Drunk and giggling in a blood-splattered bath, his arms held aloft by Shep who was also splattered. Quickly taking in the nightmare I assessed that the amount of blood lost was not enough to kill him though things looked bad. Fortunately he hadn’t put any water in the bath – warm water would have drawn the blood out of him and he would have died. I know what they say about cries for help and this might well have been one rather than a real suicide attempt. Pete knew there was someone close at hand even though he did lock the door.
But I never have got on with the idea of suicide. It enrages me. I’ve seen too many people struggling for life to be impressed by anyone seeking death. “You selfish bastard – you’ve put every one of us in jeopardy!” I ranted whilst bandaging his wrists with rags. “You stupid selfish bastard!” – tying his wrists together above his head. “Drink this!” I fed him gallons of water – not something he was used to! It took about an hour for the bleeding – and the stupid drunken giggling – to stop completely. But I had no sympathy.
And he’d broken into the cases of wine I’d had delivered to the shop, the bastard.
Something else – something worse: his behaviour would have lead to involvement with the authorities: medics, police, people wanting to interview anyone involved in any way and family members having views to express. A terrible thought to us all in those days. That was why, when Shep kicked the door in and saw what he saw, he phoned me, not an ambulance and that is why we took the risk of not taking Pete to the hospital. We all knew that the police would find traces of party substances on the premises and the whole thing would all have been such a mither. When the crisis had passed we made jokes about Whitty needing to drink lots of Guinness. A bit ironic in the circumstances.
The bloodletting was not mentioned after that. Whitty and I never fell out. We loved one another but the rawhide he tied round his wrists didn’t hide the scars.
There was a gig scheduled in Leeds – quite an important one at a big venue – and I had gone searching for Whitty. I found him at a friend’s house; he’d already consumed a bottle of gin. I eventually got the van and the band and Whitty together in the same place, confiscated his drink and set off for Leeds. The van broke down between Knutsford and Manchester; we summoned the AA (the Automobile Association that is, not Alcoholics Anonymous!) and we got a relay to Leeds. The venue was in the red light district: strip clubs and prostitutes everywhere you looked. Under normal circumstances we wouldn’t have got out of the van in bandit territory but we had a job to do and we were just about in time.
There it was: the size of two football pitches – the biggest pub you could imagine. I’ve never seen anything like it: a massive, massive hall. A great void. Yes – there might have been a hundred people there but it was still empty; the scale dwarfed everything.
There was a problem with the sound system: Shep was standing there at the desk shaking his head and throwing up his hands. We had cross talk: someone else can alter your sound and you have no control of it. All the wires in the multi-core go through from the mixing desk to the stage and if you get interference – spikes to the mains or strong radio interference – this can cause it. There was nothing we could do. It was one of the worst scenarios for a performer: the venue swallowing up the audience, no control over the equipment and no means of escape. And into the black hole of our impotence came Cider Sid filling the space with his scrawny alcoholic face, his teeth all over the place, plying Whitty with drink – something I was trying to ration. As if Whitty needed any more drink! If this was hell then Sid was a devil tempting someone who had enough demons to fight.
We were used to the banality of things going wrong. Sometimes it was part of the fun: dodgy
But I never have got on with the idea of suicide. It enrages me. I’ve seen too many people struggling for life to be impressed by anyone seeking death. “You selfish bastard – you’ve put every one of us in jeopardy!” I ranted whilst bandaging his wrists with rags. “You stupid selfish bastard!” – tying his wrists together above his head. “Drink this!” I fed him gallons of water – not something he was used to! It took about an hour for the bleeding – and the stupid drunken giggling – to stop completely. But I had no sympathy.
And he’d broken into the cases of wine I’d had delivered to the shop, the bastard.
Something else – something worse: his behaviour would have lead to involvement with the authorities: medics, police, people wanting to interview anyone involved in any way and family members having views to express. A terrible thought to us all in those days. That was why, when Shep kicked the door in and saw what he saw, he phoned me, not an ambulance and that is why we took the risk of not taking Pete to the hospital. We all knew that the police would find traces of party substances on the premises and the whole thing would all have been such a mither. When the crisis had passed we made jokes about Whitty needing to drink lots of Guinness. A bit ironic in the circumstances.
The bloodletting was not mentioned after that. Whitty and I never fell out. We loved one another but the rawhide he tied round his wrists didn’t hide the scars.
There was a gig scheduled in Leeds – quite an important one at a big venue – and I had gone searching for Whitty. I found him at a friend’s house; he’d already consumed a bottle of gin. I eventually got the van and the band and Whitty together in the same place, confiscated his drink and set off for Leeds. The van broke down between Knutsford and Manchester; we summoned the AA (the Automobile Association that is, not Alcoholics Anonymous!) and we got a relay to Leeds. The venue was in the red light district: strip clubs and prostitutes everywhere you looked. Under normal circumstances we wouldn’t have got out of the van in bandit territory but we had a job to do and we were just about in time.
There it was: the size of two football pitches – the biggest pub you could imagine. I’ve never seen anything like it: a massive, massive hall. A great void. Yes – there might have been a hundred people there but it was still empty; the scale dwarfed everything.
There was a problem with the sound system: Shep was standing there at the desk shaking his head and throwing up his hands. We had cross talk: someone else can alter your sound and you have no control of it. All the wires in the multi-core go through from the mixing desk to the stage and if you get interference – spikes to the mains or strong radio interference – this can cause it. There was nothing we could do. It was one of the worst scenarios for a performer: the venue swallowing up the audience, no control over the equipment and no means of escape. And into the black hole of our impotence came Cider Sid filling the space with his scrawny alcoholic face, his teeth all over the place, plying Whitty with drink – something I was trying to ration. As if Whitty needed any more drink! If this was hell then Sid was a devil tempting someone who had enough demons to fight.
We were used to the banality of things going wrong. Sometimes it was part of the fun: dodgy
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