light up my after-dinner fag and pollute the air. Toni flaps her hand. “Oh, Terr-ee, why you smoke?” Doesn’t she know that Humphrey Bogart never appears in a film without smoking? We spend the evening playing ludo with small bets on the side. Suddenly, I feel sick. It’s the same as Toni. Soon, I have both ends going. I take to my bed and only drink water. That night, I have a temperature. What a drag! I fall into a feverish sleep.
GRAZ
GRAZ
N ext morning, I’m still discharging both ends. Wrapped in a blanket, doused with Aspros, I board the Charabong.
“How you feel, Terree,” says Toni.
“Terrible.”
I semi-doze all the way to Graz, showing no interest in food or drink. When we arrive in Graz, I hurriedly book in and make for my room. It’s a lovely hotel with double glazing and double doors to the room, so it’s very quiet except for the noise of me going both ends. I take a hot bath and take to my sick bed. I get visits from everyone. Do I need a doctor? I say, no, a mortician. Will I be doing the show tomorrow? Not bloody likely. Bornheim will have to take my place on the squeeze box; I am delirious. Toni visits me and tells me she loves me. That’s no bloody good. I love her too, but I’ve still got the shits. Can she hurry and leave the room as something explosive is coming on. I fall into a deep sleep. I awake in the wee hours to do a wee. I’m dripping with sweat. What’s the time? 3 a.m. I take a swig at my half-bottle of whisky. When I awake in the morning, I seem to have broken the back of it – it feels as if I’ve also broken its legs and arms. Twenty-four hours had passed away but I hadn’t. In two days I’m back to my normal, healthy, skinny, self. How did the act go with Bornheim deputizing for me? It was great! Curses. So I rejoin the fold.
The show is at the Theatre Hapsburg, a wonderful, small intimate theatre – one mass of gilded carvings of cherubim. This night the trio get rapturous applause from a mixed audience of Austrians and soldiers. Hall is stunned.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “We weren’t that good.”
“Rubbish,” says Mulgrew. “‘ They weren’t good enough!”
Dinner that night was a treat – first food for forty-eight hours. It’s Austrian Irish stew. Bill Hall tells the waitress that his meat is very tough. She calls the chef, a large Kraut. He asks what’s wrong.
“This meat is tough.”
“Oh,” says the Kraut. “You are zer only von complaining.”
“That’s ‘cause I got all the ‘ard bits, mate.”
“It’s zer luck of the draw,” says the Kraut, who takes it away.
The waitress returns with a second portion.
“Yes, this is better,” says Hall. The excitement is unbearable.
I’m convalescing, so I have an early-to-bed. I’m reading Elizabeth GaskelPs The Life of Charlotte Bronte . First, I’m delighted to find that the father was Irish. The interesting figure in the story is Branwell Bronte, the piss artist. He’s amazing. He writes reams of poetry, can paint and also write with both hands at once. How’s that for starters. Yet, he is the failure of the family. My eyelids are getting heavy. I lay the book aside and sleep peacefully until the morning when there’s a birdlike tapping at my door. It’s morning-fresh Toni. She kisses my eyes. “You very lazee, hurry up. Breakfast nearly finished!” She will see me after breakfast in the hall. “We go for nice walk.” It’s cold but sunny; we are quite high high up.
I have a quick shit, shave and shampoo. I just make breakfast. I ask the waiter if I can have a boiled egg and toast. He looks at his watch. Is he going to time it? With an expression on his face as though his balls are being crushed in a vice, he says OK. Toni is waiting in the foyer. She is wearing a tweed coat with a fur collar and looks very pretty. We start our walk by strolling along the banks of the River Mur. Mur? How did it get a name like that? Our walk is lined with silver birch trees. We cross
GRAZ
GRAZ
N ext morning, I’m still discharging both ends. Wrapped in a blanket, doused with Aspros, I board the Charabong.
“How you feel, Terree,” says Toni.
“Terrible.”
I semi-doze all the way to Graz, showing no interest in food or drink. When we arrive in Graz, I hurriedly book in and make for my room. It’s a lovely hotel with double glazing and double doors to the room, so it’s very quiet except for the noise of me going both ends. I take a hot bath and take to my sick bed. I get visits from everyone. Do I need a doctor? I say, no, a mortician. Will I be doing the show tomorrow? Not bloody likely. Bornheim will have to take my place on the squeeze box; I am delirious. Toni visits me and tells me she loves me. That’s no bloody good. I love her too, but I’ve still got the shits. Can she hurry and leave the room as something explosive is coming on. I fall into a deep sleep. I awake in the wee hours to do a wee. I’m dripping with sweat. What’s the time? 3 a.m. I take a swig at my half-bottle of whisky. When I awake in the morning, I seem to have broken the back of it – it feels as if I’ve also broken its legs and arms. Twenty-four hours had passed away but I hadn’t. In two days I’m back to my normal, healthy, skinny, self. How did the act go with Bornheim deputizing for me? It was great! Curses. So I rejoin the fold.
The show is at the Theatre Hapsburg, a wonderful, small intimate theatre – one mass of gilded carvings of cherubim. This night the trio get rapturous applause from a mixed audience of Austrians and soldiers. Hall is stunned.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “We weren’t that good.”
“Rubbish,” says Mulgrew. “‘ They weren’t good enough!”
Dinner that night was a treat – first food for forty-eight hours. It’s Austrian Irish stew. Bill Hall tells the waitress that his meat is very tough. She calls the chef, a large Kraut. He asks what’s wrong.
“This meat is tough.”
“Oh,” says the Kraut. “You are zer only von complaining.”
“That’s ‘cause I got all the ‘ard bits, mate.”
“It’s zer luck of the draw,” says the Kraut, who takes it away.
The waitress returns with a second portion.
“Yes, this is better,” says Hall. The excitement is unbearable.
I’m convalescing, so I have an early-to-bed. I’m reading Elizabeth GaskelPs The Life of Charlotte Bronte . First, I’m delighted to find that the father was Irish. The interesting figure in the story is Branwell Bronte, the piss artist. He’s amazing. He writes reams of poetry, can paint and also write with both hands at once. How’s that for starters. Yet, he is the failure of the family. My eyelids are getting heavy. I lay the book aside and sleep peacefully until the morning when there’s a birdlike tapping at my door. It’s morning-fresh Toni. She kisses my eyes. “You very lazee, hurry up. Breakfast nearly finished!” She will see me after breakfast in the hall. “We go for nice walk.” It’s cold but sunny; we are quite high high up.
I have a quick shit, shave and shampoo. I just make breakfast. I ask the waiter if I can have a boiled egg and toast. He looks at his watch. Is he going to time it? With an expression on his face as though his balls are being crushed in a vice, he says OK. Toni is waiting in the foyer. She is wearing a tweed coat with a fur collar and looks very pretty. We start our walk by strolling along the banks of the River Mur. Mur? How did it get a name like that? Our walk is lined with silver birch trees. We cross
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