Simon Rushworth
I would like to say I’ll always remember the day AC/DC rocked Hampden Park for a remarkable version of Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.
Or at least for the atypically sultry conditions which provided the perfect backdrop to a hot night of rifftastic tunes. Or even for another cordial meeting with two of the nicest men in rock – The Answer’s Cormac and Paul.
I would love to think back to one of the most memorable days of my concert-going life and recall the good humoured folk of Glasgow taking two sweaty Geordies and a lanky former hoops pro to their hearts. I would love to look back on the comforting moment I secured beer tokens for the AC/DC pre-show party. And as an abiding thought what could possibly be better than a chance meeting with Self Made Man, replete with shades, shorts and sandals, in the midst of a massive stadium crowd?
All of the above are the memories I’d be happy to take away with me from yet another momentous day in 2009’s Summer Of Rock. Sadly, in years to come, when buddies united by their love of a classic Young riff come together to swap tales of old, there is one recollection of June 30, 2009 which will be reeled off time and time again.
Sat on a local train from Glasgow Central to Mount Florida I took a call from a Quireboy who’d been to see fellow Geordie Brian Johnson and his mates at Wembley four nights earlier. I had my back to a gang of drunken Jocks merrily singing versions of Accept songs, Saxon classics and, of course, a fair few AC/DC standards. Sitting with my back to the local choir was the first mistake.
The second was failing to respond to some serious hand waving and head shaking from my travel companions. They knew the fate which awaited me but I foolishly ignored their anxious gestures. The third mistake? Moving more slowly than Malcolm Young from the backline to his mic and back again.
You see one of the party of X-Factor wannabes – not the massive bloke who looked like a Viking, not the little fattie who looked like Ronnie James Dio’s overweight twin and not the heavily made-up rock chick who looked like she’d used curry sauce for foundation – had peaked too early. It later became clear he’d sunk three quarters of a bottle of vodka followed by a sarnie from Subway all in the space of 30 minutes.
As I chatted on the mobile he quietly climbed onto his seat. As I ignored the gestures to move he carefully opened the train window. And as I merrily went about my business in my own little world he coolly emptied the vodka Subway cocktail down the window and onto the tracks. But worse was to follow.
Within seconds we were on our way and the motion of rolling saw the puke change direction. Blowing in through the window it landed on my sleeve and trouser leg like a stinking wake-up call. I ended the call and stared at the vomit but there was no time to wallow in self-pity. Dio’s fat twin had already spotted his chance to be Billy Connolly’s unfunny cousin and began reeling off the one-liners like shit comedy was going out of fashion.
“I’m proud of you son,” he shouted at the top of his little voice. “You’re the first person to paint these trains in years. Thanks for keeping it down until now – I’ve only just decorated my flat. Three quarters of a bottle of Vodka and a Subway in half an hour so you’ve only got yourself to blame. I told you the Subway was too much. Subways – they’re shit. I’m not expecting much from the support band after that.”
And so it went on. Viking oaf and Curry Sauce chick could hardly contain their laughter. I could only try to contain the vomit. After waiting years to watch one of my favourite bands I would do so with some teenage Jock’s sick daubed across my best rock clobber. I would do so facing constant jibes from my so-called mates. And I would do so with fat Dio’s crap jokes ringing in my ears. But at least he got one thing right: Subways – they’re shit.