Come on now, admit it. Have you ever seen Chubby Checker and Winnie Mandela in the same room? Have you ever seen them in the same photograph? Of course you haven't. And do you know why? Well, I have my own theory. They are one and the same person. The first time I saw Chubby I thought, "My goodness, it's Winnie. Do my eyes deceive me? How are you, girl? How's Nelson?"

That was back in the summer of '94, somewhere in the wilds of former East Germany. The Searchers had played a concert alongside a couple of German supports and were due to join up with Smokie, Sailor, Hot Chocolate, The Manfreds, Barry Ryan and, of course, the Chubster himself, for a huge open air festival in Bad Segeberg. Be downstairs in the lobby at seven thirty a.m., we were told, where the tour bus, with all the rest of the motley crew on board, would pick us up. A breakfastless seven thirty came. And it went. So did eight. Half an hour later a bunch of not very happy bunnies saw the bus draw up. McNally was fuming (have you ever seen him fume? Beware, he doesn't take prisoners!)

The door swung open and we cursed our way to our seats, passing what looked like a crumpled brown duvet, topped off by a red, black and green crocheted woolly beret. Good heavens, it was Winnie, in the flesh. Or at least in a silly hat. But it couldn't be Winnie. She wasn't on the tour. She was no doubt back in South Africa washing Nelson's socks or playing centre half with her football team or something and giving someone a good kicking. A second glance told us that this was the King Of The Twist himself, the man who launched a thousand injured spines.

Henry, from Sailor, felt we were due some sort of explanation regarding the delay. "They had trouble getting Chubby out of bed," he whispered. I was not impressed. "He's probably been up all night crocheting that bloody hat," I suggested.

So, that was our first encounter with Chubby. Six months later we were together again, this time on a massive Christmas tour around the sports stadia of Germany. Twelve days of music and laughs with Showaddywaddy, Suzi Quatro and Harpo, as well as the aforementioned Sailor and Smokie.

Five thirty in the morning following a lively and social Boxing Day is not a fun time to be up and about. Not to musicians who look on the beginning of most peoples' working day as the middle of the night. Zombie-like, we cabbed it to Heathrow, met up with a bunch of the others and flew heavenwards to the Fatherland. At Hanover we were told there would be a period of hanging about till the plane carrying the American contingent landed. It seemed I was doomed to spend my life waiting for Chubby Checker. It is at times like this I remind myself there are people starving in Rwanda and getting bombed in Bosnia.

Later that day we took the early shuttle from the hotel to the show. We were due on third in a long line-up, after Harpo and Sailor. There had been no time for much rest, just a quick shutting of the eyes and then a shower before showtime. No soundcheck, either. Call me a little Gekko if you like, but soundchecks are for wimps. In Germany, you have to adopt a certain philosophy. None of that bellowing into the microphones for hours on end, ranting on about freeing the crispy bits. In between the journey and the show, there is little space for the luxury of checking equipment. You have to trust to your crew and just go for it. Normally the first time we see our amplifiers is when the announcement is made and we dash on to face a crowd of five thousand, or more. Sometimes the sound is good, sometimes not. But this is real life. Whoever said it was perfect?

It's never clear who exactly is top of the bill on these shows. To each member of the crowd, top of the bill is whoever they like best, not whoever goes on last. The closing spot is the death spot. Initially when artistes are booked for their first tour they fight for the prestige of closing the show and are amazed at the ease with which their wishes are granted. This is because it is a long time from doors open at six thirty until the last chord is struck around one in the morning. Their little teutonic tootsies are becoming weary by that time, not to mention the assault on the ears from an excess of nostalgia. Shell shock sets in and the late spot is apt to be in front of a crowd as flimsy as Harpo's haircut. Well, maybe not that bad! Harpo's pate is as bald as a baby's botty.

Harpo is a perfect opening act. In his native Sweden he works with his band most of the time, but here in Germany with his backing on CD, his position at the front of the evening's entertainment is cemented. It is the only spot that remains constant. He warms the crowd up well and intrigues them with his 'arty' mime and odd jumble of props, the main one being a guitar case that contains not a guitar, but a walking stick. To be honest, I can't remember ever watching closely enough to find out what he did with it, but I'm sure it was clever.

