Each of the (then) six members of the band gives us a three-minute segment of cine/video film, with a voice-over monologue read by Robert Hulse. Here are those monologues. Transcriptions by Kev West taken from the now defunct Bar Italia website.
We travelled for over three months - by road, by air, by rail and on foot - all in order to get to this one place. And in the end it was so simple: we just walked down some stairs and there they were. Maybe you were in the audience that night. If not, don't worry - cause you're there now. This is the story of that night, and the three months that preceded it. This is us and you, together for one night in Brixton.
The tour started in the UK, and then we went on to France, Germany, Spain, Scandinavia and Japan. Sometimes the venues were... (SFX: toilet flushes). Other times they were... (SFX: bells chime). Sometimes the whole night is just one big blur in your mind, and other times, strange little pointless things stick in your memory, such as (ducks on pond) or (bells chime again). There's always a few things you can rely on, though. You're going to get drunk. You're gonna catch at least one cold. You're going to spend a lot of time hangin' around. And you're going to lose several personal items in dressing rooms and hotels. I'm not complaining, though. I mean, just think what else you could be doing for a living. And on a Monday Morning, too....
"By definition, touring involves a lot of travel, and this, coupled with the fact that often you're playing several concerts back to back, can all add up to making you rather exhausted. It's not so much the long hours of being on tour as the intensive bursts of being on stage. It's more a question of adrenaline than physical energy. But you see for me, playing concerts is just about the only thing about being in a band I really love. The recording, promotion, and all the rest of the stuff is just the foreplay... it's the concert that's the climax. However, like all the great pursuits of mankind, what makes a good concert always remains elusive. It's got to be more than people simply enjoying the music. There has to be some kind of connection, some unmeasurable factor which marks it out as a special event. The only real problem I have with any of the travel is with flying. It's an illogical but entirely natural fear. I can't help being aware that I'm in a lump of metal which really wants to plummet several thousand foot to the ground. What I do now is rely upon drugs. Legally prescribed drugs, I hasten to add, but they don't do much, and I'm still scared. They're supposed to make you go to sleep, but all they do for me is make me slightly numb around the edges. Then, when I get off the plane, I don't go to sleep either, because I'm full of this great sense of euphoria that I'm still alive..."
"During the European leg of the tour, we spent about five weeks on a tour bus. Often we'd set off after a concert, in the early hours of the morning, and arrive at the next venue around midday. I'd usually go to bed as early as possible, leaving most of the others up drinking until the crack of dawn in order to help them sleep through the rest of the day, when I'd be out sight-seeing and shopping. About half way through this, we had to return to England to do Live And Kicking and the Smash Hits Awards. We drove overnight from France, straight to Television Centre in Wood Lane. The next morning, Andi Peters tried to sneak up on us during the programme, thinking we were still asleep on the bus, but actually we'd already gone for our breakfast at the canteen on the second floor. Later we mimed to Disco 2000, and got to meet Ron Dixon and Gary Glitter(1) in Trevor And Simon's Record Shop. After that I went home, and took some washing to the launderette. The next day we did the Smash Hits Awards, and there was the usual boring period of hanging around. We all got drunk, and some of us ended up missing our flights back to France the next morning. It was funny that one day we'd spoiled things by getting up early, the next day we messed things up by waking up late. When we finally did get back to France, the political situation there was tense. The French public was outraged by the government's proposed cuts to the welfare system. By the time we got to Paris there was no public transport, the roads were in chaos, and a huge march was assembling about 200 yards from the concert venue. All the shops were shut, so I decided to go along and have a wander around. I'd been expecting violence, and riots in the streets, but many of the protesters were old or middle-aged and the atmosphere was quite restrained. It was strange to be at the heart of something I didn't understand much about but that meant so much to the people there. Later that afternoon, as I made my way back to the venue for the sound check, past the shops closed in support of the strike, I remembered I still hadn't had time to dry the clothes I'd washed in London. I didn't know about it then, but the concert later was going to turn out to be one of our worst of all time, and looking back now I'd prefer to recall the pictures that lined the walls of the venue rather than anything that happened on the stage. In fact, the best thing that happened that night was that the launderette next door to the venue opened, and I managed to get my washing dry. At last."
