Читать книгу Hell Bent for Leather: Confessions of a Heavy Metal Addict - Seb Hunter - Страница 21

Ever since Grandpa had died when I was six, Granny had lived alone in the ground floor of a 1930s whitewashed house in Bexhill-on-Sea, a fusty resort in East Sussex where people go to retire, then die. We made this horizontal trip of a hundred miles once a year, and it was usually full of incident because the dog was always car-sick and my father insisted we stop at public houses along the way to ‘let Toby stretch his legs’. My father would then tend a jug while we emptied the newspapers caked in dog sick, and poor dazed Toby relieved himself against a wooden table in the disapproving beer garden.

In Bexhill, when we weren’t shivering on blankets on the pebbled beach, my sister and I cannoned destructively around the flat while Granny cooked dinner. Once, as I was passing the grandfather clock in the hall at velocity, I looked up to find my mother and father blocking the way.

‘What?’ I complained.

‘AC/DC are playing at the Donington Festival of Rock in a few weeks’ time,’ said my father.

‘Sorry?’

‘Yes, they are,’ said my mother, touching my shoulder. I was 14 so this was just about OK. ‘You probably want to go.’

‘Yes, I do!’ I said. I’d never even heard of it. How exciting! Even though I was into other bands now, the idea of actually seeing AC/DC in the flesh was the most exciting thing I’d ever heard! Angus! Brian! Phil Rudd on the drums.

‘I’m sorry but you can’t,’ said my father.

‘You’re too young,’ said my mother.

‘Maybe next time,’ said my father.

‘I see,’ I said.

‘It’s for the best.’

‘But …’ The bastards! So why did they even bring it up?

I festered over this for months, and did some research into exactly what the hell they’d been talking about.