Behind him the Spud-U-Like stood in magnificent anticipation of its switch-on when the electricity would send coloured lights racing through the clear plastic tubing like blood pumping through an artery. Actually, the correct title for this very important piece of 'Sailor' equipment is the Nickelodeon. The original, in the dark days of the seventies when the group was riding high on the success of "Glass Of Champagne" and "Girls, Girls, Girls", was simply a double-sided piano, quite plain, if quite fascinatingly different looking. The current version, constructed especially for the reformation of the group at Rainer Haas's instigation, is to the old one what a SEGA Gameboy is to one of those early black and white video tennis machines that used to stand in the public bar of your local. Its black lacquered casing is trimmed with chrome in flashy art deco swirls and a silver bell hangs off one end. Its entrails these days are synthesise limiters, compressors and goodness knows what, but I reckon Christian Barnard found the human body a lot less complicated than this little lot.

I renamed it the Spud-U-Like because that's exactly what it looks like. I can just see Henry and Phil doing a roaring business in a town square somewhere, yelling at the passing shoppers. "Get your lovely hot spuds here - a pound each, one pound fifty with filling". There's no harm in having a second string to your bow, I say. Sailor can't go on forever and a lad must earn a living.

Catering was teeming. It is the meeting place, the heart of any tour. Where folk gather to wait for their turn to go on stage or just to chew the fat with chums. A cauldron of soup was steaming in the corner and my bowl tasted good. It is bean soup. At last I have the chance to use that terrible old joke. "What soup is it?” “It's bean soup”. “I know it's been soup, but what is it now?" Oh yes, the old ones are the best. As the tour continued I was to discover that the same soup would appear almost every night. The catering people had not been endowed with an over-active imagination, nor with an excess of culinary expertise. Or maybe the budget just wasn't that good.

Everyone seemed to go down well. Chubby had a few equipment problems, but Showaddywaddy, Suzi and all the others - ourselves included - seemed to be very happy. It was a good first night with not too many teething problems sound-wise, which augured well for the days ahead. It's the poor monitor mixers who usually suffer the most. That's the sound the musicians can hear on stage and it is such a personal thing to each individual that it is a demand that is almost impossible to satisfy. One man's bass is another man's boom.

The most important thing on the first night is the hotel bar. First of all it has to be open! Secondly, it has to stay open. It sets the tone of the whole adventure. You see the major fun about these tours is not so much the shows, although it is preferable to have more good ones than bad, as the rare opportunity to be away with friends who have been absent for too long, and to be alleviated of the usual restrictions that usually apply when there is a sober journey home to be undertaken after the performance. Nothing of the sort here. No responsibilities, just fun, fun, fun. I got back to the bar pretty early. We were on third and I had no wish to watch everyone's show. Plenty of time for that in the days to come.

The bar filled up as the acts finished and the shuttles returned. I had decided to pace myself. Just a couple of hours, then bed. After all, there were a lot of shows and a lot of long journeys to come. I must be sensible and mature about this. The words 'plans' and 'best laid' spring to mind. Was it four a.m. or five? Oh well, who cares? This is pension rock. We're talking life in the bus lane. After all, Scarlet, tomorrow is another day!

It was on the second night that Chubby displayed his first bit of eccentricity and, believe me, he has a whole cupboard full back there on whatever planet he lives on. There is a song in his show in which he introduces his band. It's a good band. In fact, they are excellent when they are playing well. They've been with him a while; some for a number of years.

