GIG TALES: "The Clap"
ON TOUR: New Zealand, 1988.
by Jon Dunmore © July 2005.

I was 23. She was 35. In those days of yore, climbing aboard a woman 12 years older than me was a conquest not unlike scaling Everest - not that it would give me apoxia or frostbite - but it would be something to tell the grandkids on those long summer evenings when the wolfsbane is in bloom and the internet is down. She wasn't the best-looking piece of trailer trash in this New Zealand venue but, like Everest, she was there.

I was halfway to humping her at the bar when my presence was unceremoniously called for around the back of the venue, where our Bassist was spending some quality time on all fours vomiting into the gutter…

I always seemed to be regarded as the person to call for dumbass occurrences like this. I cannot guess why. Maybe it was because I was the youngest member in the band and the least prone to heart failure at an inopportune moment; whatever the case, I recall other inebriated instances of my saving graces, through my barely-conscious cognizance -

Like that beleaguered Victorian tour, when the band relied on me alone to convince four chicks into coming back to our hotel. Now, as insensible as this may sound, the circumstances behind it were even more laughable. The band was "Purple," a Deep Purple cover band, with fully-funded agency backing and a salary which prompted us to complain only part of the time. When we rolled into this Melbourne town and found that NO prior advertising had been done at this venue, it was not surprising that only ELEVEN people attended this 300-capacity room. There were only four women in the "crowd."

And the band had all of them. (Despite 80s hair-band hedonism, how many groups can claim to fucking literally ALL of the chicks in the crowd?)

I don't remember the venue name. I don't remember the unmemorable sex. But I do remember the band manhandling me into a car with these four chicks, commissioning me to close the deal on bedding the band in toto. Wha-? I didn't even know where our hotel was, as this flesh-laden caravan (with me crammed betwixt perfumed bosom and ungloved thigh) took off for parts unknown (to score drugs, tampons, who-knows-what?), envisioning that the band's next contact with me would be bailing me naked out of a Melbourne prison, cum-stains on my cock AND my anus…When lo: Dunmore, sweet silver-tongue badass, delivers all four girls unto the band, the leggy blond for myself. The kicker was that the Bassist fell in love with his chunky big-chested beast and brought her to the next gig, whispering sweet-potato nothings in her ear -

Or that time in New Zealand when band, crew and tour staff all piled into the tour bus, everyone so drunk that they volunteered ME to drive that ten-gear stick. Keeping in mind that at that stage of my life, I was such an alcoholic that the band had to hide the drink rider from me before each show, I am presuming that the only reason I was chosen to pilot this vehicle was because I was voted Most Likely To Get Us Into A Painless Fatal Head-On Collision. Which, if you'd been witness to how much alcohol was consumed that night, seemed like a good idea at the time.

As an indication of the level of inebriation experienced by the bulk of our party, the Drummer got out and started pissing into the bay. And pissing. And pissing. We started timing him after 30 seconds. The Bassist was standing next to him, serving a dual purpose in corroborating his urination time (by intently watching his cock) and also ensuring that should our contentedly-swaying Drummer fall into the bay, well… the Bassist would too… We clocked him at 5 minutes exactly. That's gotta be some kind of record for Western civilization.

Weaving along New Zealand streets at 3 a.m., the engine screeching and cog-burning blue smoke from being unwillingly in second gear, I drove whilst taking verbal lessons from some crank-head next to me shouting over the laughing, something about this thing called a clutch.... Over the cries of, "Get it out of second gear, you tosspot!" one of the crew righteously shushed everyone with the drunken assertion, "Quiet! Let 'im drive - no one's ever died in second gear!" And somehow, through the grace of jesus and the apostles, we made it safely and thankfully - to another all-night boozer.

… So here I am laughing at the Bassist on his knees, spillage down his shiny stage vest, considering how to effectively fulcrum his weight into the tour bus without him drooling on my chest, when my elderly groupie turns up and offers to take me to her place. Hmm, a choice between vomit on my shirt and pussy on my face…

THE NEXT DAY: Back at the band hotel, eating my post-noon breakfast with a beer&bush hangover, my boastful tale of banging this geriatric wench while her son - good god! he was near MY age - slept in the next room, was overshadowed by the band telling me that they had it on good authority that Miss Everest was rank with disease and that, upon entering Australia through Customs, I would have to declare that I had slept with a woman of questionable persuasion and be ushered to the "Special Window" for medical disposition. (Of course, in my youthful gullibility, I did not even question that a term as ambiguous as "Special Window" was any cause for suspicion. Not from my loving bandmates, no!)

AT THE CUSTOMS WINDOW, in that manner that one adopts when purchasing pubic-wart lotion at a busy pharmacy, I sheepishly repeated that moniker, asking to be pointed in that direction. The Customs Officer matter-of-factly told me that this was the only access into Australia and that no other window, Special or otherwise, was available. So I loaded my voice with import and innuendo, "No, you don't understand - I need to go to The "SPECIAL" Window - you know, the SPECIAL WINDOW…!" He looked at me queerly and asked why I was so insistent and I cracked and sang like a canary, eyes downcast, confessionally, "I think I have a Sexually-Transmitted Disease, sir, which I caught from a woman who, er-" Like every humorless Customs Officer, he simply repeated his denial like he was talking to a retard… that's when I realized that behind me in the queue, four asshole bandguys were pissing their pants trying to stultify eye-watering guffaws…

My face might have been red, but thankfully - my dick wasn't.


Added: 2005, July 3