Victoria Mary Clarke: I am used to Shane being unpredictable
Posted: Mon Nov 23, 2009 10:31 am'I am used to Shane being unpredictable, he has disappeared before, in worse places. I console myself with Ozzy's autobiography'
By Victoria Mary Clarke
Sunday November 22 2009
Sunday Independent
SUnday
Consistency is a virtue. And I am nothing if not consistent. No matter where I go in the world, or how fancy the hotels I stay in, I can always find something to complain about.
Me and Shane have been touring America with The Pogues, and our combined facility for finding fault has become quite magnificent. It can be little things, like the Huevos Rancheros being too salty. Or it can be big things like not having a view of the pool or, worse still, there not being a pool. This morning, I reached out my hand for the bog roll, only to find that it was not where it should be, and I was grabbing the telephone. Naturally, I was incensed. Upon leaving the bathroom, I called the front desk to ask for a new room, and when one was not made available I filled in a feedback form forthwith.
Normally, at home, we complain bitterly about how unfriendly Ireland has become. But here in America we complain that they are too friendly, especially in the hotels. They always want to know how your day has been so far -- and while you try to ignore the question, sometimes you just want to tell them exactly how it has been.
Today, we are in Kansas city and there is a bloke called Adam doing room service who is so scary that we only order things if we absolutely have to.
If Adam gets the order wrong (like he just did, by bringing me the fish soup instead of the hamburger), we don't even consider sending the food back because it is never worth having to face him apologising and being really nice. On the one hand, I can appreciate that people are starving in the world and that we are just spoilt brats and that we should appreciate the five-star hotel service. But on the other hand, I just want to be able to get a cup of tea without having to talk to anyone.
monDay
We just watched 15 episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, one after another, interrupted only by frequent commercial breaks.
The Special Victims unit specialise in gruesome murders of a sexual nature, which is not normally the type of thing I go for, but they are unbelievably compelling. They look great and run really fast and absolutely never smile. It is always the person you least expect who did the crime, like the nice sister or the priest. And once you have seen the body you simply have to know the rest of the story. At one point I turn to Shane who is utterly engrossed in an episode about homeless teenagers who batter people to death with bike chains, and ask him what he would rather be, a singer or a Special Victims Cop.
"No question," he says.
"A Special Victims Cop."
Seeing as Ice T, the former rap star, is a Special Victims Cop, we decide that if we can find him a good agent, he may be in with a chance.
tuesDay
As usual, I have spent almost three hours having breakfast. It gives me something to do. I started with the obviously healthy stuff like the berries and granola and different types of yoghurt and I worked my way through various egg dishes and pancakes and bagels until I got to the cakes. Now I am tackling a sticky cinnamon roll that is threatening to burst my tummy. The waiter in the white tails keeps refilling my coffee to give me the energy to continue.
I want to leave but I can't because I am transfixed by a conversation at the table behind me. An ex-cop who has just retired is telling his companions about what it is really like to be a cop.
"Is it like on television, like on CSI?" a woman asks.
I hear a derisive snort.
"It's nothing like on television."
"Oh yeah?" she says. "I like CSI."
"That is one of the worst," he says. "Those cop shows make our lives hell. Sometimes it takes 15 years to solve a homicide, but on television they solve every crime by the end of a one-hour episode! And not only that, they always have some DNA evidence to convict the bastard. In real life we hardly ever have DNA evidence. But the members of the jury all watch cop shows now, and they refuse to convict without it."
"Gee, I never thought of that."
Like the lady, I had never thought of it either. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? I suppose it depends on whether you are the murderer or the cop.
wednesDay
A dreadful thing has happened. Shane has disappeared in New Orleans. I am used to Shane being unpredictable, and he has disappeared before, in worse places.
He once disappeared for two days in Thailand, and drove me frantic with worry. I am consoling myself by reading Ozzy Osbourne's autobiography and reminding myself that Ozzy is still alive, but I can't help worrying. Anything could have happened. He was last seen in a Blues bar on Bourbon Street yesterday evening, and all night the tour manager has been calling hospitals and Irish bars, to no avail.
I have been walking up and down Bourbon asking in every bar and all the voodoo shops, but there is no trace of him.
