Rockers and Rollers: A Full-Throttle Memoir

by Brian Johnson

  So Scientologist Dave and I parted, along with the rest of the band, after I joined AC/DC. That’s when the world changed for me, and I knew that Scientology was the biggest load of shite on the planet. The SsangYong of religions—that L. Ron Hubbard must be pissing himself.

  Fortunately, this story has a happy ending, and I’m happy to report that Dave has now fully recovered from the experience!

  Chapter 75

  Harley-Davidson

  WHAT YOU FIND IN AUSTRALIA

  During my first Australian tour with AC/DC, I was struck by the fact that all Aussie car names ended in “a” or “o.” Torano, Borano, Ferano, Iguana. Whatever, it was a wonderful place to be, with these happy-go-lucky people, and that’s what they are, lucky people. Of course, you can’t go anywhere without a ute (short for “utility truck,” I think), because the Aussies have a unique way of taking the piss out of everyone. We were in Perth, or maybe Melbourne, I can’t remember, and I was being driven to the gig for a sound check in a Toyota Japana when we passed a Harley-Davidson shop. Now, I was told by Moto Guzzi and Ducati aficionados that Harleys were too agricultural to be any good. I don’t care. Nothing makes a noise like a Harley. Later in life, in Milwaukee, I saw 65,000 of them go on an anniversary run: one of the few times you could use the word “awesome.”

  Anyhow, in the window was an HD police patrol bike, complete with red flashing light and a siren pedal. I shouted, “Stop now! Halt! Desist from going forwards! Stop the fuckin’ car!” I ran in and asked what the hell a Texas Highway Patrol bike was doing here. The geezer said it was sent over for the police force to try out, and if they liked it, they could order more. Well, unfortunately, Kawasaki sent over twenty and said they could have five for free. Deal done. It was too expensive to ship back to the States, so the police wanted to sell it. They did, to me, and I shipped it to England.

  Jackie Armstrong owned a bike shop on Westgate Road in Newcastle. He prepared it for me and off I went. Boy, did it get some looks, but it was then that I discovered that the guys who rode the rice burners and crotch rockets wouldn’t even talk to you. They were actually motorbike snobs. I would never have believed it. I liked nothing better than opening up that bad boy Harley when they were parked at a pub. It was great watching them trying desperately not to look.

  My second trip out was a strange one. I was stopped whilst riding down the coast road by a policeman in a panda car. I said, “What’ve I done?” He said, “Nothing, mate, but is there any chance of a ride?” Well, I couldn’t really say no, so off he went, leaving me by his car. After fifteen minutes, another policeman pulled up in his car and asked me what I’d done with the driver. I said, “He’s testing my bike.” He didn’t believe me, and it was starting to look nasty when “CHiPs” turned up. He looked a little sheepish, and got a huge bollocking. I got a bollocking, too, just for being me. They left. I got back on my bike and thought, “What the fuck?”

  The next day: Hexham and the country ’round Hadrian’s Wall. Stunning countryside, wonderful roads, lots of rabbits. One too many. “I’ll try to avoid that baby one—oh shit, he’s running into me.” I’m in the ditch, over the hedge, land flat on my back. I’m winded, can’t get my breath. Once again, what the fuck?

  Chapter 76

  Notes from the Front Line: Toronto

  Bloody freezing! We’re playing at the Rogers Centre: 46,000. It’s snowing and the roads are jammed. Even with a police escort, it takes thirty-five minutes to cover two miles. Good old Davy Yarwood is there, and Nancy. He’s a director of a huge company now and he’s still got a ponytail. Geddin’ there!

  The Canadians have a roar that says “welcome” in any language. If only the border guards were the same. In 1994, Cliff Williams was detained because he hadn’t declared a parking-meter fine from London in 1973. That apart, the show goes great. For a huge place, it felt like a small club. Dave’s son, Brian, was there. He is now a commercial pilot—what the hell happened? He’s just a kid!

  Hang on, I’m sixty-one. That’s what happened.

