Brightonians. A gang of Big Issue vendors eyed her suspiciously from across the boulevard. jollyjon was seen entering one of many Weatherspoons frequented on this tour with William Nathaniel Crowe, Krishna Forsyth and Backstage Des in tow. The first of many daily imbibations of the old fermented.

Back at the queue we were joined by Mr Edward Zag and Messrs Singer & Wright who seemed more than happy to queue with the busites.

And what of the show ???? We booed the Quireboys (cause we are hard barstewards) and I swear I heard someone shout Mr Grimsdale at the Thunder microphone toter. Must have imagined it. And Alice ????

After the show we keyholed Mr Shep "Its been 6 years" Gordon for a team photo. He was initially wary of us until we had advised him that we had all been through the car wash that morning in the bus with the windows open.

Des was mostly backstage as per...

Back on the bus two rum/lager fests ensued in the non smoking and smoking lounges. The early morning denegerating into a top Alice Sheep Song Competition (Bee my Lover etc) and also a Monkey alternative I am reliably informed.

Day off tomorrow..

Monday 18th November Brighton (still)

The previous night / early morning as I passed out in my coffin I became aware of what I think our American friends call an outbreak of particularly deafening Bronx Cheers near to my pit. So deafening were they that I slipped into my alcohol fueled coma with an enormous grin on my contorted visage. The only cause for concern I had was that this outbreak of back passage flatuence appeared to be heavily laden with swamp gas and more worryingly appeared to be emanating from my colleague below, Mr Fields.

Imagine my surprise when I awoke the next day bright and early to hear a rather unique dawn chorus. The farting, for thats what it was dear reader, had now expanded to epidemic proportions and most worrying of all it appeared to be coming from my bed. I knew I had taken several large infusions of Holsten Pils and eaten half a shedload of dry roasted the night before but surely I wasn't to blame. Even Dolly was absent. I fully intended to visit a Brighton Doctor to discuss my Phantom Phlatuence Phenomenum when a small snigger from the direction of the Forsyth Kennel alerted me that something was amiss. Mr F had kindly placed , what can be best described as an Electronic Farting Appliance in my bed. Via the wonders of modern science it was able to let out a whole range of farty fart noises. Small phut phut ones, huge great double barrelled cheers and most disgustingly of all, what we call over this side of the pond, wet ones. Ewwwwwwwwww. Twas a jolly jape and was guaranteed to make additional appearances throughout the week to startle our unsuspecting bedfellows. Wasn't it Mr & Mrs H ?

Hardly had the grand expedition started when we were rewarded for good behaviour with a day off in Brighton, home of the Pavilion, Brighton Rock, Fatboy Whatsisface and the largest endemic Margaret Rutherford Transsexual population in the UK. More of that later. Dolly had been up all night partying hard, begging to be taken to a gig. She was a miserable pleader but her persistent bleatings were starting to garner support amongst my fellow busites. We split up into small grouplets and headed off into town for some jiggery-pokery promising to all meet up that night in a posh Italian eatery, Piccolos, for some fine fare and the odd tincture or two. I banished Dolly to my bed and skidaddled off the omnibus with her incessant baaaings still in my earhole. If only I'd known then, what I know now, that our time together was limited I would have let her buff up her hooves, get her curling tongs out and taken my beloved out on the razzle. Sob.

I, jollyjon, headed off with Mr Forsyth, Mr Crowe and Mr Fields with only three things in mind, to find an internet cafe, to have a little drinkie, to find a flat cap and to have another little drinkie. Sorry four things. Now I know that having scanned our "To Do" list you have a question don't you ?

Well one of our party, Mr F had convinced the rest of us that the lead singer of Thunder had been abducted by aliens and had been replaced by Norman Wisdom. (Which is not that far fetched if you compare their facial mannerisms and stage antics). He had taken already to shouting out "Mr Grimsdale" at opportune moments during their set and wanted to up the ante at the next shows by hurling a flat cap onto the stage so that Mr Bowes, or rather his alien imposter, might don same and pratfall about the stage hollering "Mr Grimsdale". With me so far ?

So this is where a seven foot, swarthy, Margaret Rutherford Transdoodah enters out tale. For he / she ran a second hand titfer emporium which we had frequented, for the previously detailed reason. We didn't stay to purchase a fine bonnet however but beat a hasty retreat, such was our shock, into the Gay Internet Cafe across the road. Strike Two from our list. We'd had a few sherbets by now and so we were not thinking all that logically when it suddenly dawned on us that as this was a Gay Internet Cafe, maybe just maybe, we might need to be gay to book a session on the PC. Foolishly, or skillfully, depending on your point of view we decided on a group hug there and then in the middle of the shop. It seemed to have the desired effect, for not only did we get internet access but at a discounted rate to boot.

