THE PAPER MOON
"THIS IS NOTHING. ONE TIME, WITH THE Sisters, we were on our way to Boston and we had a drinking competition on the way over-- Andy, Wayne, me and Gary Marx. We had the seat for four in the middle of the plane. We were on the Blue Label vodka. I'd had 15, how many'd you had Wayne?"
"Thirty-five..."
"The vodka was being kept by Commander Eldritch in the middle. Anyway, when we got there, I got another litre of vodka, Wayne had a bottle, Gary had a litre of Pornod and we got on the bus, this minibus and we're all drinking away. By the time we got to Boston, we'd all drunk a litre of spirits and Wayne was asleep on Gary Marx's lap. I was sitting at the front and I heard this huge BLEEEUGH! and Gary'd been sick all over Wayne's head. There was puke everywhere."
"That's the first time I wore a hat."
"And he's worn that hat ever since."
"And we can thank Gary for that, Gary's contribution to The Mission's image."
We raise our glasses in a toast to Gary Marx. To Gary! To Wayne! To 10 years of drink, drugs, puke and stetsons! To The Mission!
Hic. Anyone for a drink?
We've learned to fear these meetings. The first time we met Wayne, we were left stranded in Somerset for three days. Then, at Mark Price's wedding, we met Wayne, Simon and Mick and ended up sleeping on Victoria Station. Recently, by pure accident, we bumped into Mick in Leeds-- one of us was left there for two days, the other threw up all the way back to London.
It's two o'clock in the afternoon. This might sound terribly dramatic, but afternoons with The Mission have a habit of turning into nights with The Mission and nights into days. This could go on indefinitely, one long, interminable party. And if it ends, it's certain to end with a whimper. There's a danger, a very real danger, that the decade might pass without us knowing that we'll wake up somewhere (where?) confronted by carnival debris and an al en numeral (f"'! 1990!)
The Paper Moon seems a safe bet. It's changed since we started frequenting it more than a year ago. A year ago it catered for SE1's criminal fraternity and a few old soaks that'd managed to toiler up from Cardboard City. It really was the sort of place that filled you with a mixture of dread and anticipation. A Paper Moon joke: What's green and gets Vom drunk?; Someone elso s Giro.
Now it's different. A while ago it enjoyed a facelift. Suddenly it was all gleaming chrome, Carara marble, cocktails and a comprehensive vegetarian menu. It feels spacious, safe and civilized. Antiseptic, even. An ideal place, we think, to meet The Mission.
Beyond that there exists, we are told, a small but influential lobby at Phonogram Records who're intent on giving The Mission themselves a facelift. Rumour has it the Mish are going upmarket. This probably goes some way to explaining why a recent rendezvous we'd planned with the band was preceded by numerous phone calls from their press officer forbidding us to go anywhere near the hotel. When we did meet them, it was in a pub and under the strictest supervision.
"Obviously," remarked Wayne at the time, "someone, somewhere has got it into their heads we're a lethal combination."
Nice.
Well not today. Not on your nellie. We're with Phonogram on this one. There's no way you're gonna catch us lounging around in a pub all day, poncing about in some club and then back to a hotel. No way.
"I said,'Anyone want a drink?'"
Um... yeah, two pints of Tennants please.
"So that's three pints of Tennants,, two pints of cider, a bottle of Pils and a large Baileys."
Cheers. Were things always this bad?
"They were worse, they were far worse, says Craig. "Remember those parties you used to go to when you were about 15? A bottle of cider before, a bottle of cider there, then stagger upstairs and carve your name on the wardrobe."
Charming. But not the kind of thing you can get away with easily.
"Talking about that, says Mick, I remember one party when I were about 13 or 14. I remember me mate, it were round his house and he were madly in love with this girl called Shaz or Kaz, and he were leaning over the washing-up bowl that he d been sick in and he were writing her name in the bottom. I thought that were a lovely touch, that."
Wayne: "Nothing like that ever happened to me. I always used to be down the Mormon Church Hall and the dances always had a theme."
Mick: "What, like Enchantment Under The Sea?"
Craig: "Or God?"
Wayne: "No like a ball or a disco. No question of eyeing up girls, it wasn't like that. I didn't even get drunk till l was 21."
