Contrary to expectations, we didn’t crack the German market. They took their rock seriously and we didn’t. It was simple enough to understand, but record companies rarely trade in such homespun truisms. So we kept plugging away, visiting Germany on a regular basis in the forlorn hope that British cock rock could dent the Teutonic consciousness.
Our record company, Atlantic, wouldn’t even let us celebrate the biggest night of our lives, booking a late-night private jet after our victorious 2004 Brits appearance so we could appear on a German talk show the following day. The press made a big deal about us ducking out of all the parties after the event and going home early, which was embarrassing enough in itself, but what was worse was not being able to savour what should have, on paper, been ‘the greatest night of our lives’. The purpose of this explanation isn’t to vent bitterness, however, but rather an attempt to excuse what followed.
After our appearance on Germany’s most popular chat show the very next day, we checked into our hotel in Düsseldorf. We signed in, as usual, with our aliases – Justin as ‘Fray Bentos’, Dan as ‘Bernard Matthews’, Ed as ‘Roger Daily’ and (after a brief ill-judged flirtation with ‘Pierre De Fille’) myself as ‘Scot Free’ – nothing to do with Scottish nationalism, but instead inspired by a knack of avoiding mini-bar charges.
Band, crew and hangers-on assembled in the bar for drinks. The German football squad, then managed by Rudi Völler, also happened to be guests and were having a team meeting in the next room. One by one, we headed to our rooms as night wore on, leaving Justin and Ed alone together.
Early the next morning, I was rudely awakened by a furious German hotel manager. After hammering on the door, he barged in, scanned the contents of my room and barked, ‘THE OTHER ONES ARE DESTROYED!’ Then he slammed the door shut and bolted off again. I scratched my head in puzzlement and went back to sleep before later knitting the story together from the horse’s mouth (in this case, Ed and Justin).
Apparently, the bar manager had become nervous about insubordinate English rockers keeping the precious national football team awake. ‘You must keep the noise down, we have the German players here and they must have peace,’ he urged, on more than one occasion. Considering that our band had booked out the best suites in the hotel and spent good money in that bar, Justin and Ed felt more than a little put out at his attitude.
Eventually, he stopped serving them altogether and the pair headed upstairs intent on retribution. First they trashed Justin’s palatial suite – after obliterating the furnishings, they sabotaged the air-con and wedged plants in the mini-bar. Then they staggered next door and ‘Keith Mooned’ Ed’s suite into the bargain, before collapsing into bed, resentment spent.
And that was how the manager found them the next morning, blissfully slumbering like babes in the wood. It was certainly amusing on a technical level – an angry German hotel manager is practically a Wikipedia definition of British comedy gold – Basil Fawlty meets ’Allo ’Allo!.
I stumbled upon the warring factions in reception, trading insults with each other over a €30,000 bill for damages. The police would be called in unless the full amount was paid up there and then. Justin and Ed were still inebriated and slurring their words so badly that the manager might as well have invoiced a herd of wild elephants. Some of the German football squad looked on, doubtless remembering just how dangerous drunken English hooligans can be and keeping a safe distance.
As I headed for the tour bus, leaving our tour manager Moz to sort the mess out, I was stopped by a smiling fräulein and her golden-haired twin daughters, around seven years old (perhaps they thought I was one of their footballers?). ‘You vill sign this poster [I was relieved to see it was a picture of our band and not the 2004 German European Championship squad] for the girls and please you vill tell me where the others are.’ They looked so innocent and unknowing. What a contrast. ‘They pay the bill now,’ I enunciated slowly, trying to talk as I patronisingly imagined a German person would. ‘Then they sign for you, I am sure.’ I heard the police sirens first and then smiled to myself at the sheer poetry of it all.
