Tales From The Tour Part 4
I always wondered what thought(s) would go through my mind if I ever found myself on the wrong end of a plane crash, but these surprised even someone as sporadically hollow as me. As I sat in an apparently gradually shrinking seat, nails deeply entrenched in the plastic seat divider, I continuously asked myself one baffling question: why did I not buy a copy of that porn mag in the airport? Not that it would have done anything to avert this impending disaster, but there would have been something comforting about looking at it I imagine. They say in times like these your life flashes before your eyes, but in my case it was a porn star’s embellished gaze that seemed to have fixated itself upon my consciousness, and was determined to be the image that would accompany me to a watery grave that looked increasingly more feasible as each second sped past.
I remember watching an episode of Air Crash Investigation in which one of the survivors said that he knew they were really in trouble when he saw the air hostesses starting to panic. For the sake of my sanity, I couldn’t see any of the crew as they appeared to have assembled themselves conveniently behind curtains and in nooks that are usually reserved for lights-out flirting and sneaky hand-jobs. My breathing had become noticeably austere, and none of it was helped by my berk of a neighbour who sported an idiotic grin like this was as entertaining a situation as one could find themselves in. When he slipped his over-priced Dre headphones back on without as much as a word of reassurance or buoyant glance to soothe the tension, I felt like punching him. I figured at that point that me violently attacking another passenger was not going to help anybody, and would most likely get me arrested if we landed.
All thoughts of violence disappeared as the pilot's voice punctuated the silence to say that we were having some engine difficulties, and would need to turn back and conduct an emergency landing. It’s funny how something as reassuring as the fact that we were going to land can be so frightening. All I could envisage was the plane hurtling uncontrollably towards the ground as we exploded into a ball of fuel-induced mayhem. My next thought was if we do land, how the hell am I going to get back on a plane to Paris? Valium would most likely be the solution.
I couldn't deduce anything from the sound of the pilots voice, as one of the passengers behind me shrieked from what I can only assume was a view of the engine. The plane started to slope severely to the left, giving the impression that we were flying through the sky like an X-wing on its side. As the plane levelled off, we dropped with a sense of immediacy that causes one's stomach to up sticks and try to parachute out of one's mouth. It was like the hurdling down the peak of the Kingda Ka except I didn't know if I'd make if off this ride.
The pilot contacted us with something along the lines of ''Brace yourselves for emergency landing'' though I can't recall it verbatim. I always thought that a landing such as this would have more communication between cockpit and cabin, but the silence was the worst part. The plane shook violently as we passed through some cloud, and the look on the face of the guy next to me had changed from entertained to undoubtedly horrified. We continued to drop at a malevolent speed as a quick peek to my right showed the land rising increasingly quick towards us. Grown men were now starting to groan as the sound of the landing gear pierced the cabin. Women began to scream, and right then I wished I had someone's hand to hold. The single engine revved louder, as it bore the full brunt of the deficiencies of the inert one on the opposing wing. As the tarmac rose to greet us, we slammed hard into the slippery asphalt, the engine going into reverse as the plane veered from side to side on the runway. As the speed reduced the tension evaporated as for now at least, we were safe.
The rest of the experience for me is a blur consisting of a frantic disembark coupled with a Valium calm. I always have a couple spare just in case; luckily they came in handy this time around. The fire crew foamed down the engine, which it turns out was damaged by some birds flying into it. I rang Harvey to explain the situation, and he in turn contacted the promoters in Paris. They were pretty understanding and agreed to put me on the next night instead as I wasn't booked to play anywhere else. In my painkiller wisdom I figured that since the hotel was already booked, I'd hop on the next plane rather than sleep on a bench in the airport. Fortunately for me the rearranged 90 minute flight to the French capital was as peaceful and placid as I could have hoped for. Thinking back on it, I can’t believe I actually got on a plane as soon as I did. When I came out at arrivals, dazed and confused, there was a quintessentially looking Gallic gent there to meet me. He took my bags, showed me to the car and said very little on the way; just what I was hoping for.
The hotel was located in the Opéra district of Paris, not a place I was familiar with, but at this stage I didn't care. All I wanted to do was to curl up in bed and relax from what had been the most stressful day of my life: nearly caught by a big bodybuilder having a threesome with his girlfriend, and almost ending up in a fiery grave on a runway in Ibiza; thankfully the drama was behind me. I received my key from reception for my room and entered the lift. It stopped on the fifth floor where I exited and walked towards my room. As I was nearing it, the sound of a French accent echoed from behind me. ''Excuse me zir, but zere is a lady waiting in your room who sez she iz one of your biggest fanz''. He winked, but I sighed heavily. This was a first, and frankly a first I wasn't in the mood for.
As I entered the room, a long dividing wall on my left obscured my view of the bed. As I walked down the short hall and turned left, a suspender-clad woman lay in wait for me on the bed. Before I could process one iota of this she jumped towards me, spun me around to face the wall and rubbed her hand over my zipper. Before I knew it, she was placing handcuffs around my wrists and opening my belt. She pulled down my jeans as I tried to understand how I was now standing in a hotel room in Paris with jeans around my ankles, handcuffed and immobile. She then uttered three words--that weren't I love you-- that will haunt me forever: "He’s all yours". With that, the wardrobe doors slid open as someone straight out of the UFC heavyweight division exited the closet. He was the meanest, most destructive person I’d ever set eyes on. He walked towards me, black suede bag in hand, as I tried to scramble but it was in vain; the jeans tripped me up as the handcuffs forced my shoulder to take the fall against the wall. He slipped the bag over my head as my world descended into frightening darkness. "Payback time’’ he said as he dragged me to my feet, and pushed me face forward onto the bed.
To be continued……………