Poor Wayne. Still, he's making up far it now.
By four o'clock we're aware of an oncoming dementia, distant, threatening but not yet certain. Craig's grinning a lot, Mick's getting louder and more anecdotal, Wayne's quieter and more showily sober and Simon ruder and more arrogant (actually difficult for Simon who's pretty rude and arrogant anyway).
The Moon s looking nice lots of gold and silver hanging over a perfect cone of a Christmas tree, with a touch of red to complement its warm pine-green. A designer tree.
All going home for Christmas, them?
"Generally I go home," says Wayne, "but this year I'm going to California. I'm going to San Francisco to see The Grateful Dead."
"Don't know about this year," says Craig. "but last year we went to a castle in Scotland, we rented a castle for a few weeks. We haven't had a record out this year, so we can't afford it. We got there on Christmas Eve with the manager (Tony Perrin) and his girlfriend and Jez our roadie. We were woken up Christmas morning by Tony's girlfriend with champagne and tea and biscuits and she cooked the dinner and it was really great. But when it came to dinnertime at three o'clock she was so blathered she dropped most of the food on the floor."
So much for the management's contribution to the facelift.
"Tony was in bed with 'flu so it was a bit of a disaster, really."
"I'm going to Leeds" says Simon,"and Mick's not."
Very mysterious. Why is Mick not going to Leeds? Indeed why is Simon going? It's a dreadful place. Christmas in Leeds, it's like a birthday in Belsen. It's just not on.
"I remember one year," says Craig, "I went into town on Christmas Eve and I ended up in the taxi queue outside Leeds Station. You know the one... "
Much laughter. Wayne Simon, Mick and Craig all seem to share fond memories of that taxi-rank. We don't. Obviously time and distance do help. For us it was less than a month ago that, after an unforgettable evening with Mick, one Vayne, and two Parachute Men, we stood in one of those undignified ensemble that in Yorkshire pass for a queue. The man, the prototype man, directly front of us asked us for a cigarette. We, more out of pity than generosity, gave him two.
"that's a foony accent," he grunted.
Not at all, we're from London.
"London? Looky t'be alive. Where ya bin?"
A pub. Taxi!
"A poob? Looky t'be alive."
Really? TAXI! TAXI!!!
D'ya llke football?
Uh Chelsea maybe.
"Chelsea? Chelsea? Bloody looky t'be alive."
And so we leapt into a mercifully prompt cab, doubtless intended for our simian Cassandra. "Take us to the finest restaurant you know,' we demanded The cabbie turned his grizzly leer towards us, Berni Inn written all over it. "On second thoughts take us to the finest restaurant in town."
No, Leeds and that taxi-rank are not places we shall hurry back to. Mick loves that story. It makes him homesick.
"Well anyway," continues Craig "you know that taxi queue. I was there on Christmas Eve one year and I met these blokes who were gonna walk my way, towards me parents, and we got as far as the end of the road before we all fell asleep in a doorway. Never again."
"I stood in that f***ing queue one Christmas Eve," says Mick, "must've been around the same time. I stood in that queue for over an hour, nearly two hours. We got to the front of the queue, got n our taxi and we only had 10 bob on us. So the, driver said 'Right, where to?' and we said,'Ten bob's worth towards Bramley please'. He took us 15 yards and chucked us out. We had to walk home."
Christmas in Leeds.
"There was this other time..."
Spare us, Mick, spare us... !
"Another Christmas. I'd done in this club and fell asleep in the toilet. When I woke up they were vacuuming and stuff like that, all me mates had f**'ed off. So I went downstairs and there was a taxi outside with no one in, so I sat in the front passenger seat and fell asleep. At some point I must've woken up and thrown up on the driver's seat because next thing I know it's 'What the fookin 'ell are you doin' in......bleedin' 'ell, get out' and I turn round and go, 'Bramley please'."
So you threw up on a cab driver's seat.
"Yeah."
The cabdriver, no doubt tired after the long Christmas haul, sat in your vomit.
"Yeah."
And then you asked him to kindly drive you home please.
"yeah."
