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Confused, I looked down to see what she was staring at and noticed my fly was wide open.

I guess that’s why David Lee Roth wore spandex.

A few nights later I was in the dressing room at the Rios in Bradford talking to Jessica after the show. It had been a good gig, accentuated by the fact that Helloween had just played there a few weeks prior. Fozzy was at Helloween’s level in Bradford and that was good enough for me.

I was on the phone for fifteen minutes tops, but when I hung up I realized that everyone was gone. The dressing rooms were in the upstairs of the club, and when I opened the door it was pitch black. I turned on my phone to give me some light and yelled out for someone. Nobody replied. As I walked gingerly down the stairs so as not to fall (Mr. Lordi was not there to catch me this time), the security system went off. Claxon alarms were shrieking so loudly I couldn’t hear myself think, and I suspected I’d been locked inside the club.

I shuffled through the empty stage area and saw two huge fireproof silver garage doors pulled down over the exits. The owner of the venue used them to make sure nobody broke in (or out). I was stuck inside with the ear-piercing alarm going off and I started freaking out.

“What if that’s not a burglar alarm? What if there’s a fire in here? How the hell am I going to get out?”

I tried to text our tour manager Toad that I was locked inside the club, but there was no reception and it took me a few tries to get through.

After the eternity of a few minutes, I heard a rattling against the steel doors. When they rolled up on the hinges, a veritable SWAT team walked in. The police told me to step outside and there were four cop cars with their lights flashing and eight bobbies standing around looking annoyed.

“You know I could arrest you for this,” said a stern-faced cop who looked like Simon Pegg with a mustache.

“Arrest me for what, sir?” I replied nervously.

“For being such a plonker!”

Pegg and his cohorts burst out laughing, as Rich ran around the corner and shoved a video camera into my face. I’d been punk’d UK style. I didn’t see the humor in it, and if Ashton Kutcher would’ve jumped out of the shadows with his Von Dutch trucker cap askew, I would’ve punched him right in the fucking boatrace.

Every day Toad gave us a per diem for dinner. It was in our rider (along with a big bowl of Reese’s Pieces with the peanut butter removed) that the promoter had to provide dinner for us on gig nights or we would get ten pounds each and buy whatever we wanted. Most of the time (at Rich’s insistence) everyone went for Indian food, except for me and Delson. I couldn’t stand the spicy cuisine, and Delson just pocketed the ten pounds to save money and ate fruit backstage. (“These grapes are your dad!”)

However, when we showed up at the venue in Portsmouth, I was pleasantly surprised to find out a full-fledged buffet dinner had been arranged for us. The chef had created a wonderful spread of Yorkshire pudding, roast beef with gravy, hash browns, cornbread, and roast chicken. It smelled delicious, and after two weeks of truck stops and fast food, it was a feast fit for a king—or at least Prince Charles.

I walked to the front of the buffet, grabbed a plate, and started serving myself. Suddenly the chef marched out of the kitchen and screamed in a thick limey accent, “Who goes there!?”

I’m not kidding with this, he actually said, “Who goes there?” like he was the fricking Beastmaster.

I stared speechless at this slovenly wart of a man who was the spitting image of the keeper of the Rancor monster and decided that he scared me.

“Odds bodkins! What do you think you’re doing?”

As the lead singer of the band who’d sold out the club that night, I deserved more respect, and I wasn’t going to let this infidel speak to me this way. I was going to have this fat bastard fired!

I opened my mouth, ready to do my best Donald Trump and said …

“YOU’RE … Ummm…. just getting some food?”

Chef Rancor