All web work accomplished we decided on a few more drinkies. We were a tad peckish by now and nearly entered a local Oyster Bar until I advised against it warning my fellow boozers that "Oysters taste like sandy bags of snot" and besides we had an Italian to go to. We skidaddled through the backstreets of Brighton and arrived gracefully outside Piccolos just as our fellow travellers were entering the establishment. What followed was a most excellent meal punctuated, at least in Mr F's case, with quick trips across the road to the adjacent hostelry for several black rum & cokes as the restaurant was rumless. The restaurant staff were very obliging but just slightly wary of a rummed up Hare Krishna who kept up an almost non stop stream of impersonations all night. Lets face it we were very rowdy down our end of the table and for that I would like to apologise to our fellow Brightonian guests...

The ordering was handled professionally but things did appear to go awry when the hors d'oeuvres started to arrive. A lovely young thing approached our table and whispered "Cheesy Dough Balls ?". Not a sound was heard and the poor girl was forced to say it again until Adrian, Mr A Cooper himself said " They're for me I just wanted to hear you say it again". Well the place was in uproar, several of our party had to be hoovered up off the floor and the poor waitress went beetroot.

In a sudden sober moment I gathered all the money together, left a hefty tip and headed out into the night. Mr A Cooper, once outside, shared with us another skill he has obviously mastered by poledancing professionally around a couple of Brighton's more ornate streetlights. A few of our number endured some quite appalling karaoke out on the pier, including a chap who told us he had never sung Angels before launching into his reportoire. We were all agreed that at the end of his performance he still had not sung Mr Williams tearjerker. Mr O was so disgusted that he hotfooted it back to the bus with us closely in tow.

A couple of things for you to note at this point. It appeared we had managed to park the bus on the local drag racing road and so we were treated to a cacophony of skids, revvvs and hand brake turns combined with the acrid smell of burning rubber once back on the bus. And secondly a small tip. How can you determine when Mr Crowe and Mr Fields have had too much to drink ? Well suffice it to say, Mr F's broad Belfast lilt gives way for a dreadful cockney accent and Mr C's Caledonian croak gives way to a quite bizarre geezer impersonation. jollyjon on the other hand was politeness and decorum personified as I pecked Dolly on the cheek and passed once again into the Land of Nod.

Tuesday 19th November Bournemouth.

Today was to be the day dear reader, her persistence had paid off, her ear lobe nibbling in the night had born fruit, today I was going to take Dolly to her first Alice Cooper show. O she was so happy as she gambolled and cavorted upstairs in the Sickbus. I however had a gnawing pain in my stomach I just felt that today was going to be full of all sorts of danger and grief. And so it was to prove.

On the drive into Bournemouth we stopped off in Fareham for two reasons. Firstly to pick up Mrs Coach Driver as it turns out she had forgotten what her cantankerous hubby looked like, secondly to ablute ourselves in the local ablutions oh and thirdly because we had a major tyre blow out. OK three reasons I did fail maths as a pimply youth you know. We were fortunate that the enormous rear inner tyre didnt let go whilst we were wellying it down the dual carriageway cause we might not have been here now to put this all down on paper. Indeed I'm told that someone was in the lavatory when it did blow and had to retire upstairs to change into another pair of tour trousers pronto like. Rather than just go through the motions don't you know.

Anyway fully abluted and with all our collective important little places clean and with a brand new spanking second hand back street remould on we crept into Bournemouth home of the most badly stocked Harry Ramsdens in the UK (as I'm sure you'll all remember from last year's epistle). I took the opportunity to apply a final starching to my doctor's white coat and headed off to the BIC with Dolly under my arm. For today was Dolly's debut !

Sgt Major L Harrington gave us our queuing orders and we stationed ourselves at two points in the foyer ready to go over the top at the drop of a hat. Dolly and I were stage right, Dolly resplendent in her newly applied Alice Cooper eyes. She was feeling sassy and she looked as foxy as a fox too.

Whilst we queued it seems that our beloved bus driver was having a torrid time. He managed to (allegedly) ground the bus on the way into a garage, fracturing a pipelet that interconnects the four, hundred gallon, diesel tanks and thus causing said gallonage to err well cascade in an enormous torrent across the forecourt. This environmental disaster was then visited by a long officious stream of the great and the good local authority services in Bournemouth. The Fire Brigade with an impressive large sucky thing, an ever increasing number of scrambled egg covered police, the environmemtal health lady and two geezers with a lorry load of sand. Rumours that both Kate Adie and David Attenborough had been mobilised by the BBC proved to be unfounded. We are fortunate that we had our own covert press person on board for Chris with journalistic skill made a rather pleasant documentary of the unfolding shenanigans which I understand will be up for the Silver Extinguisher Award at next years Bournemouth International "Documentaries on a Shoestring" Festival. When will we see the final version Chris ?