The bus driver has been checking the dumpsters because he says that's what they do with people in New Orleans, kill them and throw them in dumpsters. I don't like to think negatively but sometimes you can't help it. I go back to the hotel and ask the angels to do their utmost to perform a miracle. They tell me that I must stop panicking and visualise Shane coming back perfectly unharmed. It's not easy and I eventually fall asleep exhausted and still not having a clue where he is.
thursDay
A miracle has happened. This morning, Shane had still not come back and I spent all day visualising but eventually the band had to go on stage without him. Just as they had finished the fourth number, Shane appeared in the wings, having been found in the lobby of the wrong hotel by a fan called Spiro and taken to the venue. Shane didn't have a ticket to get in but luckily Spiro had two.
friDay
I decided to try for another miracle, even though I knew I was chancing my arm.
We were booked into economy on the plane home from Dallas, because there were no business-class seats left. I was dreading the journey, because I hate flying at the best of times so I really applied myself and visualised us lying down in the lovely Club World seats instead of the crappy economy ones.
Outrageously, it worked. As we approached the check-in desk and handed in our boarding passes to get on the plane, the man ripped them up and gave us business-class ones instead. I think it may have had something to do with Spiro, who just happened to turn up on the plane from New Orleans, and just happened to be sitting beside Shane. I think Spiro is a lucky charm.
It was just as well we got put in business class because Shane vomited all the way home and they had dividers between the seats so the other passengers didn't have to watch.
saturDay
We are in London, having a day off after our ordeal and the fire alarm is blaring so loud we can't sleep. We try to ignore it for ages, but eventually surrender and haul ourselves and our bags down the fire escape to the street, where people are standing around shivering, and a few fire brigades have assembled.
I have a bright idea. We go to a French restaurant to wait for the hotel to burn down and are just in the process of finding fault with everything on the menu, when Shane is spotted by Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin.
I stare with my mouth open while Jimmy tells Shane that he very much admires his music and says he would like to come to a gig sometime. Just in time, my brain whizzes into gear and I ask him for his phone number which he duly writes in my notebook, along with his name.
I stare at it, and wonder what he would be like in bed, while Shane chats to him about Robert Plant. I don't think I will ever grow out of being a groupie. And I realise that we have experienced our third miracle in three days, which is a lot for any person.
sunDay
My aubergines have survived for a month without me. And my lemon tree is still alive and well, despite the fact that the greenhouse blew over. The spinach is still growing, and so is the purple sprouting broccoli. I gaze lovingly at all of my children, and I caress them tenderly. And not for the first time I wonder if this is how it feels to have a family of one's own to come home to.
Victoria and Shane's Secret Garden -- an alternative to all the how-to gardening programmes -- is broadcast on RTE One at 10.15pm, Thursday, December 9
By Victoria Mary Clarke
Sunday November 22 2009
Sunday Independent
SUnday
Consistency is a virtue. And I am nothing if not consistent. No matter where I go in the world, or how fancy the hotels I stay in, I can always find something to complain about.
Me and Shane have been touring America with The Pogues, and our combined facility for finding fault has become quite magnificent. It can be little things, like the Huevos Rancheros being too salty. Or it can be big things like not having a view of the pool or, worse still, there not being a pool. This morning, I reached out my hand for the bog roll, only to find that it was not where it should be, and I was grabbing the telephone. Naturally, I was incensed. Upon leaving the bathroom, I called the front desk to ask for a new room, and when one was not made available I filled in a feedback form forthwith.
Normally, at home, we complain bitterly about how unfriendly Ireland has become. But here in America we complain that they are too friendly, especially in the hotels. They always want to know how your day has been so far -- and while you try to ignore the question, sometimes you just want to tell them exactly how it has been.
Today, we are in Kansas city and there is a bloke called Adam doing room service who is so scary that we only order things if we absolutely have to.
If Adam gets the order wrong (like he just did, by bringing me the fish soup instead of the hamburger), we don't even consider sending the food back because it is never worth having to face him apologising and being really nice. On the one hand, I can appreciate that people are starving in the world and that we are just spoilt brats and that we should appreciate the five-star hotel service. But on the other hand, I just want to be able to get a cup of tea without having to talk to anyone.
monDay
We just watched 15 episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, one after another, interrupted only by frequent commercial breaks.
The Special Victims unit specialise in gruesome murders of a sexual nature, which is not normally the type of thing I go for, but they are unbelievably compelling. They look great and run really fast and absolutely never smile. It is always the person you least expect who did the crime, like the nice sister or the priest. And once you have seen the body you simply have to know the rest of the story. At one point I turn to Shane who is utterly engrossed in an episode about homeless teenagers who batter people to death with bike chains, and ask him what he would rather be, a singer or a Special Victims Cop.
"No question," he says.
"A Special Victims Cop."
