Sorry to disappoint my female fanbase but I must point out that the sextape mentioned in my title does not involve me, at least not in front of the camera. This does however mean that the rest of you, who read my blog for the humorous writings rather than grotesque sexual imagery, can enjoy this latest installment. But let’s just be clear, this is no clickbait headline, this story does involve a sextape, which I made, in my youth, in a hotel.
It was 2005, and I was making waves as a designer in Clapham, and occasionally making other shapes when required. Like many artistic types forced into the corporate world to pay the bills in the big city, I had a creative outlet in my spare time. And that was music.
For most people, this involves being “in a band”. Everyone’s in a band, right? I mean, why wouldn’t you be in a band – “Hey there extremely attractive girl, guess what I’m in. That’s right a band. A ba… hey hey slow down you’ve broken my zipper!” Girls love guys who are in bands, they go crazy for guys in bands, doesn’t matter what they’re doing in bands, they just fall at the feet of guys in bands.
I was not in a band.
There were a number of reasons for this. Lack of musical talent. Short hair. Bitterness over the failure of my Katrina & The Waves tribute act. Instead the closest I got was hanging around with people who were in bands. “Hey there extremely attractive girl, see that guy over there, he’s in the band… hey hey slow down, come back come back, let me finish. He’s in a band, but guess what I’m in? I’m in … that’s right, I’m in his circle of friends. Now, if you want to get with him tonight and jump to the front of the queue, I’d strongly suggest you spend some quality time with me. He’s not the kind of guy who values enormous breasts over the solid recommendation of a friend, even though he might seem like it and actually say that sometimes.”
Actually it would usually go better when the musician was a girl “Hey there extremely attractive girl, see that girl over there. Yeap. She’s in the band. Look at all those guys surrounding her. I mean she is so hot right, AND in a band. That’s a lot of attention she’s getting, wow I think that one guy just proposed to her. But you know what, I actually think you’re hotter than her. Yeah, definitely. So much hotter. I mean she’s my friend and all that, and obviously don’t tell her I said this, but you are just so much prettier. I mean you should see her without make-up oh my God. We should definitely get a drink together and chat given that I’m flattering you in this way. What’s that? Oh that guy? Yeah he’s the drummer. Hey hey come back, come back!!”
Hey, I said it went better I didn’t say it was necessarily successful.
So you’re probably wondering what I was doing if I wasn’t in the band. Well, I was working with a small management company, doing artist websites, running fan forums, online marketing. It was a sideline that was a million times more interesting than my day job, but that said it didn’t pay so the other job was still extremely important. As part of this, I got to know the fans well, especially the regulars who would travel to gigs, and I went to a lot myself. It was a big social thing, for me, the fans, the bands and the rest of our team, and all in all was a period of tremendous fun. Not least because I got to travel all round the country, to places like Leeds, Cardiff, Carlisle, Doncaster, and see live music at world-famous venues such as the Walkabout.
At this point in time, I was touring the UK with Dr Karl Kennedy from Neighbours. We had… hang on what? You want me to repeat that bit. OK. I was touring the UK with Dr Karl Kennedy from Neighbours. Yes, he has a band, yes he is very popular (with students), no I did not make this up. His real name is Alan Fletcher, and as a rare “celebrity Alan” he was for many years a role-model for me. And in turn I used to help him out when he needed CDs and photos signed for the merch stall but couldn’t be arsed. It was a real partnership.
(See, I told you everyone’s in a band.)
I’m in a band you know…
I had been stung by a particularly fiendish hotel prank some months before. This had involved a few groupies luring me out of my hotel room in the middle of the night, in my underwear, and then swiping and swapping my swipecard for one of theirs. I couldn’t get back in my room. The chief architect of this prank, Kate, even “called” reception for me to explain, and they “told her” I’d have to go down to get a new card. Bless her, she did at least offer to accompany me.
In the lift I went, on this Saturday night, in this busy central hotel in Leeds, in my fucking pants. The lift got to the ground, the doors opened to the foyer, a coachload of Asian businessmen with suitcases had just arrived, there was a huge queue at reception, I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, shat myself and walked out of the lift.
Kate shouted after me, as best she could through the laughter. I turned around, and she had my swipecard in her hand. I don’t know what came first, me sprinting back in the lift or me shouting “fucking bitch” at the top of my voice, but I was soon back to safety and reunited with my card, my room and my clothes. It was probably best I skipped breakfast the next day though for fear of being recognised…
The Karl Kennedy tour had reached Sheffield, and I was on guard for any pranks from my groupie friends, and at the same time looking for an opportunity to play some of my own.
One of the regulars, Mark, had had a *lot* to drink and had a fairly early night. With the help of his roommate, we hatched a plan. To sneak into his room, and steal all his clothes. Revolutionary comedy this was not, but we were all very drunk. Fortunately Mark’s passed-out state meant it was relatively easy for us to get away with all his clothes without waking him. The next thing was to decide what to do with them.
My first idea, to make him go down to reception in his pants the next day, was a little too reminiscent of the prank that was played on me in Leeds. We went back to one of our rooms, and laid out Mark’s clothes on the floor exactly as they had appeared in his own room, and had an idea.
We would film a sextape and try to convince Mark that he had been so drunk he had managed to forget a torrid evening of sexual exertion.
I don’t recall if we actually had two people in the bed or just one, but I do remember we had Liz (the tallest of our group) in charge between the sheets as she was the most capable of making exaggerated movements with the duvet. It took a few takes to get it right, and by that I mean a few takes were wasted with laughter, but we got there in the end.
You can see the finished result below:
For all the spectacular production values, incredible acting and meticulous planning, Mark didn’t really believe us when we showed him the tape, although I do think he spent quite a lot of the next day trying to work out just how Liz jumped around in his bed without waking him up…