The day Lemmy held up our office and I told him that he should play Ireland
Mayhem erupted, and my teenage eyes boggled. Lemmy and his Motorhead bandmates had just burst into the office where I worked and were jumping about, whooping and demanding money.
This wasn't a stick-up: they were in their management agency, intent on collecting some of their earnings. "We aren't leaving till you pay us," they yelled, chortling and dancing about. All the minions (like me) downed tools and watched them, thrilled by the interruption.
There were only four of the Motorheads but it felt as if there were more. The suite of offices in London's Chalk Farm seemed to be overtaken by a horde of hairy, anarchic, leather- and denim-wearing men.