Buenos Aires, Argentina

5pm. My siesta is over far too quickly, marred by phone calls and text messages so I'm a bit blurry round the edges as I make my way downstairs to the bar.

Alex is waiting for me, and we're soon joined by John, the photographer who is delighted I’ve remembered to pick up 200 Benson & Hedges at the duty free for him. "I can’t smoke the local shit," he explains. “It’s killing me!” Thank God for B&H then, the healthy cigarette…

Soon we're joined by a couple of tour managers, Todd, the band’s on-the-road co-ordinator and then Rod, and plans are discussed for the next few days, promo time slotted in, interviews allocated and photos confirmed. Most pressingly, tonight's plans are laid; a visit to Rodizio, an Argentinian meat fiesta down by the river.

As the drinks start flowing I opt out for an hour, returning to the room to get on with some work, rather than downing beers at a prodigious rate. The odd wave of jetlag is starting to flow over me, so adding alcohol into the equation is a sure fire hiding to nothing if I want to stay awake and not fall face down into a 10lb steak.

The vans pull up outside the front of the hotel at 7.30, and we’re joined by Janick whose appearance evokes cheers from the small band of fans who have gathered outside. No-one was expecting them to arrive until tomorrow but news the plane has been spotted on the tarmac means within hours a little crowd has gathered. By show day on Friday it’ll be an ocean of fans pressed up against the door.

We drive though the city to the Puerto Madero area of the city, and pull up by the 'Woman’s Bridge’ a contemporary sculpture that crosses the water and to some residents looks like a woman dancing the tango. Can't say I see it myself, but maybe a few more glasses and I'll agree...


As we disembark at Rodizio, another people carrier arrives, out of which spill 16 men – the production crew who have flown in to film the gigs here and in Chile. The Canadian directors I know already from the making of ‘Flight 666’ three years ago, but a whole contingent of Norwegian cameramen have been added into the mix and I end up sat with them and Todd as the procession of carnivorous delight is unfurled, almost inflicted, upon us.

After a trip to the salad bar, which has enough food to feed a small army piled high upon it, we are treated to a succession of waiters bringing huge skewers of meat to our table. There’s vast selections of sausages, beef, lamb, pork and chicken all sliced straight onto our plates, and despite my protestations of “poquito!!”, there doesn’t seem to be any understanding of small portions. Eventually I push my plate away and cover it with a napkin for fear of a Mr Creosote moment, as I reach critical density and explode, having eaten an entire farmyard. At least the full stomach absorbs the Argentinian Malbec which is by now flowing faster than the river outside the window.

To round off the meal a little dessert is presented of pink grapefruit and champagne sorbet, a delicate ending to a gargantuan feast, and then we roll out to the waiting vehicles about a stone heavier than before. As we are about to head back to the hotel, someone mentions visiting the local Irish bar. NO!!!! I can see how this evening is going to end up. But instead of being sensible and succumbing to the jetlag, Alex decides that this is a fine idea and jumps into the van with the film crew which sets off at high speed. Todd and I, along with Rod and a few others, pile into the other van and set off again, being assured that the Irish bar is mere crawling distance from the hotel.

We arrive back at the Four Seasons, but there’s no sign of the other van, however we spot Janick who was in another car slinking away through the kitchens at the back of the hotel towards the Irish bar so we follow him. Todd and I are joined by Tom, one of the touring party, but the three of us are soon lost in the maze of corridors, stumbling into store cupboards, up back stairs, through fire exits and eventually emerge onto the street, mere yards from the front entrance, in full view of the fans who stare at us like muppets. Janick is nowhere to be seen, so we ask the doorman where this bloody bar is and eventually make our way there, entering Jack The Rippers a little breathless and confused.

Sure enough, Janick is there but there’s no sign of anyone else. In fact the place is deserted. And then we realise. The Irish bar that Alex and the film crew have gone to is indeed crawling distance from the hotel. It’s just that the film crew are staying in a separate hotel and Alex is now the other side of town with them, and has no cash on him to get back.

Janick is happy at Jack The Rippers, opting for a quiet drink, “away from the madness”. So taking our leave Todd, Tom and I flag down a cab to the film crew’s hotel, and then get directions to Kilkennys, the Irish bar around the corner, where we finally find Alex happily sipping a dodgy pint of Guinness with John, the film guys and a bunch of the road crew who have also made it over. Inside the bar, the jukebox is pumping out AC/DC, Bon Jovi and a whole slew of classic rock, and outside the Canadians, Norwegians, Brits and Americans are all supping beer and having a fine time.

I get a round in, sink down by the window and catch up with Justin, the guitar tech, who tells me all about the near-miss they all had in Japan and how they ended up with an unscheduled few days in Hawaii as a result of the shows being cancelled.

When I catch myself yawning, whilst being told how beautiful Hawaii is, I realise it’s time I hit the sack and manage to round up a posse. So Todd, Tom, Alex and I cram into a tiny little cab that groans its way back across the city to our hotel, depositing us at half past midnight, ready for bed.