Wild Boy (18 page)

“Why don’t you let me get in touch with her?” Tracey had insisted. “It would do you a lot of good to talk to her, and it might give you some answers about some of the things that happened in your childhood.”

I wasn’t so sure that there was much to be gained by opening up old wounds, but I had conceded that if I was going to try and form any sort of meaningful relationship with my mother in the future, then the royal concert seemed like an ideal opportunity to turn over a new leaf.

“Okay, let’s get in touch with her,” I said.

So we invited my mother along, although I chose not to tell my dad because I wanted to spare his feelings. He was very proud about the royal concert, but I knew he’d be content to read about it at home.

MEANWHILE
, the IRA were busy making plans of their own. Sean O’Callaghan, the man ordered to assassinate Charles and Diana, had slipped into the UK unnoticed. Traveling with a woman in her late twenties and two small children in order not to attract any attention, O’Callaghan had quietly caught a ferry to Fishguard before making his way to Liverpool, where he checked into the Central Hotel, close to Lime Street railway station. He lay low there for a few days while he waited for a message.

Of course, we in the band still knew nothing about this at the time, but like everyone else in the UK we were aware that the conflict in Northern Ireland was at its height. Terrorism was a very different threat from the one we face today from Al Qaeda but it could be just as deadly. During the thirty or so years of conflict in Ireland the number of people who were killed in “the troubles” was similar to the number of people who lost their lives in the 9/11 attacks.

After three days O’Callaghan received word that the “equipment” he needed would be delivered to another hotel in London. As he moved down to the capital, he must have looked like any other traveler. In reality, he was a high-ranking member of the IRA’s GHQ staff, and he had already killed twice during active service. He booked into the Russell Court Road Hotel and made his way to the Dominion Theatre in Tottenham Court Road. Incredibly, he then simply walked in through an open door, climbed the stairs, and entered the royal box. He discovered it to be a wooden balcony at the side of the stage with a men’s lavatory located about fifteen feet away. He estimated that if he planted a bomb in the toilets that contained twenty-five pounds of an explosive called Frangex, it would kill or seriously injure everybody within a sixty-foot radius . . .

WE
flew into the UK a couple of days ahead of the concert on first-class flights that were sponsored by PanAm. (Our days of traveling economy with our trusty Indian airline were finally over.) We’d been sheltered from the press in the Caribbean, but when we arrived in London we were given VIP treatment, and it caused a massive amount of fuss and media attention. From the airport we were whisked to the Grosvenor House Hotel in Park Lane, where we planned to spend the day before the concert with our families.

The next morning outside our hotel, there was still a huge media presence that caused mayhem, with photographers spilling out into Park Lane and blocking all the traffic. Motorists were honking their horns like crazy, and there were police everywhere trying to sort things out. We looked tanned and healthy from being in the Caribbean sunshine, and we were more than happy to play up for the cameras.

Inside the hotel, I met my mother over breakfast and she brought along my younger half brother. Our conversations were polite and friendly, but just like the meeting we had in Kent when I was fifteen there was no real warmth between us. I can’t even remember much of what we spoke about, but it was mostly just meaningless pleasantries. There were so many significant things going on that day that even something as important as meeting my estranged mother didn’t make much of an impression on me. Perhaps there’s still part of me that wants to block out the memory, because I can’t recall much about our meeting at all.

Bizarrely, one thing I do have a vivid memory of from that day is the complete chaos that was caused within the sumptuous confines of the Grovesnor House Hotel by my pet Jack Russell dog, Charlie. Simon used to joke that because the dog was a Jack Russell I should have called him Jack Daniel’s, which would have been appropriate given the amount of the stuff I’d drunk in Sri Lanka. Charlie was a mischievous little pet who scampered around like lightning in excitement, but he had an embarrassing habit of occasionally relieving himself in awkward places. When our entourage descended on the hotel, we completely overran the place and we caused lots of disruption in the restaurant, where all the well-heeled guests were exchanging polite pleasantries over a quiet lunch. Suddenly, they were surrounded by five thirsty rock stars and our families, our various senior crew members, and all our security, while the world’s press camped on the pavement outside.

