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January
Hello, me again.
Thanks
to the ponces for the telly, only problem is, it isn’t tuned
in properly. I can’t get channel 4 and there is a very
interesting programme about Greek Cooking tonight followed by
something that looks like it might have tits in it, so if one of
you wankers could take ten minutes off from pretending to be
middle aged Canadian rock stars and come and sort it I would be
eternally grateful, also the chains on the left arm are a bit
tight, I am having to type with one hand and it is severely
restricting my only worthwhile hobby.
Throw in a Kit Kat and I might not mention what I saw you all
doing when you accidentally left the studio door open on Thursday
night, dirty bastards. I can’t understand what all the
arguing was about, from where I was sat it was Paul’s by a
mile. But mainly the telly, thanks.
Now, without any further fucking about let’s get back to
some more hilarious tales of life on the road with the three
buskateers.
In
The Basement Bars...
Just because we were famous and had more money than God between
us didn’t mean that every door was open at all times. Let me
tell you about an incident that occurred in ‘84 during the "Grace
Under Pressure" tour. We had just finished a
sell-out three-night run at what was then the ‘Hammersmith
Odeon’ and the night had started out very promisingly.
Geddy had done the entire gig with a bottle of
Gin stashed behind the Hi-Watts and had managed to get through
most of it, I was watching from stage left, groping one of Neil's
groupies and steadily making my way through his ever depleting
stash. He was so busy glowering at me at one point that he
totally cocked up the intro to By-Tor. Alex
had bought a new foot pedal, which he was using far too much and
giggling a lot, to the great annoyance of the sound engineer.
Anyway by half eleven it was mission accomplished. Working
Man medley out of the way, quick shower, few
autographs, sorted. A three-day break till Manchester Apollo and
it was cider frenzy time. One slight problem - we were in
England, it was Sunday night and everywhere had shut at half past
fecking ten.
I remember walking for miles until we found the only place still
lit up. It was a Jewish ‘members only’ bar in Shepherds
Bush Green. Geddys’ ‘do you know who I
am’ routine got us past the bouncers but the barman was
having none of it, despite us threatening to have the entire crew
down to stir the place up if we didn’t get half of Bulmers
each in the next thirty seconds.
Above the fireplace on the far wall was a huge ‘Star of
David’ so Geddy, accepting that we
weren’t getting served decided it would be hilarious to
completely strip off and pose in front of it like the bloke on
the cover of 2112. It was fucking funny
as well the first three or four times, but then a few of the
women got a bit hysterical and the bouncers were getting
agitated. Here’s what followed.
BOUNCER -
“Come on mate, enough’s enough, get your clothes on and
fuck off”
ALEX - “Hahaha! I know, it’s 2112 isn’t it Geddy?!
I want to get dressed up like the lady on Permanent Waves and
walk up and down a bit, which album cover do you want to be
Neil?”
BOUNCER (to Neil) -
“Come on mate get him sorted, some of the women are freaking
out”
NEIL - “YOU CAN CHOOSE A READY GUIDE IN SOME CELESTIAL
VOICE”
BOUNCER - “Don’t be talking bollocks mate, I’ve
just about had enough here”
NEIL - “IF YOU CHOOSE NOT TO DECIDE, YOU STILL HAVE MADE A
CHOICE.”
BOUNCER - “Right, that’s it, come here sunshine”
GEDDY - “OK lets fuckOUCH!”
As you
can imagine there was a minor fracas, I didn’t get involved
cos of me bad back and besides I was trying to collect Geddy's
clothes so we could get him covered up as soon as he hit the
pavement.
So, after stemming the bleeding a bit and calming Alex
down it was time to formulate and put into action plan B. There
was a somewhat posh looking restaurant over the road. We could
just order the food and down as many pints as we could before it
came. Could we pull it off? Could we fuck. Here’s what
happened.
WAITER
- “Good evening gentlemen, are you ready to order?”
GEDDY “I’ll have the rack of lamb in a rosemary sauce
with a panache of seasonal vegetables and a side salad with
Caesar dressing please”
WAITER “Fine. You sir?”
ALEX - “Oh! I want some chips and some alphabetti spaghetti
and a fried egg please, but leave it runny cos I like to dip my
chips in.”
