had to take the van back to the skate shop.
So much for our ride home. Darrell took com-
mand and the motel crew started skating for
the tube station. We did our best to avoid the
pedestrian population. Some of them coed.
Some of them ahhed. Some of them stood
right in our way. One old wanker tried to
shove each and every one of us off our
boards. We had heard about English.
hospitality. We plastered stickers every-
where. People were freaking. We all got off
at the Desperate Avenue exit and headed
straight for the hotel.
Darrell jammed and the five of us checked
into the Paradise Inn. We had two adjoining
rooms in the far corner of the building. The
hotel didn't seem to have heaters. We also
noticed that you didn't need a key to access
one of the rooms. You just had to kick the
door-open sesame. Right away I could tell
something was wrong. There were five of us
and only four beds. Dragsville. The rooms
looked like they were made for midget
midgets. The walls were painted a dull turtle
shit green. The shower stall looked and
smelled like hundred year old mildew. The
toilet paper resembled wax paper and just
spread the hershey highway into a five lane
freeway. How nice. There was no telly and
no phone. Pro treatment, indeed. Stevo
Keenan slept on the floor.
The next morning began with a bang. A
bang on the door. An English dude barged
right into our room to announce that
breakfast was ready. I just love privacy. Christ
and I looked at each other in bewilderment.
50
We quickly showered and dressed. Christ
mentioned that we should get the hell out of
the roach hotel. I agreed.
I went next door to wake up the dead. It's
next to impossible to get skaters up early, but
I tried. Keenan's back was in pain thanks to
the killing floor. He had begun to show symp-
toms of walking pneumonia but wouldn't find
out about it for almost a month. The
Grossman and Jason looked like a couple
of zombies in a trance. We finally found the
downstairs kitchen. The locals looked up
from their plates as we waltzed in.
Breakfast was free of charge. How British.
A waiter walked over to our table and waited.
We all ordered tea with cream and loads of
sugar. The breakfast menu consisted of juice
and toast with eggs, chips and bacon or
steak, beans and peas. That was it. No
substitutes. We ordered and waited forever
for our food.
Breakfast looked like the fake plastic food
you find in joke shops. The bacon seemed
like it had been stripped from a hippo. The
eggs were rock hard. The toast was stale and
the chips were bland. We picked through our
food and ordered more tea. And more tea.
The waiter developed an attitude problem.
Words were exchanged. Tempers flared. We
did the Harlem shuffle back upstairs,
gathered our belongings and split for the day.
Jason and Keenan led the pack toward the
Underground. Rather than leaving a trail of
breadcrumbs, we left a trail of stickers. We
weren't supposed to skate in the tube but if
we didn't break any rules, we wouldn't have
any fun. We dragged our equipment around,
which was a drag. As soon as we got to Slam
City we called promoter Andy Ruffell, sup-
posedly a famous ex-B.M.X.er. Skating in
Upland I'd learned that B.M.X.ers were bad
luck of the worst kind. Andy was no excep-
tion. Hosoi, the party spokesman, demanded
a new hotel and food money. Andy said he'd
take care of everything but he had yet to do
anything. Was he trying to impress us?
Half an hour later the party arrived at the
Lattimor Road metal ramp. It was 32 feet wide
with a foot and a half of vert and 10-foot tran-
sitions. It had metal coping and 16 feet of flat
bottom. What a monster. Big airs were a com-
mon sight on our second and third runs.
Jesse and Grosso were ripping and perfect-
ing their newest move-the stalefish. Hosoi
was doing back-to-back overhead airs of all
sorts. I was stoked on double carving and
slide tricks because the surface wasn't slip-
pery at all. I usually hated termites but this
one was an exception. The weather was
freezing but we sessioned nonetheless. We
raged for about four hours then changed
back into our street clothes. As we left, Paul
told us we'd only have the van for one more
night. What else could go wrong?
We didn't have a driver so Stevo volun-
teered. The traffic was a nightmare and
Stevo's driving wasn't much better. If we were
cats, we'd only have five lives left. After a
couple near misses we decided to go under-
ground. We parked, got tubed, then walked
around town and absorbed some culture.
We un-tubed at the Desperate Avenue exit
then skated half a mile back to Motel Hell.
As we walked in, the manager accosted us
because we hadn't left the room keys. "We
don't have to do this in America," I said. He
told us not to do it again. It went in one ear
and out the other.
We walked noisily back to our little corner.
We all tried to catch some shut-eye, but
Keenan's cold was getting progressively
worse so he went to the desk to get more
blankets. The man wouldn't give Stevo one
and went on to tell him that he would have
to buy another room because our rooms
were filled to capacity with four. Keenan was
enraged beyond belief but I guess he paid
'cuz we didn't see him until the next morn-
ing. I dreamt that we were tar and feather-
ing our P.A.L. promoter. Keenan was taking
photos with a big smile on his face.
The next day we woke up early then went
through the breakfast routine again. We all
agreed that English food was the worst.
After some relaxation we skated down to
the demo site. Stevo stayed behind, though,
because he was bed ridden. We gained
entrance and scoped out the joint. There
were assorted jump ramps spread out over
a large smooth floor much like a basketball
court. Two 8-foot wide transition ramps were
set apart in a way that made channel tricks
possible. The demo ramp was a rickety metal
frame with plywood screwed into it. We all
love splinters. It was 12 feet wide with
rideable trannies and no vert. I didn't see any
coping whatsoever. Most people back home
would call this a death ramp.
Opposite Page: Jeff
Grosso, sockless and
laceless, works a street
bank while on a shopping
spree in London. This
Page, Top to Bottom: A
couple of English bros(?).
Mark Gonzales attempts
some jump ramp fauncher
flips after a demo. Salba
wearing his latest
wardrobe addition-a gold
leather-fringed jacket.
Christian Hosoi frolicking
near the Euston tube station.
or anyone you kno
ds help or support,
e of these numbe
1837 618
1833406
We made the best of it and tried to get it
wired. Reporters from Thames Independent
T.V. eventually arrived and proceeded to inter-
view us for the nightly news. The camera-
men were astonished by our manly feats. The
interview chick had bad teeth and smelly
breath. She asked Grosso if skating was
dangerous and he replied, "Hell, no!" The
Grossman then proceeded to do a fakie
hang-up and SLAM big time. Mr. Wilson was
loving it. Grosso was very still for a long time.
Finally, he crawled off the ramp and into a
corner. They asked us the usual stupid ques-
tions and we gave the usual stupid answers.
The interview chick was speechless. We
called it a day due to bad karma.
That night we went to Slam City to com-
plain to Paul. We had to blame someone for
this mess. Paul telephoned Andy the Pandy,
then handed the phone to Christian. Christ
raged hard and told Andy that we wouldn't
do the demo unless things were settled at
once. Andy kept talking about peace, love,
and understanding. We finally said, "Fuck
it all." We watched ourselves on the six
o'clock news and then got tuned up. Rumor
had it that Gator and Gonz were in town.
We got tubed on the way to the Cro-Mags
gig. Right away Jason started talking shit.
"Oi mate. Bloody hell. Piss off." Some
laughed and others gave cold stares. It was
always fun getting tubed, especially this time
as we happened to bump into Gator and
Gonz. I guess you could say people were en-
thralled by our gang of seven Americans.
Maybe our accents gave us away. ►
NATIONAL EXPRESS
51