Meanwhile, I was delighted to discover that the hotel was so posh that it had its own dog food menu, which they served up in silver doggie bowls.

“That’s just what Charlie needs,” I said eagerly.

Looking back, I suppose taking your Jack Russell to lunch at the Grosvenor House Hotel might seem like an odd thing to do, but when you’re in a band you get used to doing eccentric things like that. In any case, we were spending so much money at the hotel that they probably wouldn’t have minded if I’d insisted on getting down on all fours myself and eating out of a dog bowl. Sometimes we’d find the fawning attitude of hotel staff hilarious, and Simon in particular became a master of winding them up. Years later, when hotels started to show adult movies as part of their in-house entertainment, Simon used to complain about the quality of the films at the front desk for a joke.

“About your porn,” he’d say with a completely straight face as we checked out. “It’s crap and it didn’t even get me moist. I want it all off my bill!”

“Oh, yes, sir,” they’d reply, and then cancel the charges. I don’t know if it was a gag that Simon had copied from a movie scene, but it used to crack me up every time.

We were in a similar sort of mood in the Grosvenor, and soon Charlie was running around under the tables and yapping all over the place. Then, to my horror, I noticed he’d stopped running around and had decided to empty his bowels instead under the table of a particularly posh group of diners nearby. I had visions of one of them calling over the staff and complaining in a plummy voice, “Waiter, I’m afraid a rock star’s dog has taken a dump on my shoes.” Well, it certainly beats having a fly in your soup!

In fact, the hotel staff were very good about it and didn’t kick up too much of a fuss, although it was probably no coincidence that we never went back there. I used to refer to it afterward as the Famous Dog Dumping Incident, and it proves anything can happen to you when you are in a band.

THE
security on that night was incredible. Police with sniffer dogs were everywhere, and the whole place was thronging with men from MI5 in plainclothes. Our own minders were all ex-military and they knew exactly what sort of security operation was taking place.

“Make sure you are not carrying anything,” they warned us. “If you’ve got any spliffs get rid of them, don’t even think about taking a beer in there. This is the tightest possible security and you will never see anything like this again in your lifetime.”

I don’t know whether or not our management or our label were aware of a possible threat from the IRA, but in the band we still had not been told anything. Once we were inside we were asked to all line up alongside Dire Straits, who were also on the bill, while the protocol for meeting Charles and Diana was explained to us. The officials weren’t too bothered about us bowing, but we were asked to call the royal couple “Sir” or “Ma’am.” I was pleased that we were not expected to bow, because my father’s harsh treatment by the church meant I still had a healthy disregard for authority. Even though I respected the Royals, bowing wasn’t something I wanted to do.

And then they arrived.

We saw them coming and there was actually a certain glow that surrounded them. The car was so shiny, everything glittered and their arrival was coordinated to perfection. Diana, of course, looked immaculate. She wore a billowing designer dress with a nautical-style lapel. As I watched her work her way down the line, she seemed to be greeting everybody quick, quick, quick so that she could get to us. Then it was our turn.

“Ma’am . . . this is Duran Duran,” explained an aide.

She smiled. “I don’t need any introductions to these boys. I know
exactly
who they are.”

And she went straight over to John! Diana then stood chatting to us for what seemed like ages, while John stood in the middle with Simon and me on either side of him. A photographer then took a shot of the four of us together like that, and that made all the front pages the following morning. You can see from the photo that she looks just as pleased to meet us as we were to meet her, and the chemistry between her and John is obvious. In fact, Simon even looks a tiny bit jealous as he stares at John from the side! We felt as if Diana was telling the world,
This is my band!
as she shook hands with John. She knew our names, what we were about, everything.

“I’m so looking forward to the show,” she told us, smiling and tilting her head backward in that special manner she had.

“Wow, this is great—nice to meet you, Ma’am,” I said, thinking how excited my nan back in Newcastle would be to hear all about this.