  Chapter 77

  Derek “Deke” Rootham

  PEEING IN A PINT GLASS

  Deke, as he liked to be called, was—and still is—a brilliant lead guitarist, and played with Geordie II. If he hadn’t wanted to stay close to home, he would have been famous. Deke named himself after Elvis Presley’s character Deke Rivers in the film Loving You. He loved Elvis and he loved flash cars. He had a white 1970 Daimler Sovereign, and he pampered the hell out of it; spotted dice and leopard-skin carpets. Deke never worked a day job; he got his wife to do it for him.

  Deke was another of the wonderful characters that I’ve met through cars and music. His party trick was to pee in a pint glass and bet everybody he would drink it at £1 a bet. He drank it every time and made money. He said it was good for you. Personally, I’d rather cut off my scrotum with a rusty hacksaw. Deke rolled his own cigarettes, the size of a Dover sole’s dick. He’d light them and try to get one puff before flambéing his lip. His Daimler, I fear, is gone now—I’ll see what he’s got when I return to New-“Are you calling my pint a puff?”-castle. Newcastle United itself reminds me of Deke, full of fun but having missed the opportunity to be great, and I feel for both of them.

  Chapter 78

  David Whittaker

  TIGHTER THAN A FISH’S ARSE

  Davey, Geordie II’s drummer, was tighter than a fish’s arse, but a nice man. The northeast has its fair share of tight-arses; I think it’s the overspill from Scotland. Anyway, Davey bought a two-stroke Saab, li’l red thing. He bought it because it had this thingy which you could press and it would coast along, saving gas. “There’s a fucking thing,” he’d say. Dave’s chat-up lines are legend: “You don’t want a drink, do you?” was a classic.

  Davey was built like a steroid-guzzler on cheap food; he drove a three-ton truck delivering Calor gas—that’s probably the reason he could do a four-and-a-half-hour drum solo. He would break sticks, cymbals, and drum skins all the time, but cymbals were expensive, so he would rivet the cracks together until the cymbal sounded like an elephant with a mouth full of pennies. He was an extremely funny man, and when we were playing rock ’n’ roll onstage, all you’d hear behind you (at the top of his voice) was “Mister Grimsdale!” Yup, another Norman Wisdom fanatic.

  Chapter 79

  The Unreality of The Race

  WHY REALITY TELEVISION SUCKS

  I was on my way to my friend Brendan Healey’s wedding when the phone rang: “Hi, Brian, ya gotta minute for Alvin?” It was Vicky in New York, the AC/DC management. So there I was, just passing Hexham on my way to Haydon Bridge, when: “Brian, Alvin here. I got an invite for you to be on some kind of Engerlish TV show.”

  “Not interested,” I said.

  “Okay, wait. It’s a racing show, and you get to race at Silverstone.”

  “Yes, yes, and thrice yes, my ministerial management maestro.”

  What a gig. And I’m gonna get paid? I would’ve done it for nothing!

  The wedding was great. It was farming country, so the person at the reception who could throw a Land Rover the farthest received a year’s supply of raw tripe. (Second place was two years’ supply.)

  Fast-forward to November 2006, Silverstone. I met all the other participants.

  “Hi, Brian, come in here. This is Nigel Benn, the boxer. He’s a pussycat. Just don’t say ‘devil,’ ‘drink,’ ‘gambling,’ ‘fuck,’ ‘Satan,’ or ‘Jesus’ in a bad way, or he’ll rearrange your nose.” (As you can tell by my photos, that takes some doing.)

  Then there was “Sir” Les Ferdinand, the ridiculously handsome ex-footballer.

  And Gary “Cars” Numan—a fellow gas-head, I may add, who readily admits that his laser-like stare does scare the odd rabbit.

  Then Nick Moran, star of Four Weddings and a Shotgun. He’d just done the Pan America race—impressive! He looked the business. Nigel Benn was the only one who didn’t race regularly; the rest all had a bit of race experience. Les
was the odds-on favorite, with the other lads very close. Old-fart Johnson wasn’t ranked!

  Then there were the girls. Ingrid Tarrant, an absolute sweetheart, who was brokenhearted because she’d just found out her hubby had been shaggin’ a lassie down the street, and anywhere else he could get his hands on her. Tamara Ecclestone, a poor waif of a girl with great beauty and a dad with a great fortune. But I do believe she and her sister were his greatest prize. Jenny Frost, a blonde of drop-dead cuteness that could only be matched by her straightness. And a good little driver, Ms. Dynamite, a London girl, I think, who I got much closer to, in the headlines after the race. Also, Melissa Joan Hart, a spunky little American actress, a “teenage witch,” I think, who had her own race team. She was definitely the fastest, but bad luck would dog her week. Then there was Denise Van Outrider hosting. She was a lovely lassie, with a “What the fuck did I get myself into?” look on her face at all times. The male presenter was—oh, fuck it, the less said about him the better.

