The record-shop guy threatened to go to the police but nothing ever came of it.
And the tour rumbled on, with plenty of great gigs and lots of great parties to show for it. Returning to New York, we played a benefit concert for Ruth. The fact that it was a benefit for Ruth, not to mention the manner of her passing, was obviously lost on Billy Idol and his mates, who all tried to get in for nothing, the freeloading bastards. It wasn’t even that expensive. Thinking about it now though it was probably someone using his name, happens to me all the time. It was sold out.
Around the same time we decided to go and pay our respects at Ruth’s grave, only them lot wouldn’t get up in the morning, so I ended up going alone. Or rather me and Julie Panebianco (a lovely girl and, before you ask, I didn’t, she was too nice) from Warners took a cab to Ruth’s parents’ home on the outskirts of New York, where we met her mum and dad. They were an elderly Jewish couple who were very pleased to see us and said they’d heard all about New Order and then, after a cup of tea, offered to drive us to see Ruth’s grave.
Her mum stayed at home so her dad drove, and fuck me, this guy was the worst driver I’ve ever seen. He drove through give-way signs, across red lights, pulled out into traffic. It was like he was determined to commit every traffic violation in the shortest possible time at full speed. Julie and I sat screaming, fingernails dug into the plastic like Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.
By some miracle we arrived at the cemetery in one piece, where we stood at Ruth’s grave and paid our respects before attending to the business of whether or not we dared get back in the car with her dad. If we did, it seemed like there was every likelihood we’d be joining Ruth sooner rather than later.
We contemplated doing a runner from the graveyard. That would have been a first. The problem was we were in the middle of nowhere, Hoboken or something, so in the end we decided we had no choice but to risk it and got back in the car with him, only to endure more death-wish driving all the way back to their house. Pinned to our seats with fear, we closed our eyes and prayed either we’d get home or the end would come quickly.
Eventually we arrived back. Not long after we got there, and while we were still shaking from the ordeal, Ruth’s brother arrived.
‘Where have you been?’ he said.
‘We’ve just been to see your sister’s grave.’
He looked at us, face pale. ‘You didn’t get in the car with my dad, did you?’
Turned out the poor guy had Alzheimer’s.
After a show in Tampa towards the end of the tour, everybody else was off to an aftershow party at some club, but I was feeling knackered. Our tour DJ, Frank Callari, chopped me out a line of coke. ‘Have that, brother, you’ll be fine.’
I hadn’t had any since the Pretty in Pink premiere and I thought, Why not? What the hell?
So I did. I had the line and pretty much right away, after a crap, was hot to trot. I must admit over the length of this tour I had got heartily sick of sitting in rooms listening to this lot come out with a right load of boring old shite, with their coke-induced revelations and truths, refusing to go anywhere, just sitting there with their noses in the trough. I suppose it was ‘if you can’t beat them’ etc. ‘So, let’s get to the party.’ Amazingly we all did. We went to whatever club was holding it, and there I got approached by a girl. She was lovely, but I’d decided I wasn’t interested in copping off, because – and I know how awful this sounds – I wanted a night off. This is how it got on tour; it was so easy to cop off with girls that you’d literally be doing it for the sake of it. I lost count of the times I fell asleep on the poor girls, and I mean, literally, on them.
So anyway, I was chatting away with this girl, a fan, and I was just being myself, not bothering with the Terry-Thomas routine, flying high on this line of coke, having a pretty good time, when she excused herself to go to the toilet.
I sat there watching the world go by, waiting for her to get back, when this kid slid into the seat beside me. ‘Hey you, motherfucker.’
‘You what?’
‘That’s my fucking sister, you don’t fuck with her.’
With that he left, and I sat there, a bit puzzled. Shortly after, the girl returned, we continued chatting, and for one reason or another I didn’t mention this brother figure lurking around. Then she went off again, this time for a dance to a song she liked, and once more this American kid takes a seat next to me. ‘I’m telling you, motherfucker, I’m watching you, and if you fuck with my sister, I’ll kick your ass.’
I don’t like being threatened, but fair enough, the kid was only looking out for his sister. So I said, ‘Look, mate, I’ve got no intentions towards your sister, all right? Now fuck off.’
He did.
The girl returned, flushed from her dance.
I said to her, ‘Listen, I’m not being funny, but your brother’s getting well irate over there. He’s really worried about you.’
She looked confused. ‘Brother? I haven’t got a brother.’
Right.
I got up, stormed across the club, grabbed hold of the kid by the lapels, nutted him, threw him on the floor, put my foot on his throat and was calling him a lying twat until the doormen dragged me off and – one of the perks of being in the group hosting the aftershow party – threw him out.
Now, I remember that incident well, because after that I started taking coke all the time. It was a combination of factors: no longer doing the equipment, no longer doing any driving, doing a lot of partying. After that, coke became a habit.
And that was it. That was how I ended 1986.
I was a cokehead.