It’s not worth going to jail for, Bonzo. Let’s get out of here.”
I had my right hand on John Bonham’s shoulder, trying to push him out of the kitchen of a hotel restaurant in Dublin. His hands were pressed against my chest, attempting to throw me off balance and make a lunge toward the hotel chef, who was already fully armed for combat, waving a carving knife over his head, poised like a fencer ready for battle.
“Hey, you asshole,” Bonham said. “All I wanted was a goddamned meal. What kind of crap are you trying to pull?”
After a concert at Boxing Stadium in Dublin, we had returned to the hotel, and Bonham had strolled into the kitchen shortly after midnight, about thirty minutes after the restaurant had closed. He was intent on getting a meal and wasn’t willing to take “no” for an answer. Bonzo could be the most headstrong, the most defiant member of the band, even though there was also a gentle, loving side to him.
It was March 1971, and Led Zeppelin was on the road. After more than a five-month hiatus from live performing, Peter had talked the band into getting back onstage, although there were mixed feelings about doing so. They certainly no longer needed the money that concerts could bring. And there was no burning enthusiasm to rekindle the excitement that inevitably comes with live performing. The band had performed live nearly 250 times in their first two years of existence, and there was a feeling that “we’ve done it.”
But like a broken record, Peter had set his sights back on America. He hoped the band would spend at least a month there in the summer, and he didn’t want them to be rusty when that tour began. Although Peter didn’t control the band with an iron fist, they still trusted him implicitly and generally went along with any career move he felt strongly about. So as spring approached, Peter convinced Zeppelin to sign on for a series of concerts in Ireland and the U.K., with the possibility of a few gigs in Europe as well. “It will keep you sharp,” he said. “And it won’t be too taxing.”
In a sense, the two concerts scheduled for Ireland were unique. Most British bands had routinely avoided Ireland since the late 1960s, when violence between Protestants and Catholics created chaos in the streets. Still, Led Zeppelin agreed to take its show on the road there, even though we were warned that kidnappings, bombings, and other terrorist acts had become almost everyday occurrences in parts of Ireland and Northern Ireland.
Jimmy, however, wasn’t particularly concerned. “I don’t see why Led Zeppelin would be a target,” he said. “If anything, maybe we can take people’s minds off the insanity that’s going on around them.”
Just hours before our concert in Belfast, there was a confrontation between police and demonstrators about a mile from Ulster Hall, where the band would be performing. One person died. Two policemen were hospitalized. Four cars were firebombed. As word of the violence reached us, my own anxiety level soared. The most stressful part of my job continued to be ensuring the band’s safety, and the trip to Ireland seemed like walking into the lion’s den. I voiced my concern to Peter, although he didn’t feel any additional security was necessary. But I was a little more jittery than usual, although I didn’t discuss it with the band, feeling there was no need to spread the nervousness around.
After the performance that night, a limousine was waiting for us to make a quick exit and a drive to Dublin for a performance the next night. I needed something to calm my nerves and figured no one else would complain if there was enough to go around. So earlier that day, I had stopped in a liquor store and had a bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey waiting in the limo for each of the band members.
“It’s amazing how much faster the drive goes with this stuff,” Robert said. “Richard, you should buy it by the case.”
I had. The trunk was filled with whiskey, ready to replenish our supplies.
We drove through some tough neighborhoods on the drive to Dublin. Tanks were parked on the sides of roads. Soldiers walked the sidewalks, ominously carrying rifles on their shoulders. Windows had been boarded up, nursing wounds from rocks thrown by rioters. A few buildings had been completely gutted by firebombs. It was a sobering sight.
By the time we finally reached Dublin, all of us had polished off a couple of bottles of Jameson’s. And after the concert there, a few glasses of Irish whiskey didn’t help Bonzo’s self-control when he went looking for food in the hotel.
Our chauffeur had accompanied Bonham into the kitchen, and as the confrontation there escalated, he placed a frantic call to my room. “You better get the hell down here before John kills somebody or vice versa.”
I raced down the stairs, and as I stormed through the kitchen doors, Bonham and the chef were facing one another on opposite sides of a table.
“I told you that we’re closed, you jerk!” the chef shouted. “We can’t serve food after eleven-thirty!”
“I’m not asking for a five-course meal,” Bonham screamed back. “I’ll settle for a fucking sandwich. I’ll even make it myself if you’re too damn lazy to do it!”
The chef waved his carving knife menacingly. It was big enough to engrave initials on a brontosaurus. “After I get through with you,” the chef said, “you’re gonna look like you went through a bread slicer!”
Bonham didn’t like being threatened. He began walking around the table, moving toward his adversary. I couldn’t believe what was happening. When Peter had placed Ireland on our itinerary, I had been concerned about being caught up in the country’s civil war; I had never expected that the real threat would come from a chef in a hotel kitchen!
I quickly stepped in front of Bonzo and shoved him backward. He resisted and tried to push me aside. That’s when I swung at him with my right fist, aiming right at his nose.
Bull’s-eye! Bonham staggered back a few steps, tripped on a chair, and dropped to one knee. His nose was gushing with blood—so much blood that if this were a prizefight, it would have been stopped on a TKO.
“Fuck!” Bonzo screamed, gingerly rubbing at his nose with the back of his right hand. “Cole, who’s fuckin’ side are you on?”
“When you sober up, you’ll thank me for that,” I said, realizing there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he ever would. I grabbed him by the shirt and led him out of the kitchen. “That guy was ready to turn you into ground round!”
Maybe I had saved Bonham a few stitches and a scar or two, but we still had to find an emergency room. My right hand wasn’t as vicious as Joe Frazier’s, but I had broken Bonham’s nose.
As we waited to see a doctor, Bonham said, “How can I ever thank you?” The statement oozed with sarcasm. Then the anger in his voice escalated. “Maybe I’ll tell Peter to throw you out on your ass! If I had my way, Peter would fire you!”
The next day, Peter was in no mood to do much of anything. After Bonham and I had returned from the hospital, I had gone to Peter’s room to explain what had happened. There were several bottles of champagne in his room—neither of us counted how many—and we finished them off in a three-hour drinking binge. Later that day, we downed thirty Irish coffees, which didn’t do much for our condition.
That was the last time we used coffee to treat a hangover!