Another one came today. I think he was from Mojo. Or maybe it was Uncut. Hell, it might have been NME for all I know. The procedure is always the same. I’m wheeled out into the Day Room, and they wipe the drool from my mouth before showing in some young guy with a precision-constructed bed-head hairstyle and an mp3 audio recorder. The questions are always the same too.
“How are you doing?”
“How do you think I’m doing?”
“Is there any news on when you’ll be allowed to leave?”
“Leave?”
“Yeah.”
“Kid, listen. Even if you get out, this is the kind of place you NEVER leave. Just like the Six String Theory Tour. I presume that’s what you want to hear about.”
“Well… yeah. If it’s not too painful a subject.”
“Would it make a difference if I said it was?”
“Um… I – “
“Doesn’t matter. I can tell you anyway. That’s all I ever get asked about. You know how they discovered those Japanese soldiers, decades later? Still fighting the Second World War? That’s the Six String Theory Tour for me. All the other sides have given up and gone home. But I’m still fighting. Still playing.”
“Do you still keep up with the other guys? Do any of them come and visit you?”
“Martin was here last week. At least I THINK it was last week. Time ain’t what it used to be, here. But yeah – since he became a Buddhist he’s been a lot more concerned about my… spiritual well-being.”
“Does he still play?”
“Some kind of sitar stuff, ragas. Not my bag.”
“Did you see any of the footage of The Phil Sky Experience playing the first ever gig on the Moon?”
“Oh man… I thought I DREAMED that! That was real?”
“Uh… yeah. Sponsored by Virgin Spaceways.”
“Far out! Man… they made it! Seems a long way from Buckingham. Did Phil get the name right? Or did he shout “good evening, Ganymede?” (laughs so much it becomes a rasping cough)
“Sorry, would you like some water?”
“I’m not allowed liquids.”
“That must suck.”
“Maybe you can help me with this other dream. If it IS a dream, I dunno. Did I really see that Olie is now a judge on the X Factor?”
“Uh… yes, he is. He replaced Cher Lloyd for the new series.”
“Oh man… that’s hilarious!” (laughs again into the same rasping cough)
“The viewers have really taken to him.”
“Hahaha! Stop it!”
“What is your most vivid memory of the tour?”
“I have pictures in my head. I guess they’re probably real. I hope so. Endless hours on the tour bus. The women – always the women, waiting outside the venues to grab at us. Sometimes you take ‘em home. It’s never a good idea, but y’know man. What IS, right? I think one night I punched a panda in the face. And I know I drove a penny farthing over a cliff. Phil and me, waking up in the Penthouse Suite of the Jury’s Inn in the Hub, knee deep in murky water and with all sorts of stuff projecting on the walls. It was the furthest out I’ve ever travelled. I’ll tell you this, kid – don’t ever snort Resolve.”
“And the actual gigs themselves?”
“Aw, man. I wish I knew. The Watershed? Drum kit. Cranfield? Rick Stein. MADCAP? Light show. Bedford
“Kind of. You know the others have all contributed to the new eight-part BBC documentary series on the tour?”
“No. No, I didn’t know that. I don’t think. I saw Scott the other day on TV. He was collecting a Brit Award?”
“An Ivor Novello.”
“Far out.”
“What’s your biggest regret?”
“No one ever bought me one of those pint glass holders that screw on to your mic stand.”
Nurse Peg always jumps in at this point. Their five minutes is up, or something. Or it’s time for my medication. I can’t take any more than this. I don’t know how many times I’ve had this conversation, answered these questions. Or maybe this was the first time. I dunno. It doesn’t matter.
When I DO sleep – and that’s not often – I see stuff. Images of guitar cases, of PA speakers, burned into my mind. A tambourine flying through the air. That darn panda, dizzy. The sound of whirring helicopter blades. The millions of adoring faces. I wake up screaming “CRUSH ON YOU”. I don't know what it means.
The tour never ends. It never ends.
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