Kevin Clooney

Well I’m busy tomorrow and Wednesday up in Glasgow with the Futureheads who have some shows booked.

Then it’s down to Cardiff on Friday before a lovely weekend off with my Donna at home. She’s threatened to take me out to the karaoke at the Villager pub on Saturday. I can’t stand karaoke but she loves it – loves to see me making a fool of myself singing my Burt Bacharach songs more like.

The Futureheads are okay, it’s quite a good crew. The band are not bad, I suppose. The drummer’s crap - too many cymbals. the number of cymbals a drummer has in his kit is inversely proportional to his talent as a drummer. (Roadies know these kinds of things.) I quite liked that single they had, that cover of Dogs of War, the old Kate Bush song.

I wish Bush was still going, I wouldn’t mind being in her backstage crew, if you know what I mean.

Somebody just told me that the judge in the Britney Spears trial for driving without a valid Californian licence has declared a mistrial after jurors failed to reach a verdict. I have a soft spot for Britney - I quite like her; but I like her judge even more.

I wish I had had that judge when I when I got done for speeding a few years ago. I was driving the tour-bus back from a Primal Scream gig in Birmingham (the proper driver had ‘done a George Michael’ and had too much wacky-backy and fallen into a coma) when two traffic cops pulled me over on the A38.

‘Do you know why we stopped you, sir?’ asked the taller of the two in that patronising tone they use late at night.

‘Yeah, because you’re coppers, aren’t you.’

That was it. ‘Right! Out of the vehicle, you tosser!‘

I had to spend all night in a lovely six-foot-by-eight-foot cell. The tour manager had to drive the band to the hotel. Never heard from them again. I eventually got fined two hundred quid by an ugly old crone of a judge with a vinegar face a few weeks later, and got disqualified from driving for six months. I was so happy.

English copppers, eh? Don’t you just love ‘em? Bless their pointed little heads.

Snake, one of my roadie mates, who keeps snakes – he’s mad about them - was taking the Michael out of me the other day because of Ozzy, my little pussycat. He reckons blokes in the music business who like cats lean towards the lavender. I soon put him straight on that one.

In case you’re wondering, Ozzy my blue Persian is named after Ozzy Osbourne. Natch. Here’s a picture of my Donna with Ozzy taken about twelve years ago when he was a kitten.

Aren’t  a lucky roadie? Two kittens!

I’ve worked with the Oz loads of times, I did a 5-month North American tour with him a few years ago and I can tell you he’s a thoroughly nice bloke. He never knew what day it was, though, and you could never tell what he was saying.

A bit weird when it comes to lunchtime, as well: the caterers on the tour had to do him his bat heads. He eats loads of the horrible little things. On that tour, if I remember correctly, there were gallons of Guinness and beer backstage for the crew but Ozzy only drank brandy and Ribena. Guinness sometimes, but brandy and Ribena mostly. Brandy and Ribena and cheese and onion sandwiches.

And bat heads.