'And on bass we have", he began. Slowly, as if in slow motion, he turned to his bass player and silently he mouthed, in very precise and exaggerated lip movements, "What's your name?". The bass player stared back in astonishment. "What?" "What's your name?", the King of Twist repeated. The guy's face took on a very hurt expression - like a small boy who had been forgotten as the sweets were passed round. "Jim", he answered. Chubby nodded. He turned to face the audience once more, still in perfect slow motion, and then as he started to speak, an action replay. His body took another lifetime to end up facing the bass player once more. "Who?" "Jim”. The whole thing took an exhausting two minutes or so, but seemed like an eternity until, triumphantly, Ernest Evans, a.k.a. Chubby Checker, living legend, was able to tell the gathered hordes in a booming voice, "Jim". By this time most of them had forgotten what was supposed to be happening, but they gathered their communal wits about them in time to applaud the embarrassed, horrified and almost anonymous musician.

Chubs was definitely the 'character' of the tour. Some say they broke the mould when he was born. I just think they scraped the mould off the top and pretended nothing was wrong - just like you do to old cheese. On the bus the next day he was to be found in his usual seat at the front, darning his jeans with a circular needle, the kind you use for stitching canvas and the like. When he had finished, it wasn't the neatest job in the world, but at least he had completed the task. It was akin to me having sex or a dog walking on its hind legs. It's not that he did it well. It was just remarkable that he could do it at all.

The buses were divided into a smoking and a non-smoking vehicle. I chose the smoking, for several reasons. Henry and Phil (from Sailor) were using that one and I enjoyed their company. And also it turned out that only two people were smoking to any extent and they were down the back somewhere. So while everyone was cramped up in a choc-a-block non-smoker, we in the supposed lung-destroyer were lounging about with room to spare in a virtual pollution-free atmosphere.

The stories and reminiscences helped to speed up the lengthy road journeys. Personal stereos or books served the purpose for some. Down the back of the bus, Robbie - from Suzi Quatro's band - took out an acoustic guitar and began to play, while Lily sang. Lily Gonzalez was drafted in for one tour only to help with Suzi's backing vocals. Young, very good looking and the possessor of a beautiful soulful voice, she was wasted at the back of the line-up where she stood nightly alongside Kate, the wife of the blind keyboardist Reg, oohing and aahing along to Can The Can. Here in the intimate confines of a fifty-seater coach, it was easier to hear just how good she was as she huskily sang a Bonnie Rait song, "Storm Warning". I had wandered down the aisle with a view to getting a communal sing-song going with my usual four chord rock and roll medley but, having heard Lily's talents close up, I put that on hold and simply listened. If the name Lily Gonzalez beams down at you from neon lights some time in the future, remember you heard it here first!

A long trip was the ideal situation for the obligatory showing of Spinal Tap on the video. For the uninitiated, it is a spoof documentary depicting the glories, the lifestyle, the egos and eccentricities and the eventual decline of a British glam-rock outfit in America. The first time I stumbled across it years ago, about fifteen minutes into the film I was convinced it was for real, until odd little things made me suspicious. It really is quite brilliantly done and most musicians can recite great chunks of the text from memory. The bus was in hysterical uproar but while I watched, it all seemed a bit closer to real life than ever before. The long manes of bleached hair. The camp poses of guitarists wrapped in trousers cut to fit like cling film. Shirts open to the navel and naked armpits everywhere. Not a sleeve to be seen. Without thinking, I blurted it out: "Its Smokie!" In one fell swoop, one momentary lapse of discretion, I had failed my entrance exam into the diplomatic corps. Luckily, they have a sense of humour and one that does not preclude them from enjoying a joke turned on themselves. They laughed. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe they let me off because they know very well how much we admire the way they play and like them enormously as people.

It was on one of the long drives that we showed our 'British eccentricity' at its loopiest. I was chatting away to Henry when he nudged me and pointed towards the driver. "I'm sure he's nodding off," he said. I looked and had to admit that in the rear view mirror the eyelids did appear to be dangerously near to closing. "What do you think we should do?” I asked. Henry shrugged. We passed the information to others nearby. Nobody seemed willing to make any kind of definite move. It seemed a bit impertinent to criticise an experienced coach driver. For ages we sat, humming and haahing. Henry swore the bus had swerved towards the verge earlier. Then the ridiculousness of the situation hit us. Our lives were in jeopardy but we sat in embarrassed silence. How bloody British of us. Die if necessary, but for heaven's sake don't draw attention to yourself. The reality of this sent us into hysterics. Finally, Henry took the bull by the horns and went to the front to engage the driver in scintillating conversation. Face had been saved.

