John Askew

BELFAST AND VANCOUVER – VALENTINES WEEKEND 09

I’m the next person to walk through the metal detector at Heathrow Terminal One. The security man on the other side has motioned for me to wait as his female colleague gives a nervous pregnant woman a thorough body search. Like the young pregnant woman I’m surprised just how thorough the search is. She goes round and under each breast with her fingers and considerably higher up the inner thigh than I would have deemed acceptable. As she’s given the all clear and I am beckoned through I make a jovial comment to the security woman that her job would be a lesbian’s wet dream.

“I beg your pardon Sir, what did you say?” she barks, like an SS officer with an equally offensive glare.

Abort!!! Abort!!!

“Oh nothing…honest…I didn’t say a thing….just….erm…you know….”.

Just get your shoes and belt back on quick time Askew and leg it.

As I walk away briskly – still feeling their eyes in the back of my head I think about what I said. Ok, on the face of it was a little bit cheeky and the fact that she clearly was a blatant carpet munching, dungaree wearing wool farmer meant she took it more personally, but what could they really do if I stuck to my guns and repeated the line when she questioned me? It’s not like I said the word “bomb” or one of those other words that would of provoked a full anal cavity search and a one way ticket to the Guantanamo Bay Ritz. I was just pointing out a fact – here was a lesbian whose job was to feel up women all day long and I’d called her bluff. If she’d really kicked off I would of run after the pregnant woman to get her to make a formal complaint. I know she would of – I saw it in her eyes.

So – I get my BMI flight to Belfast, land and get driven to a delightful little boutique hotel (Crescent Townhouse) where they have kindly booked me into an amazing suite. I watch the film “Taken” with Liam Neeson. An excellent action packed movie that I highly recommend to those of you that like the Jason Bourne series. I tell the promoter on the way to the gig that I am trying not to get pissed tonight as I have a seriously long day tomorrow – travelling to Canada to play a big event in Vancouver.

By the end of my set I’m shit faced on Jack Daniels and accept an offer to have a quick night cap in the hotel bar with the promoter a few of his mates plus a random couple who were clearly hoping to have a quite end to their romantic Valentines date. A few pints of Guinness later and my sensible voice requests my presence back at the room. I crash at about 3am. Not too bad.

I wake with an incredible hang over. Forgot to drink any water before passing out last night. I shower and drink a litre of water from the tap before grabbing a cab to the airport. The driver tells me he bought his house 8 years ago for 5 grand and now it’s worth 150,000. Lucky fucker!

Flight to Heathrow is delayed by an hour and when I finally touch down back at Terminal One I have exactly 1 hour and 20 minutes to get to Terminal 5 for my connecting flight to Vancouver. I get there in time, check in and head for the bar. I don’t want to get drunk, but I have to have just one beer to take the edge of this bastard hang over which has had me sweating booze from every pore in my body for the last 4 hours. On the plane I see a respectable list of “on demand movies” and for once don’t dread the idea of being trapped in this flying prison for the next 11 hours. An Indian guy in his early fifties sits down next to me and we strike up a conversation. He works in IT and is off on his 2nd Skiing holiday of this year to Whistler with family and friends. He is drunk. As it turns out he has a wicked sense of humour and we end up drinking several Gin and Tonics together while taking the piss out of other passengers. Our noise level attracts some unwanted attention and eventually a woman on the adjacent row asks my new pal to be quiet. I feel like a schoolboy in trouble and decide to lay low for a while and watch a film. On my neighbours recommendation I watch the new Woody Allen film (can’t remember the full title but it has the words “Vicky” and “Barcelona” in it). It’s brilliant. Meanwhile my friend has gone walk about. We are about 4 hours into the 11 hour flight and believe it or not I don’t see boozy old boozy again till we are about to land. Fuck knows where he’s been or what he has been up to but when he is ordered back to his seat in preparation for landing he is looking worse for wear and smells like a whiskey distillery. His son, who must be 14 or 15 comes to check on him and apologises for his behaviour. Don’t be silly – I say - the guy’s a fucking legend.

Arriving in Vancouver I get the usual 3rd degree from Canadian immigration. An hour and a half of being interrogated for them to say “everything is in order – you’re good to go”. Do we really need to go through this every time I come to Canada? These guys are one of the toughest lot I have encountered. Second only to Russian immigration.

Eventually I’m through and I get a lift to the hotel which is amazing and I am fortunate to have a stunning room overlooking the harbour. The view is breath taking and I sit there for 20 minutes taking it in.

Tom Colontonio is also playing tonight and he comes by my room for a beer and a catch up. I love Tom. He’s a straight up guy and we share funny stories from the road for a few hours before he has to go and get ready for the club and I grab a few hours of sleep.

I get to the venue around 2am and Tom is rocking it. His remix of “Affirmation” has them by the balls.

This is an “all ages” event so there is zero booze allowed in the venue at all, so we’re being good and drinking Redbulls and water which after last night is probably a good thing. I really enjoy my set and am highly amused looking at the front row of girls leaning against the crowd barrier, all clearly off their tits on pills, pushing their arses backwards onto the line of boyfriends behind them who are grind away with their randy crotches – oblivious of all the other people staring at them. It’s a kind of “dry humping” sex show and it’s making me and Colontonio laugh like crazy. It is Valentines night after all so a bit of heavy petting is expected.

The new track “Vandalism” sounds amazing on this rig and as my set comes to an end too quickly. I’m really enjoying the night and wish I had just one more hour. So many tracks I didn’t get to play. Gutted.

I bump into an old friend Danny Taylor – who was the first promoter to every book me in Canada. We have a big hug and I say that we must meet for lunch tomorrow before I head back to the UK. It’s not till I’m in the car on the way back to the hotel that the guys chaperoning me tell me that it wasn’t Danny at all. I thought his voice was a bit odd but my god he was a spitting image. I call Danny and tell him about it and we laugh.

Back at the hotel I order the new bond movie Quantum of Solace. I’m jet lagged to fuck so wont be able to sleep yet. Great action scene’s but generally a bit disappointing. The story line has no substance or depth and Bond doesn’t even screw the main bird in the film. What the fuck? Ian Fleming would turn in his grave. This is an outrage and I make a note to voice my opinions in a formal complaint to the producer Barbara Brocolli. Every woman who comes into contact with Bond (except M obviously) should by right fall victim to his secret service secret services.