Day Three

Wednesday 30th October 1991.

The nightmare begins.
Jesus F Christ when shit happens it really does happen. In my mind I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing.
On cans virtually all day, heaps upon heaps of techno fear. Talkback going down, mikes not working properly. Spanish camera ops who don't have any idea what we're talking about. Actually nobody seemed to know who was saying what to whom. Simon remains frighteningly calm.
On an empty stomach and no coffee, all cigarettes and Pepsi Cola. I was wasted by lunchtime but still upright with ten hours to go. All day I was running around getting feared off by the presenters - Nidal, who looks like a terrorist Peter Sellers, and Tony, who's really nice until the shit hits the fan. 'Fix my earpiece'...'I need water'...'No warm water'..'Where's my scripts?'.....'There Are No Scripts Now Fuck OFF.'
Things were quiet and winding down when the eleven o'clock bulletin goes horribly wrong and as I give Tony a signal he wraps it up like ten minutes early. They have to throw back to London early and all I could hear on my cans was Jo freaking out in London and screaming at the crew there.
They did try to pin it on me but I wasn't having any of it.

MacDonald's was just shutting up when we pulled up outside, so now I understand the massacres that happen in those places. Back to the hotel bar. More fucking toasties. More bourbon and coke. Madrid measures. Then champagne in Dom T's room. Dom T's ranting about leaving his wife for Estrella. Get a fucking grip.

Hit the bed very late, went out like a light and dreamed about Estrella, the Spanish translator. Estrella Diez..which means Star Ten. How fucking cool is that?
Goodnight Madrid, I imagine the shit piles higher tomorrow.

PS : I moved onto a stronger brand of cigarettes today.