WAITER “ Very good sir. And you sir?”
NEIL - “WE‘VE TAKEN CARE OF EVERYTHING, THE WORDS YOU
READ THE SONGS YOU SING.”
GEDDY - “Let‘s fuck off”
So
there we were, three of the best looking blokes in town and Geddy,
enough money between us to purchase a small Eastern Bloc country,
all dressed up and nowhere to go.
On a lighter note, on the way home Geddy put his
foot through a Cooplands window and got us all a jumbo sausage
roll and a strawberry flan. With that we trudged disconsolately
back to the hotel, where, guess what, the bleeding bar was shut.
Next month, a fiasco in Burger King and how I came to write the lyrics for Tom Sawyer.
But
you still question why...
The ponces inform me that there has been a considerable amount of
correspondence regarding the column, which gives me a fucking
chozzer idea about a new feature called ‘Ask
Marlow’ where you miserable no life bastards send
in queries and I sort the fuckers out like what Oprah and Trisha
do, and that other fat bird that’s on UK Living at the same
time as ’Deal or no Deal’
Here we go then, let’s get interactive, first one right in
here please.
Dear
Marlow
"I think the golden age of Rush production was the Terry
Brown era, although the production was not totally cutting edge
for its time it did provide the separation and clarity necessary
to provide the ideal medium for the somewhat complicated
arrangements that rush were providing at the time. My friend
Phillip thinks that the post terry Brown era brought an
improvement in production and for example Collins' use of brass
on ‘Hold Your Fire’ was a stroke of genius that added a
new dimension to an already great format. What are your thoughts
on the subject?"
D.S Chesterfield
Marlow Says -
Couldn’t give a fuck.
Dear Marlow
"Over the past few days I have experienced extreme
discomfort and irritation around the tip of my penis along with a
reddening of the foreskin and a burning sensation whenever I
urinate. Do you think this could be thrush? "
P.D Derby
Marlow says -
Almost certainly, you need to apply Canniston or some other mild
steroid cream twice daily and stop shagging dirty birds at the
weekend. By the way, you have emailed the wrong website.
Dear Marlow
"AND THE MEN WHO HOLD HIGH PLACES, MUST BE THE ONES WHO
START,
TO MOULD A NEW REALITY, CLOSER TO THE HEART."
N.P Toronto
Marlow Says -
Not necessarily, I firmly believe that new reality moulding is
the responsibility of us all as individuals and not particularly
the exclusive remit of ‘men who hold high places’.
Still, that’s just me though.
Dear Marlow
"Seeing as though Rush have been together for over 500 years
now and we all realise what a tedious regime touring can be. What
with the endless stream of hotels and cities that we probably
wouldn’t visit given the choice, do you think that out of
sheer desperation and boredom Geddy and the boys have at some
point succumbed to wife swapping or even indulged in the odd game
of touchy cock among themselves on a cold night in Manchester
perhaps? "
A.M - Doncaster
Marlow Says -
Tricky one this. It is a well known fact that whenever Geddy is
not touring, writing or playing 12 instruments all at once, he
likes nothing better than going out, getting pissed and taking
loads of drugs with Motley Crue, so I
wouldn’t totally discount the possibility that he has
‘thrown a mix’ over Pamela Anderson's
knockers at some stage in the proceedings, but the Rush
thing, no, can’t see it to be honest. Nice thought though,
like your style, nice one.
Right, that’s you lot sorted. Thanks for that and keep them coming.
That’s me for another month, that ponce who thinks he’s Geddy has just been in and sorted the telly and slackened the chain so I can actually feel my left arm for the first time in a week, and guess what, a fucking really big Kit Kat and a picture of that ugly barmaid off Emmerdale in night attire, so I was intending to stuff my face and attend to a little business.
But
actually there’s water pissing in here due to some plumbing
disaster, the tight bastard says he’s not forking out for a
plumber and going to try and fix it himself, and in the meantime
I’m off to stay with the ponces and their techs up at Brav
Mansions. This should be fucking good. I’ve stashed a pen
and some scraps of paper and intend to keep a diary of what the
weirdos get up to, so keep an eye out for my diary of life with
the Bravs.
Speak
to you soon,
Marlow
