Blind Item #13 - One Mad, Sad Moment Forever - A Himmm Blind Item - Part Six

Back at the hotel was a madhouse.  I bribed our driver to help us escape and keep the motor running.  Getting out of the car, I grabbed to move my guitar case the same moment MS decided to exit the car.  She began to tumble – in that beautiful dress – and I caught her mid-fall.  Unfortunately, her dress caught on the door and…rippppp! The cleavage seam on her dress split about 6 inches lower, and it really didn't need to do that.  Gracefully composed, she pinched the top closed, laughing as I apologized.  All she needed was a safety pin, which we found thanks to the concierge.

The bellman grabbed my bags from my room, and shuffled them all out to the car.  MS was looking fit as ever, and we met with H3 in the lobby.  The bodyguard was already in a panic due to the bass player's pregnant wife nearly giving birth during the show.  A simple request distracted him enough for us to ditch the party, with a bottle or two smuggled out.

Running into the singer HT – he begged to join us.  No problem.  He and his girlfriend would be a blast.  Before we could leave, his manager cornered him and reminded him of the glad-hands and media he was obligated to meet and greet.  I saw then what it meant to be trapped by your fame.  A sad moment where the look on his face was like a kid who had to stay in detention while the others went to recess to play.  He shrugged, and I told him the pub name if he could escape.  He looked so lonely in a room full of adoring people – and winked: 'You two don't behave, have one for me".

In the car MS and I sat, talking and drinking waiting on H3 who finally made it out a side door.  Like a bank heist getaway he jumped in, and the driver sped off to the pub we'd wanted to visit.  Poor H3 was exhausted but got his second wind.  MS was becoming a very funny drunk with a sense of humor to rival a sailor.  Arriving to a pub that looked more like a dive bar than disco, we told the driver we'd be about 10 minutes.
 
The second MS came through that door to the pub, every head turned.  Not at the drummer who just played for an army of them, but at the gorgeous blonde in that black dress.  I wondered how long until they recognized who she was.  I was invisible, happily so.  After finally finding our table and drinking ourselves to comfort, we plotted our night's course.  People whispered and feeling our cover blown, we decided to finish our drinks and go before the tabloids showed.  By then more than one man had made comments, gestures, and sneers at us.  A large chap who looked like a poster-child for football hooligans staggered over towards us, asking if we're television stars.  We laughed and apologized that "Sorry, just regular folks".  To which he replied that he didn't care for us hogging all the bartender service.  I also noticed his 20 rough pals in the corner arguing with themselves.

This drunken jerk kept saying nasty things, and as we're wanting to avoid a fight I said we should leave.  I didn't want to brawl with a gang of guys who looked like a brown shart stain on the fresh tighty-whiteys of humanity.  This drunk leaned over our table, resting his large weight on an empty chair, leering at MS.  He made a very crude remark involving a word than began with "C".  The drunk then reached his arm out towards MS and to grab at her cleavage.

Then H3 swiftly KICKS the chair legs out with his foot, and the drunk goes –

…SLAP his face hard on the table, then crashing down to the floor in a heap at MS's feet.  Out cold.

Never test the leg reflexes of a drummer or a football mid-fielder.  Everyone sat there, mouths open, staring at the out-cold drunk.  Now sleeping peacefully on the barroom floor, a broken tooth just beside his mouth.  Maybe the tooth fairy would visit him now.  MS looked in horror and H3 says: "Time to go".  Uh, yep.  As we pass the bar, I gave the bartender a big bill to cover the tab, damages, and tip.  Which was the moment the drunk's pals started to realize his condition and yelling at us. 

We began to run out the door, with MS taking half-steps in that tight dress.  Outside the door I see our driver and I shout: "We gotta go!" and he jumps in the car.  I hear grumbling behind us, and I grab MS' hand as she begins to run.  I hear another RIPPPPP of fabric, and hear her say: "Aww, F#@K IT!" as she hikes up her skirt and goes full sprint, ass-in-the-breeze, across the street.  H3 passes us both and dives for the car doors.  We all three jump in the back like fools, landing on each other as we make a getaway laughing.  I look back to see about 15 people all flying out of the bar towards us, and would've likely caught us in ten seconds.

I look over at MS who is laughing hysterically, and H3 worried the drunk may have been dead.  I assured him it wasn't that hard a fall – just resting nicely.  Or pining for the fjords.  We decide – in my drunken logic – to head to a residential area where I had a friend who would love to meet H3 and always is partying.  Being drunk and in a foreign place, I wasn't sure about the exact location and our driver tried his best.  Somehow we wound up in what looked like a row under construction near the Belgravia section of town.  "Where the hell ARE we??", MS asked as we served as our own bartenders.

Both H3 and I shrugged, and the driver wisely decided to pull over as we figured it out.  MS said she really "needed the loo" so I got out to look around for someplace she could go.  The driver studied his map, and H3 reminded us that the bodyguard – when he and HT ran away in Rio – called the cops to find them.  We hoped that wouldn't happen, nor a run in with tabloids, but kept a lookout just in case.