(1) Note: This was recorded in 1995 before any of Gary Glitter's convictions.
"Japan's a funny place, but, despite all the differences, you still find people enjoying themselves in the same old ways.. only there, things tend to be a little more hi-tech. The Japanese love their amusement arcades. Every city centre street has at least one. Inside, instead of actually doing something for real, you can normally find a machine to cater for your virtual needs. My own personal favourites were the games that were based on something more tangible than a couple of buttons and a video screen. There's something reassuring about betting on horses that are actually there, and the excitement of hooking a fish is all the more when you can actually feel that big one bending your rod. But it was in this arcade that a small Japanese man approached us, and told us about a legendary arcade game in which the hi-tech met the low-brow. He'd never actually seen this game with his own eyes, but was sure it existed. I knew, at that point, I had to go out and find it for myself. I'd already heard rumours about Japanese vending machines that sold used schoolgirl's knickers to dirty old men, so what the Japanese man had told me about this arcade game didn't seem that improbable. We searched Tokyo's arcades for hours without any luck, and it seemed as if we'd been victim to a cruel practical joke. Then, out of the blue, we found what we'd been looking for on the secluded fourth floor of what had seemed like just another arcade. Until then, I'd thought 'Scissors, Paper, Stone' was the most boring game in the world... but in Japan, they'd figured out a way to make it a little more interesting. You started by picking one of four girls as your opponent. The game then began with her doing a seductive, yet naive, kind of dance, which culminated in her offering you the chance to select scissors, paper, or stone. After you had chosen, she made her choice. If she won, you lost a life. If you won, she removed an item of clothing. After many games, I eventually managed to win outright, and was rewarded by the ultimate goal - a sexy naked dance (which unfortunately, I can't share with you)... That was our last night in Tokyo, so we never did get to find the elusive knickers vending machine. It could be that it's just a sort of Japanese Loch Ness Monster - something to keep the tourists happy. But it wouldn't surprise me if it really does exist, and it's probably only a matter of time before we can go to the Barber's over here, and get that special something for the weekend..."
"Before you play any concert, you always have to do a sound check that afternoon. It's normally pretty boring, and I find it hard to concentrate. My mind tends to wander, and I often end up thinking about what will be for dinner afterwards. When we're in Japan, it was hard to find much food that I could eat. Most of the others were quite excited by the idea of all the exotic dishes, and fooling around with chopsticks, but it didn't interest me much at all. I'm quite a fussy eater anyway, and I'm also a vegetarian, so it was usually quite hard to find anything plain that didn't contain meat or fish. It actually becomes quite a relief to be able to find fast food that at home you would maybe take for granted, or even turn your nose up at. One night, most of the others went out to a traditional Japanese restaurant, and ordered a delicacy called Fugu. This is a blowfish that contains a lethal poison, which means it can only be served by chefs with a special license and training. Every year about twenty people die from eating this; usually because they have tried to prepare it themselves. When the waiter brought the fish to the table, it was still alive, twitching about on it's side in a basket of lettuce. As if this wasn't bad enough, when someone removed some of the salad from over the fish, it became apparent that the chunks of raw flesh, already carved and displayed on another platter, had been cut from the body of the blowfish whilst it was still alive. I know it's not that exciting, but even if I wasn't a vegetarian, I'd sooner survive on a diet of salad and chips that eat a poisonous fish that was still alive. Scandinavia wasn't much better for food as far as I was concerned - they're big on roasted wild boar and that kind of thing over there. Although it was freezing all the time, some of the scenery was really nice, like something out of a Christmas card. One day in Sweden, we stopped off in the bus and walked across a frozen lake to a little island in the middle. We tried for ages to get a fire going to warm us up, but most of the grass and twigs were too damp. When we finally did get it blazing, I nearly ended up roasting myself. Food-wise, it was a real relief to get back to England, for the British leg of the tour, where we had the same caterers with us every day. Their food was always nice. The afternoon before we filmed this concert, they made a lovely Christmas dinner. I'm really grateful for that, because God knows what we'd have been eating if we were still in Japan."
