Breakfast
We were playing a bar, the name of which has now been lost in the hazy, whisky-soaked memories of the Scottish tours. We'd learned a few things on our various jaunts to the highlands, one of which was that the first person to offer to buy the band a drink was always the craziest person in the room, and to be avoided at all costs. We were greeted in the afternoon by a giant of a man in a Rangers shirt. As soon as he saw the guitars on our backs he immediately went to the bar and returned with a whisky each. Well, it'd have been rude not to, so we downed them in as short a time as we could, not wanting to appear impolite. When we started setting kit up, he disappeared. By the time we went on, the bar was absolutely rammed and the stage felt unstable, but as usual in those days, we were too far into the whisky to care. We were loving it, and the audience were doing that sort of dancing that borders on unarmed combat. The bar staff looked very young, lots of those pubs are staffe