 The venues for the most part were sports stadia, average capacity five to six thousand. Some were a lot larger. Occasionally a full house would be around four thousand. New Year's Eve was a departure from the routine, but being a part of the actual tour. Smokie departed for the East to join another show for just one night. The Searchers, Suzi and Chubby were to appear in Bremen in what would be the German equivalent of The Brent Cross Shopping Centre where the spacious interior walkways were crammed with drunken revellers.

Sailor decided to hang out with us at the gig rather than go off to a bar or stay in the hotel and we were pleased to have their company. We got into the party spirit in the dressing room where a supply of wine and beer had been laid on for us. Charlie Davis, Chubby's jovial manager, whose body has exploded outwards in sympathy with that of his client, had put on a suit for the occasion. We had the first spot and trudged through what was definitely not a fun show. The sound quality was debatable and the audience distracted, as you would be on such a night, but it was bearable - just. Chubby, too, suffered from feedback. Logically, things should have been sorted out by the time Suzi hit the boards, but maybe the sound guys had been celebrating early, because the booming increased substantially.

Chubby sat by the side of the stage displaying yet another example of his genius. He is a rare talent indeed. Eat your heart out, Lon Chaney. Chubby Checker is truly the man of a thousand faces. We've seen his real persona. We've seen his Winnie Mandela. And now here, before us, wrapped up in a white towelling dressing gown, was an entirely different being. At first I thought it might have been ET. Had there been a bicycle I would have been convinced. But no. This surely was Muhammed Ali - after a particularly gruelling defeat, I might add. Is there no limit to his range? I do believe that if he put his mind to it, he could do a very passable Kate Moss. As if that were not enough, we were later to discover that he was perfectly equipped to do an extremely realistic David Nixon. But that's another story and one that wild horses wouldn't drag out of me! (Lots of money, however, would. Send your bids in a brown, sealed envelope.)

We had planned a quick escape from this 'gig from hell' and the entire cast sat on the bus waiting for Suzi. The minute she boarded, we were to be off like Salman Rushdie from an Islamic Fundamentalist meeting. But when Suzi appeared, the Chubster was apparently still in the hall and, horror of horrors, had crept onto the stage. Bent over like the hunchback of Notre Dame, still in his robe, and squinting madly out of one eye, he was whispering into the microphone "Suzeeee", like Mickey Mouse on Valium. If he could receive thought waves, he would surely have heard voices in his head saying "Suzi's on the bus, you prat. Get off the stage." But I imagine they see life somewhat differently in that particular galaxy where Chubby dwells.

Eventually he was persuaded to join the real world and we set off back to the hotel. He still had another surprise up his sleeve. He decided to strangle his road manager. The victim, a New Yorker in his mid-twenties by the name of Rob, had decided to capture the fun atmosphere on camera and began to snap away. Unfortunately, Chubby decided to snap as well. Or at least something in his head did. He wrestled Rob to the floor and tightened his hands around his throat. He was joking, surely? But the poor guy's face was turning blue. Someone eventually managed to prise them apart. Rob was out of his mind with anger. Chubby appeared oblivious. Maybe this was an everyday occurrence in his unusual life.

Meanwhile, the Novotel, in its wisdom, had decided to celebrate the coming of 1995 by shutting the bar. How nice of them. Seemingly they didn't fancy a bunch of rock stars running riot in their hallowed halls. Didn't they realise that these particular rock stars were almost of pensionable age and were more used to mending lawnmowers than chucking television sets out of windows? Personally, I wasn't bothered. Tomorrow was an early start and a long drive. A couple of drinks from the stash brought back from the show and it was off to bed. In the morning I discovered that a full scale singalong had developed and continued unabated until round about six a.m. Happy New Year, Bremen!