Seeing as Ice T, the former rap star, is a Special Victims Cop, we decide that if we can find him a good agent, he may be in with a chance.
tuesDay
As usual, I have spent almost three hours having breakfast. It gives me something to do. I started with the obviously healthy stuff like the berries and granola and different types of yoghurt and I worked my way through various egg dishes and pancakes and bagels until I got to the cakes. Now I am tackling a sticky cinnamon roll that is threatening to burst my tummy. The waiter in the white tails keeps refilling my coffee to give me the energy to continue.
I want to leave but I can't because I am transfixed by a conversation at the table behind me. An ex-cop who has just retired is telling his companions about what it is really like to be a cop.
"Is it like on television, like on CSI?" a woman asks.
I hear a derisive snort.
"It's nothing like on television."
"Oh yeah?" she says. "I like CSI."
"That is one of the worst," he says. "Those cop shows make our lives hell. Sometimes it takes 15 years to solve a homicide, but on television they solve every crime by the end of a one-hour episode! And not only that, they always have some DNA evidence to convict the bastard. In real life we hardly ever have DNA evidence. But the members of the jury all watch cop shows now, and they refuse to convict without it."
"Gee, I never thought of that."
Like the lady, I had never thought of it either. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? I suppose it depends on whether you are the murderer or the cop.
wednesDay
A dreadful thing has happened. Shane has disappeared in New Orleans. I am used to Shane being unpredictable, and he has disappeared before, in worse places.
He once disappeared for two days in Thailand, and drove me frantic with worry. I am consoling myself by reading Ozzy Osbourne's autobiography and reminding myself that Ozzy is still alive, but I can't help worrying. Anything could have happened. He was last seen in a Blues bar on Bourbon Street yesterday evening, and all night the tour manager has been calling hospitals and Irish bars, to no avail.
I have been walking up and down Bourbon asking in every bar and all the voodoo shops, but there is no trace of him.
The bus driver has been checking the dumpsters because he says that's what they do with people in New Orleans, kill them and throw them in dumpsters. I don't like to think negatively but sometimes you can't help it. I go back to the hotel and ask the angels to do their utmost to perform a miracle. They tell me that I must stop panicking and visualise Shane coming back perfectly unharmed. It's not easy and I eventually fall asleep exhausted and still not having a clue where he is.
thursDay
A miracle has happened. This morning, Shane had still not come back and I spent all day visualising but eventually the band had to go on stage without him. Just as they had finished the fourth number, Shane appeared in the wings, having been found in the lobby of the wrong hotel by a fan called Spiro and taken to the venue. Shane didn't have a ticket to get in but luckily Spiro had two.
friDay
I decided to try for another miracle, even though I knew I was chancing my arm.
We were booked into economy on the plane home from Dallas, because there were no business-class seats left. I was dreading the journey, because I hate flying at the best of times so I really applied myself and visualised us lying down in the lovely Club World seats instead of the crappy economy ones.
Outrageously, it worked. As we approached the check-in desk and handed in our boarding passes to get on the plane, the man ripped them up and gave us business-class ones instead. I think it may have had something to do with Spiro, who just happened to turn up on the plane from New Orleans, and just happened to be sitting beside Shane. I think Spiro is a lucky charm.
It was just as well we got put in business class because Shane vomited all the way home and they had dividers between the seats so the other passengers didn't have to watch.
saturDay
We are in London, having a day off after our ordeal and the fire alarm is blaring so loud we can't sleep. We try to ignore it for ages, but eventually surrender and haul ourselves and our bags down the fire escape to the street, where people are standing around shivering, and a few fire brigades have assembled.
I have a bright idea. We go to a French restaurant to wait for the hotel to burn down and are just in the process of finding fault with everything on the menu, when Shane is spotted by Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin.
I stare with my mouth open while Jimmy tells Shane that he very much admires his music and says he would like to come to a gig sometime. Just in time, my brain whizzes into gear and I ask him for his phone number which he duly writes in my notebook, along with his name.
I stare at it, and wonder what he would be like in bed, while Shane chats to him about Robert Plant. I don't think I will ever grow out of being a groupie. And I realise that we have experienced our third miracle in three days, which is a lot for any person.
sunDay
My aubergines have survived for a month without me. And my lemon tree is still alive and well, despite the fact that the greenhouse blew over. The spinach is still growing, and so is the purple sprouting broccoli. I gaze lovingly at all of my children, and I caress them tenderly. And not for the first time I wonder if this is how it feels to have a family of one's own to come home to.
Victoria and Shane's Secret Garden -- an alternative to all the how-to gardening programmes -- is broadcast on RTE One at 10.15pm, Thursday, December 9
