It was more than a little surprising to receive an invitation to attend the 2004 Irish Music Awards and present an award, purely on the basis of being The Darkness’s bass player. Like most people, I love Ireland, the Irish and their way of doing things. What I don’t enjoy is pomp and ceremony, i.e. awards shows, but the Irish don’t do things like that so I accepted. Perhaps I’m just secretly addicted to the smell of Guinness farts…
It was strange but quite liberating to attend a function all on my own without the rest of the band, and in no time at all I was actually feeling quite comfortable in the backstage area rather than suffering the anxiety that normally engulfs me. I chatted away to an actor from Coronation Street who had recently appeared in a Ken Loach movie, filling me with a warm glow of reassurance. Perhaps if I could trick my mind effectively enough, there would be less chance of my stammer making a humiliating television debut.
I kept asking which award I was going to present, but no one seemed to know or care – we were in Ireland and, as long as everyone was merry, what did it matter? I felt OK right up until the moment my sweet messenger Mary told me I was down to present the award for Best Irish Band.
‘Who is it, then?’ I asked.
‘It’s Snow Patrol,’ she replied, beaming.
I was horrified: ‘But I can’t stand them, and they’re not even Irish, they’re from the north!’ But it was too late, I’d been flown over for this, and it was the last presentation before the long-winded Special Achievement Award. I felt like I was about to have my prostate examined.
When it came time to hand over the award, I was smarting so much that I clean forgot to stammer. That part was fine. What really hurt was that Snow Patrol thought I’d flown over as a fan, specially for them, and I spent the rest of the evening going through the motions of ‘bonding’ with the various band members. I have a vague memory of jumping up on a table at one point and stamping my foot, before ranting: ‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND! I H-H-HATE YOU, I H-HATE YOU, I H-H-H-HATE YOU!’
To round off a quite bizarre evening, The Rolling Stones’ Ronnie Wood, whom I’d been sneaking vodka to backstage while his wife’s back was turned, was now jamming on stage with The Thrills at the aftershow party. In between numbers he slurred for someone to get me to come on stage: ‘Is Frank out there? Can someone get Frank?’
It was five in the morning, and I’d had so many large Jameson’s I’d unlocked the secret to seeing things in quadruple – I thought I had eight hands and four cocks.
Even in that state I was vaguely aware this was a unique opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to jam with a Rolling Stone – something to brag about to your grandchildren, anyway. Instead, I grabbed the Snow Patrol bassist and ushered him towards the stage. Then I staggered back to the bar away from the almighty din that musos like to call ‘jams’. I vaguely remember chatting with the four members of The Corrs – though, looking back, it may just have been one of them. Little did I know at the time that Snore Patrol’s next album would take the world by storm while I was busy digging a sand pit in rural France.
