October 2016 UK Tour Diary - Day 2 - Leicester
I'd like to announce that after our show tonight, Megan & The Common Threads embarked upon a Keith Moon-inspired wild night of Class A-fuelled rock'n'roll excess.
I 'd like to announce that when the night manager of the exquisitely glamorous Leicester-Hinckley-Road Travelodge knocked on our hotel room door, I was hoovering up a fat line of purest Columbian from the heaving bosom of a nubile groupie. To the thundering bass soundtrack of The Beastie Boys' "No Sleep Til Brooklyn".
Wearing shades and a leopardskin tuxedo.
Lighting my Cuban cigar with a flaming fifty dollar bill.
Swishing a stetson about and whooping like a demented cowboy.
I'd like to announce that...but, with great shame, I must confess I cannot.
We all have our moments, but Megan & The Common Threads are not, it may not greatly surprise you to learn, the hedonistic hard-living hell-raising rock'n'roll trainwreck that I dearly wish we were.
More than one Thread is a practicing vegan FFS. I ask you. God didn't mean for rock'n'roll to be conducted this way.
It is 11.59pm. Our poor receptionist receives a humourless report of excessive noise from an anonymous fellow guest clearly too intimidated to complain personally to the dangerous guitar-toting weirdos in Room 5.
It therefore falls to the hapless receptionist to inform these terrifying rockstar brutes that any further complaint must inevitably result in their immediate eviction and a cold night in the hotel car park, I'm sorry but that's just the way it is, company policy, I'm just doing my job, I do hope you understand, please don't hurt me.
He inhales deeply, steeling himself against the expected sight of obscenity inevitably unfolding behind the door of the - curiously silent - Room 5.
Why so quiet? Might it now only house a still-warm corpse, recently succumbed to excessive alcohol consumption, substance abuse, and STIs from women of easy virtue?
He knocks. A stirring from within. The door swings slowly ajar.
No cloud of weed wafts into the corridor. No repetitive beats pound from within. No pet anaconda slithers through the open doorway.
The door swings back revealing the horrifying sight of...some mild-mannered overtired musicians quietly consuming a takeaway pizza.
A perfect opportunity for a traditional launch of the TV out of the window has been spurned. It sits forlorn, dark and unused.
The receptionist cranes his head for a glimpse of a sub woofer, but in vain. Not even a tiny portable speaker...just two polite Irish women in cosy pyjamas and fluffy slippers.
What debauchery might he catch these women enacting...but sipping thoughtfully from mugs of tea.
Any raucous conversation is merely being conducted in half whispers. The degenerate practice being discussed seems to be the planned purchase of some Vegan cheese.
And what did Megan and The Common Threads do in reaction to this outrageous intrusion on our wild rock'n'roll Saturday night? Grab the hapless night manager by the throat, hissing threats of hideous reprisals in his face with whisky fumed breath? Find the source of the complaint, key his car and sugar his petrol tank?
No. We tutted a bit, made some - rather quiet - indignant noises and meekly returned to our own rooms.
It was certainly worthy of Keith Moon, but alas not Keith Moon of The Who.
Another Keith Moon, of Aldershot perhaps, or Basingstoke, who generally avoids confrontation and lives a quiet life as an under-manager in a local insurance brokers.
We did it for you, Keith.