The talk on the bus after breakfast was of Terry Utley's 'extras' bill. The Smokie bass player, in a fit of drunken bonhomie, had telephoned half the known world to the tune of a couple of hundred pounds. He didn't seem bothered. I think he was secretly pleased to have outdone guitarist Alan Silson. The theory is that you can sign all the drinks you want to Alan's room. He'll never know they weren't his.

Half an hour after departure time, we were still two Americans light. Chubby's drummer hadn't received an alarm call. He managed to get himself together quickly and joined the rest of us. That only left Rob. They called him on the house 'phone and we waited. Fifteen minutes later, still no Rob. Charlie went up to the room. He returned ten minutes later, grim faced. Apparently, Rob was still seething after his near demise at the hands of the Philadelphia Strangler. Charlie retrieved money from his briefcase at the back of the bus and got off again, followed closely by King Twister. Five minutes' later, Charlie and Chubby were back. "Okay, let's go." So there it was. All of you who still work for Chubby Checker - two paces forward. Not you, Rob.

The eight hour drive to Nurnenberg left us no time to go to the hotel before the show but it was an exceptionally good gig and a relaxing evening at the hotel bar had us in good spirits. The journey to Ulm the next day took us through snowstorms and the town, when we arrived, was covered in a beautiful thick white coating. Cold, but pretty, although it made us fearful for the long trip to Saarbrucken the next morning. A six hour trip could become eight if this kept up. Opposite the hotel was the ubiquitous MacDonalds, the coronary curse of the Western world. I decide to scrap the healthy lifestyle for a day in favour of an illicit treat. It tasted good, although I could feel my arteries filling up with white stuff.

We inherited the death spot for a couple of nights, but events turned out well. The audience stayed, gave us a great reception and we dragged any remaining musicians and roadies on for our encore. We don't take roadies on our German trips as Ricky Gee, who works full time for Rainer Haas, knows our set-up inside out and the crew working for Suzi and Smokie had 'adopted' us earlier in the tour, particularly Smokie's guitar guru Mick, who had gaffer-taped an announcement to his tee-shirt which stated METAL McNALLY'S GUITAR WIZARD. His new 'position' rebounded on him a couple of days later when he decided to change all the strings on John's Strat. Halfway through its first song, the instrument detuned itself by a semitone and a baffled McNally had to switch it quickly for the twelve string until Mick sorted out the problem. Apparently, in the string-changing process, Mick had somehow locked the floating vibrato tailpiece in an 'up' position. At the first twang of the tremelo arm, the mechanism had righted itself and returned to its proper setting. Poor old Mick suffered a fair amount of verbal derision for a couple of days to come.

Bruce Welch is too rich for his own good. Years of poncy footwork a few yards to the rear of Cliff Richard, not to mention the royalties from a fair amount of classic British pop hits, have given him more money than sense. "How much?" I asked. "Three hundred and eighty seven pounds. If you stay over on a Saturday night you can get it for ninety nine quid but for just the Thursday it's the full monty. Business class only, mate. They bung a curtain behind you, give you china to eat off and charge you the full whack. And then it was a hundred marks for the cab to the hotel. They made The Shadows first album for less than that" "Well” I said “I've got no sympathy for you. I had it all sorted out" And, indeed, I had.

It began, more or less, on Christmas Day. I had rung him ostensibly to find out if he and Magda fancied a trip to a friend's villa in Portugal on my return. He wasn't sure about that but the line-up for the German trip - not to mention the scale of venue that we would be taking in - intrigued him no end. For some time I had been encouraging him to come on one of these adventures with us, and Rainer had readily agreed to foot the bill. "I would like to meet Bruce. Tell him to come. I pay, no problem."

We decided Munich or Basel would be ideal. Big halls with big advance sales. I faxed Welchy the details and Rainer's mobile number. For some time we heard nothing and I figured he had gone cold on the idea but one evening Haas called me over. "Bruce 'phoned me today. He is coming to Munich." I was thrilled. He is one of my favourite people. Just my sense of humour. I had something to look forward to. So where had the financial details fallen apart? We sat there in the bar of our swish Bavarian hotel - Bruce Welch, a legend in his own Shadow and Frank Allen, spinster of this parish. He had, in fact, been waiting a couple of hours by the time our buses arrived, but had run into Smokie's manager, John Waggstaff, who had arrived to check up on his pop protegees, so he had not been alone.

