David.

David Eric Grohl.

I’m sure I’ve bored some of you senseless with tales of my time spent hanging out with his old band, Nirvana. In my defence, it’s lovely to remember that time in my past when life seemed uncomplicated, you know, before relationship stuff muddied the unbridled waters, and spending three days with one of the biggest bands ever seemed like such a normal thing to do.

On one particular evening, after Kurt and I had agreed that we both loved the Beatles, I’d admired his jumper, and that we both had a penchant for the colour blue, I found myself sat at a table with several people, a glass of bourbon in my hand, and Dave sat next to me tapping out stuff with some chopsticks. I really wish I could recall exactly what we spoke about, and heaven knows I’ve tried over the years, but I can remember we chatted about our favourite bands, comedy shows and, strangely, boots.

Over the time I spent in their company the band were all delightfully friendly, welcoming, with no inflatable ego whatsoever. Kurt was generally quiet, with the occasional moments of eccentricity, but always warm and friendly, Krist was quite reserved, but lovely company, and Dave was pretty much how many would imagine him to be. Only Courtney Love stood apart from the pack. She scared the fucking life out of me most of the time. When she first heard my English accent, I thought she would hug me to death. It was something I’ll never forget, that bone crunching embrace, the deep pervading scent of nicotine, sweat mixed with stale perfume, and alcohol.

And, her eyes. I’ll never forget those. The eyes of someone that had more than just blood running through her veins.

There, I’ve waffled on again. I dare say it won’t be the last time, either.

Dave.

Cool dude, and jolly nice company.

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