"I don't mind getting made up to have my picture taken. It sounds a bit poncy, but when you know the pictures are going to be seen by loads of people, you don't want to end up looking rough. When we're on tour, we take our own make-up mirror around with us, in a flight case. It's good, because even though the dressing room might be different every night, it's like having some kind of cosy mobile fire place - a familiar object. The picture on the mirror is of Postman Cheval. I first heard about him about five years ago, when I was living in a squat on the fourteenth floor of a tour block in Camberwell. I think I found the story in a newspaper. You see, Postman Cheval wasn't just an ordinary postman, and ever since reading that article, I've wanted to visit his birth place near Lyon, in France. Although we've toured France a few times before, we've never had the time to make any detours. But this time, I was determined to make it happen, even though it was a little off the beaten track.
Férdinand Cheval was born in 1836, in a small village called Autreuil. At first he trained as a baker, but eventually he became the postman of the area. One night, at the age of forty-three, he had a dream, and in the dream he saw a fairy-tale image of an incredible palace. He never forgot that dream, and for the next thirty-three years, as he walked his fifteen kilometer post-round, he collected stones in a wheelbarrow. Then, every night on the plot of land behind his house, he worked by the light of a candle on his hat, constructing the palace of his vision. He finally finished work in 1912, at the age of seventy-six. The Palais Idéal is a magical place. There's a strange atmosphere there, knowing that it was all built by one man over such a long time. It's so intricate, it looks like it's grown up out of the ground, rather than being built by someone’s bare hands."
The camera sweeps around the Palais Idéal, while in the background the music swells up and reveals itself to be the string part from the chorus of I Spy.
"Unfortunately we couldn't stay long - because of our detour, we'd already put the crew behind in setting up the equipment for the concert that evening. But I did buy a Cheval keyring, which I use all the time. And I sometimes think about him when I'm opening my front door.
Postman Cheval died without anyone realising his achievement - an outcast in his village. Being recognised for what you do doesn't give it any more value, but at least you know you're connecting with people, and I suppose for us, that's the only thing that really makes touring worthwhile."
"It's difficult to talk about playing live. In a way, it's like talking about having sex - if you analyse it too much then it makes something that's spontaneous and natural at the time seem a bit cold and calculated. Besides, it's so subjective. Some nights I'll come off and think it's a bit below par, and then maybe Candida will say that she thought it was one of the best ever. So if we don't agree, then how can we know what the different people in the audience are thinking? One person might have loved it because they get off with someone that they'd fancied for ages, and spent the whole night snogging rather than watching the show, and another person might have hated it because all their money fell out of their pockets whilst they were jumping up and down at the front. There's no way of knowing what's on each individual's mind, so you end up having to relate to the audience as if it were one giant being. I guess one of the main times you get the chance to do this is in-between the normal set and the start of the encore. I know a lot of people don't agree with encores. They think you should decide what you're going to do, do it, and then get off, but I think they're quite sexy. It's like you've taken the audience to a certain point, and then you just hang back and tease them a bit. They know that you're probably going to come back on, but there's still an element of doubt, and you're saying 'Well, do you want it, or don't you?'. But I suppose if I'm really honest about encores, and why we do them, I have to admit that the fact that it gives me the chance to have a quick cig is quite a big factor, and I like coming back on, and then choosing one person to give the cig to, to finish off, because then you break through that thing of seeing the audience as a mass, and it's just you and that one person sharing a smoke, just like after a really good shag."
And that was it. I can't remember what happened later - like I said before, sometimes everything just turns into one big blur. But watching this footage has brought some of it back, and made me realise it wasn't just my imagination: it really did happen, after all. Next morning I awoke in a bedroom full of empty champagne bottles and full ashtrays, with less than thirty-six hours to get my Christmas shopping done. I was most definitely back in the real world... at least, until next time.