  Let’s go on to the cars. Maseratis, the Le Mans ones. Oh, they were wicked sexy, hot ’n’ horny, Italianly stallionly heavenly! Minis, the sixties type. Caterham 7s, bloody gorgeous li’l racing cars. Then there were the Lotus Exiges—as I have said before, made to race, not to run to the store. Then the open-wheel Formula Ford single-seat race cars, the ones all the greats have to start in, pure penis on wheels.

  In between racing the cars, we were to race Monster Trucks—not me, unfortunately, but I did have fun doing steroid-upped cross-country go-karting on a mud heap—now that was fun. It was like mud-wrestling a car. As in a Robert Mugabe speech, you were covered in shit.

  Ingrid Tarrant was to be first away in the Monster Truck, against Gary Numan.

  The owners told them, “These things are just about unbreakable and it’s nigh-on impossible to overturn one.” Right then, they’re off. First jump, Ingrid overturns the truck and does a lot of damage. Oops! I see movement in the cab; she’s fine. Beyond that, I see movement in the bushes, furtive movement at that. What the—? Uh-oh, guess who? Men with cameras, “papascumerra” with names like “Rat.” Then this guy whispers to me, “Hey, Brian, give us the dirt and we’ll pay you well. Here’s my card.” I wasn’t too pleased. After I told him to piss off in nine languages, he disappeared into the murk where he belonged. One of England’s national tabloid embarrassments.

  Once again, European tour buses rear their crap heads. There were two of ’em at Silverstone, and they were in a compound surrounded by a wire fence and eight guards, so we couldn’t get out at night. This was crazy. I said, “Where are we going to sleep?”

  “Oh, you have a bus each,” said an assistant. There were sixteen assistants and no bosses. I smelled poontang. I got the boys on the bus and immediately organized an escape committee. This was a bus with coffin-size bunks. Lift your head an inch, and bang! Get an erection, and you’re shaggin’ the roof of the bus. Well, at least you can’t roll out of bed.

  There was a huge camera on a stand in front of the bus that moved by remote control. So we were to be observed, and all arguments recorded for public consumption. It hit me that they were trying to make a reality show out of racing. I coulda boiled a kettle at ten paces!

  Then I looked closer at the inside of the bus. Aha! I saw a wire sticking out of the roof. I pulled it out—a microphone! Further investigation revealed more cameras and mics. The bus was a trap; their plan—no drink, cold showers, etc. David and I thought it was a plot to get everybody pissed off, thereby causing arguments they could film. “Does it all end here for Tamara?” they could spout. Then let’s get a close-up on her eyes in case there’s a teary moment—the vultures! Aneeway . . . David smuggled three bottles of beer into my bag, and I promised him I would never tell anybody about it . . . Oh shit!!

  If it wasn’t for the chance of driving all those fabulous cars at Silverstone, I would’ve left, but I gritted my teeth. Next day was the Mini race, which I won. Eddie Irvine and David Coulthard said I was “in the purple.” I think that means as smooth as the pope’s underpants. I moved up the points board to third.

  Next day, the Lotus race, and I come second in the rain to Gary Numan. Ooh, this guy’s smooth as a gravy sandwich, but my points go up. Suddenly people are taking notice of the old fart.

  Next day, the Caterhams. I was looking forward to this. The race starts. At turn two, Nigel Benn spins, and I can’t get outta the way. I spin, too. We’re off, and have to catch the pack. I leave Nigel and start picking my way through, and there are my quarries, Les Ferdinand and Gary Numan, duking it out at the front. Oh, this is going to be fun.