Apparently, Bruce had refused Rainer's offer of an air ticket while arranging details on the 'phone, insisting that all he needed was a hotel room to be supplied. I have to say he has a long way to go before he perfects the McNally's advanced economy technique. A lesson learned is .... well a lesson learned, I suppose.

Rainer, having deposited Frau Haas (alias Suzi Quatro) in their room, joined us for a chat, a coffee and a schnitzel which, this time, we were happy to let him pay for. His favourite subjects are business and music and if you can combine the two, he is indeed in his own little 'himmel'. I left them to it while I showered, shaved and sh ... shined my shoes. We were back to third act on and due to catch the second shuttle.

When we got there, Harpo was miming away like a good 'un. The mime I refer to is of the artistic type, a la Marcel Marceau, and while his backing was on CD, Harpo's voice was live, although he works mostly with his own band when he can. He embellishes his hits (remember "Movie Star"?) with clever crowd control. He really is a talented guy - and a nice one, too.

Sailor were hanging about ready to follow. I made the introductions, although Phil had previously done some sessions for Bruce. Henry is almost as much a Shadows groupie as he is a Searchers freak. And even George has a tenuous connection in that he wrote one of Cliff's less memorable singles, "Flying Machine". (Even a mega-Cliff fan like me has to admit there were a couple of duffers along the way. Well, he wouldn't be human if he hadn't.)

We nipped up to catering to grab a quick drink with the McNallys while the changeover was going on. Mary McNally had also arrived that day, the main reason being that her baby boy John Junior was attending the Basel show - a mere hop, skip and a jump from his home in France, just across the border from Zurich. The Munich catering was a definite upgrade from the previous days. The bean soup was missing and had been replaced by an acceptable array of hot dishes. Not being hungry at that point, due to Rainer's schnitzel attack, we deferred eating until later.

Sailor were excellent. The Spud-U-Like had been renamed by this time. Some witty wag had likened it to the National Lottery machine. "Okay, Henry and Phil, roll them balls." Those of you who remember the group will also recall that the main focal point, apart from the odd outfits, was the tiny anchor seemingly tattooed on George's cheek. In fact, it was painted on each night and I remember thinking at the time that they should have painted a 'W'' just in front. But twenty years or so on, I found myself missing the little bugger and ready to lobby for its return.

Grant keeps the outfit in a solid groove from the drum stool and George sings the songs he wrote for the group but he is a reluctant performer. It is more or less left to Henry and Phil to provide the action as they occasionally leave the Spud-U-Like to whip up the crowd. Phil looks for all the world like a French onion seller while Henry is a Wilfred Hyde White character from a fifties B-movie in which he would probably play a seedy, disgraced expat ready to sell his soul and his country for another Singapore Sling.

Back at the hotel, Chubby - no great conversationalist at the best of times (for him three words is equivalent to the Gettysburg address) - appears almost comatose. Somewhere on the short journey to the Olympiahalle a transformation takes place and the figure on stage is a whirling dervish of energy. A man incredibly graceful and light on his feet for one of such size and bulk. What has brought about this metamorphosis, I wouldn't like to guess, but the band is cooking with gas and Chubs has a stormer.