Now gentle reader queuing for hours on end in strange foyers or worse outside rain soaked venues may appear to be a peculiarly British obsession. We were fortunate however to have the queen of queuing on our side for this tour the remarkable Lisa Harrington. Her slavish devotion to standing in line and her voluminous outbursts of "I am the front of the queue" will have scarred many a concert goer this past tour. Seriously though bless you Mrs H without your stirling efforts where would we have been ? A remarkable by product of all this waiting around is the large number of complete strangers who approach you for a natter and also the strange anecdotes your fellow queuees impart. For example...

I was approached by a sassy archaeologist from Uzbekistan called Jennifer who wanted to know whether as a doctor (keep up now I had a white coat on - remember ?) was I a Care in the Community placement given the strange detritus I had standing around me. Des I remember had a glint in his one good eye as she spoke. She did suddenly change her mind in mid sentence however when she espyed Dolly nestling between my legs. I ask you a sassy lady from Uzbekistan what are the chances of that ?

And another example. Apparently Bill Crowe was fleeced for "Nine pond seventy toooooooooooooooo" for his breakfast the other morning and it had hit him hard in his sporran. Complete strangers were to approach him throughout the week enquiring how much his breakfast was as if by magic. Just how could that have happened Mr C ? "Aye and 50 peeeeeeeeee for a wee thingy of jam ".

Hours passed with little respite. Des and I made a foray for nosh into the town. An irate shop owner initially refused to sell me a Ginster's Finest because she was appalled that I had come direct from the hospital covered in blood. Had I no concept of hygiene she ranted. After a sticky moment she mellowed when I was able to tell her that her bunion appointment would come through her postbox any day now.

Promptly at 6 the doors opened and we ran down to the barrier, the only place to be, and we waited Dolly giving the eye to several of the wary Security Personnel. The support did there thing (I heard Mr Grimsdale again that night where was it coming from ?) and then as Dolly's buttocks tensed the Master took the stage once again to a roar from a top hole crowd.

Inquisitive reader, hindsight, is a beautiful thing. With hindsight Dolly's twitching buttocks should have forewarned me. Shortly after Alice's recooperation for No More Mister Nice Guy, Dolly started to oscillate wildly in full view of the Master. Several times he threw a wary glance in her direction and she his. I was sensing a brutal attraction between them. People around me edged away slightly as they sensed my pain. Schools Out began and the crowd roared their approval, Dolly became increasingly agitated and then as Alice, sword in hand, introduced party time, the world for me fell apart.

Dolly sensing the smell of the crowd and with fire in her belly launched herself at the stage and at Mr Cooper. She fell desparately short but was scooped up by a kind security chappie and returned to me. Battered and slightly bruised ( I noticed a trickle of blood from her hind quarters those same hind quarters she had so badly scarred as she frolicked in the sheep dip "int top field" last summer) we had a final caress and then suddenly she was gone.

Dolly, with fire in her one good eye (the canker in her other eye had not cleared up despite frequent applications of Nurse Gladys Emmanuel's Patent Ovine Canker Unction and the odd Guinness eye bath) propelled herself stageward at the self same time that Mr Cooper, weapon in hand, was within her eyeline. She was brutally skewered like a sheep on a sword and Alice's eyes were full of awe as she died painfully by his own hand. He, just like those killer whales you see on the telly, toyed with her now heavily deflating corpse and used her callously to burst all of the rainbow coloured balloons that proliferated at that point on the stage. Her lifeless body stained by a hideous melange of blood, confetti, talcum powder, dollar bills and wool. His dastardly deed done he propelled her flaccid carcass through the putrid air to the rear of the stage where she was hideously trampled under foot by Mr Cooper's despicable henchmen. Frantically my eyes scoured the stage for hers but cadaver eyes upon me saw nothing. Dolly was dead, slain by Alice Cooper. "J'accuse !" I roared. The encore is now just a distant memory but as Cold Ethyl / Cold Dolly struck up Alice scooped up Dolly's limp frame and cradled her gently in his arms as he serenaded her. "She's cool in bed she ought to be cause Dolly's dead" I mouthed in the direction of her assassin. Was that just a hint of remorse I saw flit across his steely blue eyes ?

I'm struggling to type here allow me a moment to reflect will you ?

Three things flashed through my mind, Dolly had been murdered, were there witnesses ?, would I get the chance to confront her killer ? and had anyone taken any decent photos ? Whoops sorry four things.

The show over, I took delivery of Dolly's lifeless body from superfan Mr Michael who had retrieved her trampled remains from the stage and numbly, hardly speaking I exited the Arena crestfallen in search of the Sickbus and some solace from an enormous alcohol fuelled imbibation.

We drove into the night and by 4 am I passed out in my private sanctuary with only three thoughts in my head. That revenge was a dish best served cold, meeting the lovely Calico to exchange signatures outside the venue, hearing Jill boasting about some hideous Bombay Bad Boy and the overarching desparate desire to get up and brave that stinking toilet once again at 70 miles an hour. Sorry four things.

END OF PART ONE.

Ovination by killer_sheep on Saturday, November 16, 2002 on Saturday, November 16, 2002 | Permalink