When l was but a young whipper snapper, l used to put together comics and magazines. This resulted in me following bands around, either selling stuff, or taping / bootlegging them.
At the time, l didn't have a driving licence, so l had to get people to drive me around and give me a hand, and in about 1991, that lucky individual was called Martin Evans.
Now l have known Martin for a few years, and after he moved down south, we sporadically kept in touch, and when he eventually got married a couple of years ago, l went to his wedding in Cambridge, so we are still on friendly terms.
I have had some fine times with that young man, and we share a similar sense of humour, but there are two incidents l have had with him that stand out (no, not the acid at Glastonbury).
Why these two specific incidents you may well ask?
Because on both occasions, he could have died when l was being my usual, idiot 'rock and roll' self.
We crashed in a car l was driving (illegally) while arguing about who we would be in The Rolling Stones (as you do). After me saying he would be Bill Wyman (taking the piss), l turned to him and declared "I am Keith Richards", only to look up and then crash into a roundabout at full speed, writing off the car and leaving it steaming in the middle of the roundabout (OK, l know it's not big or clever, so don't bother bugging me about it). We both managed to get out and we laugh about it now, especially as neither of us were injured and no charges were made (and the car sure looked good in the middle of it the next day).
On the other occasion, we had been in Liverpool selling magazines and getting drunk, when l suggested going down to the river, which meant walking on an old jetty which was falling apart. That jetty may well have been the one above, but as it was the middle of the night, and we were very (very) drunk, l can't really be certain. One thing that is definite though, is that when we approached the end of the jetty, it gave way underneath Martin and he fell through the hole. Luckily for him, his elbows came out and prevented him going straight down into the dark and murky waters of the Mersey, from which there is no way he would have been able to escape. We managed to get him back onto the jetty (admittedly a little shaken and sobered up), and we then walked back to where we were staying (with him leaving a trail of poo behind him).
Happy days indeed, but for some reason the wild nights out with him seemed to come to an abrupt end.
I reckon he is scared of incident no 3, whatever that might entail.
As for me - indestructible.