It was a hard act for Suzi to follow and I have no idea of the outcome as we decided after a few numbers to revisit the food counter. Bad timing - the catering room was locked and barred. We retraced our footsteps with our tails between our legs. It's amazing just how hungry you can feel when food has been denied you. We were on a bit of a downer as we stood in the side stage area as the Quatro Canned her Can and gunned it down Devil Gate Drive. John Waggstaff passed by with a real live drink in his hand. "Where did he get that?" Brucie wanted to know. I waylaid him. "There's a VIP room up by the entrance. Didn't you know?" Too true we didn't. Armed with the directions, we legged it upstairs and came across Valhalla. A heaven indeed, gallons of drink - soft, hard and in between. And tables groaning under the weight of food of every description, hot and cold,savoury and sweet. We filled our glasses and piled our plates high with goodies. Then my conscience got the better of me and I couldn't relax until I'd rescued the McNallys from poverty city down below. Things were looking good again. There were even monitor screens to watch the stage action, if one so desired. With tummies no longer rumbling, we went back down to catch Smokie who were saddled with the death spot. Bruce was a bit ambivalent, but halfway through their set he came round to realising just how good they are. Death spot was a bit of a misnomer. The hall was still pretty packed and Smokie took them by the scruff of their necks and shook a well-deserved ovation out of them.

One step forward, two steps back seems to be the general rule of Sod's Law. We were looking forward to a long, relaxing drink and convivial company at the hotel bar but the minute we entered the lobby, the shutters came down. Quelle domage (or the German equivalent). Satan vomits in my kettle once again. Downcast and defeated, we were about to surrender to the situation when an apparition appeared. Is it a bird? Is it a 'plane? Is it a Chubby? No. It's Super-Rainer clutching a bottle of champagne. And not just any old sparkling junk. It was indeed a bottle of Taittinger special series, complete in its artist-designed bottle. A true collectors' item. Greater love hath no man. Who was it said, "I give champagne to my real friends and real pain to my sham friends"?

A perfect end to a pretty good day. Bruce had had fun and spent a fortune and Rainer had met his boyhood hero. Me? Just another great day on the road and I love all of them. I wish Bruce had stayed on one more day. We had tried to persuade him, but to no avail. Basel turned into one of those evenings you just can't plan. The show itself was excellent. A similar size to the previous night and a more enthusiastic crowd, if anything. Mary was in heaven at seeing her son John again, who had arrived with an entourage half the size of Liverpool, not to mention a couple of pairs of skis. He and Jane would be on the piste the next day. Mary was on the piste that very evening!

The fun was back in the hotel lobby after our performance. Our spot was an early one and so we were relaxing with Sailor, Suzi and others in the beautiful and luxurious Park Hotel when something happened that was reminiscent of a scene from a very bad black and white fifties film. On reflection, perhaps it was more like that part of the movie Airplane; you know, where the nun gets a guitar out and starts to sing. Only in this case it was Suzi's blind pianist Reg who wandered over to the baby grand. One by one heads turned to listen. I knew he played well, but I never realised before what a great voice was hidden behind those dark glasses. Gradually, bodies drifted over to the instrument, elbows leaned, and voices crept in to join up in harmony. It would have been incredibly corny had it not been so moving.

Reg's wife, Kate, sang a beautiful Billie Holliday number. Lily let rip with a stirring gospel feel in the up tempo songs. As the shuttles returned, the crowd grew. The barman, who had begun to slide the shutters into position and who had called last orders an hour ago, gave up. A full scale party had been created there in the foyer. I have to give full marks to the hotel. They weren't thrown in the slightest, they just went about their business with that efficient unconcern that only the Swiss can muster. Henry's young son, Ollie, a nineteen-year old drafted in to roadie for them on the tour, had started to sway violently and his face had an expression that said, "I am about to chuck up any minute now". I decided it was time for bed.

Fulda couldn't live up to Basel. It had no chance. But it was the perfect setting for everyone to say their goodbyes, to exchange addresses and look back on a wonderful experience. We dragged Smokie, Sailor and the road crew on stage to share a bit of the last night fun. The bar at the hotel was once again bursting. But it wasn't a time to go over the top. No-one likes to fly with a hangover and the next morning meant an early start and a dispersal to all points of the globe.

Most of us were flying to London before scattering to Liverpool, Leicester, Ipswich, Bradford and goodness knows where else. Another bunch would jet off to various points across the USA. And Chubby? Well, it's a hell of a long way to the planet Tharg. Bon voyage Chubs, you were great fun.

(Copyright: Frank Allen, 1995)