Then Prince Charles came walking up, and he seemed a bit crusty in comparison. She wore designer gear, but he seemed to always wear hand-me-downs, he was so outshone by his wife. Diana had walked ahead of him, but I got the impression she wasn’t supposed to and that he was a bit pissed off about it. I was a bit puzzled by it, but if we’d known then what we do now about the fact that Charles had a bit of a problem with her celebrity, it would have made sense.

“I hear there were lots of ladies waiting on the tarmac at Heathrow when you arrived yesterday,” Charles said to Simon.

Nick then spoke to Charles and Diana both for some time, and they asked lots of questions about Montserrat. They certainly seemed well briefed.

Sadly, when we finally got to play onstage it was a bit of a disaster. We were plagued by technical problems and our timing was all over the place. John had trouble with his bass, which sounded out of tune, and we were generally underrehearsed despite our makeshift efforts to get up to scratch in Montserrat. It takes a lot of time and effort to get stage-ready, as we’d just discovered. The
Daily Mirror
was so unimpressed by our performance that it changed its early edition headline from D
IANA’S DELIGHT
to D
IANA’S LET-DOWN
in later editions. But it didn’t take any of the gloss off the event. It was a fantastic experience, and the reaction from the general public and the buzz it gave us was great.

And as for the IRA? Incredibly, the plot was foiled because the very man they had selected to plant the bomb was a double agent. Sean O’Callaghan had secretly tipped off the security services about his mission, and he had simply been going through the motions when he traveled to London so as not to arouse the suspicions of fellow terrorists. Scotland Yard leaked the fact he was believed to be in the UK to the media, who wrongly reported that his intended target was Margaret Thatcher. This gave O’Callaghan an excuse to flee to Paris, complaining to his IRA bosses that his mission had been compromised by a leak and therefore could not go ahead. It explained why the security had been so overwhelming on the night of the concert. So much for them being worried about drugs.

The first I learned about it was years later when I picked up a newspaper and read an account in which O’Callaghan confessed everything. He described the plot as “potentially the most dangerous scheme ever devised by the Provisional IRA.”

“Duran Duran don’t know how lucky they are,” he later said on television.

I was angry that nobody had told us about the threat. What did the authorities think I was going to do, go and start a fight with an Irishman? But in a perverse way O’Callaghan was right, we were lucky. We might have been only a secondary target to the Royals, but if it wasn’t for O’Callaghan’s actions, the bomb would have killed Charles and Diana and everyone in the band.

If we had nine lives, then one of them had just been used up.

REHEARSING
for the royal gala in the Caribbean had sounded like a good idea, but it was never really going to be an ideal way to do things. Recording for our third album,
Seven and the Ragged Tiger
, was already proving to be very difficult, and we were secretly worried about being able to deliver it on time. We’d flown to Montserrat so that we could concentrate on work there, at studios that were owned by the former Beatles producer George Martin. We’d already started on the album earlier in the south of France, but we’d done a lot of partying there and precious little real work.

In truth, we were probably missing the UK deep down inside, but we’d taken an important financial decision to become tax exiles in March. This meant we couldn’t have gone home for more than a few days even if we had wanted to. It was a controversial thing to do at the time because some people read sinister overtones into it, but we’d already paid a huge amount in tax and we were aware that whatever we were earning now might have to last us a very long time. Our records had all gone screaming up the charts, but our financial and legal advisors told us to consider that rock and roll can be a very fickle industry and we shouldn’t bank on always being so fortunate.

“You might have one or two more successful albums ahead of you, and then it could all be over,” they warned us.

We were doing very well financially by now, but I can remember very clearly that the first check we sent to the taxman was for £600,000, which was the amount of tax we paid on the first £1 million that the band had earned between us as a partnership and we all had to sign off permission for the check to be sent. The top rate of tax in the UK had previously been 83 percent, but even the rate of 60 percent at which we had to pay would mean that a colossal amount of our earnings would continue to be handed over to the Exchequer. Today the top rate is capped at 40 percent—but back then, once the Berrow brothers had also taken their cut, and other expenses and costs were deducted, it left each member of the band with a share of around £80,000. This was still a handsome amount of money in the early eighties—and none of us was complaining at the time—but it hardly compared to the riches that could be bought with £1 million!