  I go up to overtake Gary on the inside of turn one; he brakes hard, locks up, and goes straight through the corner. Just Les now. Ooh, Les, it’s your Uncle Brian come to gobble up your arse. Then they threw a red flag, meaning stop, so they could pull Gary from the gravel and he could restart the race. Never mind, we’re off again; and as usual it’s me, Gary, and Les tussling for the lead. I think I’m going to hang and wait for an opportunity; these guys are going to put themselves out. Au fucking contraire! Coming in to the left-hand turn, Les tries to out-brake Gary. He spins sideways right in front of me, head turned towards me—his eyes looked like Marty Feldman’s with a pit bull on his dick. I think, “Well, either kill ‘Sir’ Les Ferdinand or go into the gravel. Surely they’ll stop the race to pull me out, too.”

  So I chose the latter, and lost all my points. They said it was too late in the race to restart. The bastards were making it up as they went along. “Sir” Les, magnanimous as ever, said, “Fanks.”

  The great day came on a Sunday. I was going to race a race car at Silverstone live on television, but that’s not why I was there. It was the history of it all, the auras of all the wonderful characters who I believe had left their footprints in the very air I was breathing. God, I felt happy. Still got a race to run. Gary Numan and I were the fastest, so naturally they put us at the back and the girls at the front. The stands were full of empty seats where people should have been. There were only about four thousand there, but in my mind it was packed.

  We’re off. Gary has a belting start, but I stay with him. He’s first by turn three, and I’m third by turn one. By the second lap, we were first and second with nobody behind us. Suddenly we come to the front straight and there’s Ms. Dynamite, right in the middle of the track—not a good place to be. Gary went right, I went left; she saw Gary overtaking, panicked a little, turning her front wheel straight into my right rear, and off she span, right into the wall—and I never even saw it. We restarted; Gary and I went ahead, and had a great scrap. I managed to get him on the penultimate lap and hang on. I won The Race, with most points, and he won the team prize for the boys. It was a close-run thing.

  I stood on the podium and received the cup from Bernie Ecclestone. He said, “One for the old boys. Well done!” Boy, that got me a woody. I’d wanted it all my life. Oh yeah, I’ve been on podiums throughout the U.S., but Silverstone! My daughters looked at me, shaking their heads. “Who is this guy we call Dad?” (They’d never seen me race.) I could see it in their eyes.

  So I’d made it, I’d won, but I’d had to deal with some arseholes. The night before, they said a person from each team had to be dropped for the final race, chosen by the team boss—I know D.C. and Eddie were not happy about that. But Ingrid and Nick had the bad luck to be picked—for what reason I have no idea. He was quick. They took us to the studio for a rehearsal—I didn’t like the sound of that. We got there; these huge doors opened and there were these huge friggin’ round things with yellow and red police-type flashing lights, turning around like something in Star Wars, down each side of the audience walkways. What the fuck was this?

  A turd in headphones said, “Right, everybody, settle. Listen, tonight the two losers will be called out and then meet in the middle, hold hands, and turn and walk through the smoke into the light, while we play some sort of music.”

  There was stunned silence. Then there was me: “L
osers? Fuckin’ losers?” I screamed. “There’s no losers here. These people just didn’t make the team, you prick. They’ve been putting their fuckin’ bodies on the line on that racetrack, and you call them losers!” With that, I ran to a spaceship thingy, turned it over, and kicked out every light I could. Then, into the face of the owner of the voice in the headphones, the cause of my tirade: “Now you, you useless cunt.” There, I’ve said it. “Have you got a plan B? Because I’m marching everybody out of here until you have!”

  I could see the look of shock on my fellow racers’ faces, because that’s what we were by then: good or bad, we were racers. We walked out as one! And there was only an hour to go before it went out live. And I know the sphincters of the hidden producers in the control room were going like rabbits’ noses. They’d just forgotten about dignity. Everybody has their own level, and the TV people wanted to take it away, and I don’t think it’s theirs to take. That’s why I got mad. These reality people tried to demean the majesty of motor racing. You demean that, then you denigrate the honor of all the men who died racing, and that pisses me off. I shoulda stuck with my first answer: “Not interested.”

  Still, I made some good friends on the show, Eddie Irvine and David Coulthard among them. D.C. got the shitty end of the lollipop: he had to coach the girls. Eddie had the slightly easier job of coaching the boys. Eddie’s not a male chauvinist pig—more of a male-chauvinist rutting rhino. He’d fuck the crack of dawn if he could get up in time.