As per the contract we had arrived on time before the bridal party, and set up our equipment on stage; had changed into our suits, and were enjoying some banter whilst the staff went about their business of nourishing the guests with their standard wedding breakfasts. We waited, we chatted, we mucked about, we drank the supplied beverages (water), and we waited. The official time to start playing was fast approaching, but we weren’t worried, weddings always run late, and speeches can drone on forever sometimes. At last, our dinner came through the double doors, trundled in begrudgingly by a bored looking overweightress. A dry jacket potato each, no butter, no filling, no accompaniments, not even a lettuce leaf, nothing!
I put my fork down and calmly explained that our food had only just been served and it wasn’t our fault the service and speeches had gone over time. He was a stocky bald-headed bloke, crimson with rage, and obviously uncomfortable in his bulging light grey morning suit, sans jacket. “You lot have cost me a fortune and I want you on f…ing stage, now!” Greg sitting opposite me was heinously pissed off, he didn’t lose his temper but simply got up, towering above the man and said menacingly, “we will be out in ten minutes when we have finished our meal.” The bride’s father was seething, but suddenly seeing some sense in the situation, backtracked into the function room after only partially venting his spleen.
“Now come on!” I said, “You’ve got to give us something to go with these, some cheese perhaps and a bit of salad.”
The one thing you should never do if you want to be entertained for the evening is anger the entertainment, because you are not gonna get the best out of them, and so it was.
“I’ll see what the chef says”, she huffed before retreating, like I’d asked her to walk to London to get it. Our agent stipulated quite clearly on his contracts that the band members were to be supplied with a hot meal each during the evening, and the bridal party had paid in advance for the venue to supply us with one. Most of the time we had excellent food and exceptional service, but now and again the kitchen staff either didn’t get the memo or were trying to pull a fast one and save a few bob.
me for eternity.
Saturday 15th August 1998. My stupidity on this night will haunt
The gig was in a picturesque setting; a marquee in the rear garden of a house called Mint Cottage, a name which might conjure up for you a quintessential pretty country abode engulfed in a plethora of scented flowering shrubs, climbers and mature trees in acres of woodland, and you’d be right. It was situated on the corner of a rural cul-de-sac, in the sleepy village of Westcott, Surrey.
Some grated cheese and a bowl of mixed leaf salad duly arrived, we served it amongst ourselves and a fork full of lukewarm over-cooked potato dangled with flaky cheddar was just about to touch my lips, when the connecting door to the function room flew open and in burst an irate father-of-thebride, fuming that we weren’t on stage, and that he’d paid good money for entertainment, ordering us to get out there now and play some bloody music!
The arrival time was set at 7:00pm, on this occasion I was driving my van, a red Vauxhall Astra, with Nick my keyboard player as a passenger; he was yet to pass his driving test.
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