You're lucky to be alive. Soft Southern pooftahs like us would've, not a little reluctantly licked the seat clean before quickly calculating the Cabby's projected earnings for the evening and paying him in full. Either that or done a runner. Cleady what we lacked in Leeds was Mick's brazen Northern charm, his cheeky effrontery, his incorrigible but loveable sense of fun, his immense height, his 240 pounds of muscle and his generally thugglsh demeanour.
"There were puke everywhere," adds Mick with a wistful smile.
Wayne? Care to raise the tone a little?
Wayne looks up from a very tone-raising Baileys Irish Cream.
"I don't really remember much about past Christmases. When I was in Liverpool I used to hitch-hike home to Bristol. It was the only time I got fed properly."
Oh dear. Anyone for a drinkie?
What a surprise. To the bar.
One large Baileys and a pint of cider, two bottles of Pils, another pint of cider, a pint of lager and a large Jack Daniels please. Oh and, uh, something for us too.
The barmaid offers us a quizzical smile.
"Celebrating lads?"
(Jesus, it's almost Christmas, what's wrong with these people?)
Not really no. We re with a group and we're on a crazy rock' n' roll rollercoaster to oblivion.
"Oh. Would you like a tray?"
Wayne, Craig, Simon and Mick are admiring pictures of themselves, colour transparencies of them standing in Brighton Pavilion, black and whites of them running Beatles-like along Brighton beach and, of course, the usual plethora of mooch/Mish mug-shots. Taken by Kate Garner, former singer with Haysi Fantayzee and now photographer for The Tatler, they're all actually quite good, very classy. Mick looks rather aristocratic, Wayne very pretty, Simon vaguely demonic and Craig very young and not a little pugnacious. Craig looks worried.
We know what s happening. If he feels anything like us then that soft pulse in the head is turning to a dull thump. His chest's beginning to tighten. We talk about politics, bullshit about the Berlin Wall, about disasters, The Mission's Hillsboro' benefit and, oh God, is that the time?
It's seven o'clock and, other than Simon and Mick, everyone's expected elsewhere. Mick stands up and, for the briefest moment, looks a little queasy. Subliminal. A future flash.
Ho, ho, ho! Green Giant.
THE BIG WORLD
The cab's a big BMW. The London traffic's surprisingly swift and agile. Before we know it, we re out of the West End and into a glaring tunnel tiled like a urinal that swings from left to right and finally pitches us up violently somewhere near Shepherd's Bush.
Craig's wearing something very furry on his head. He seems to know where we're going -- Olaf Street, the Westway Studios, home to "Big World", that terrible programme that for some weird reason has included all of us, every one of us, on its guest list.
On the way through the gates we meet The Quireboys. Spike, their singer, asks us what we're doing. Working, we tell him. He gives us a long, hard look. "Lucky you're not on the piss."
Funny man.
Anyone for a drinkiepoo? To the bar.
"Uh, a pint of cider and 11 bottles of Pils please. Actually no, on second thoughts make that two pints of cider and 22 bottles of Pils. Save me coming back."
And people say Simon's mean. Cheers, Simon.
Craig's still looking worried.
"Ah, Craig worries about everything,' says Mick. 'He does all our worrying for us."
Mick looks like he's never worried about anything. He looks lucky. Lucky Mick, the type soldiers would slick close to in the trenches. Wayne seems self-contained and on top of it all. Simon looks, well, vaguely demonic. And Craig, Craig looks worried.
"I do worry, I worry about everything and I like to inform, people about it all. In a closed community like ours, it s like nothing else matters unless I get on the bus in the morning and go, 'There are 400 miles today and we're playing tonight. And there s hotels, I hate hotels."
You can't hate hotels. Hotels feel like... freedom.
"Well I hate them, but I like them too. I think they're run by the most irresponsible bunch of people."
We've been at this for five and a half hours. There are 22 bottles of Pils in front of us and we all know that in an hour the ashtray's gonna look like a bad day in Aberfan. And you consider yourselves a responsible bunch of people?
"Well, no, but I do think people should do what they say they're gonna do. I'm actually doing a bit of a study of hotels at the moment, about how we get treated differently to people who turn up in suits and BMWs. It s like the more hoity-toity the hotel the worse you get treated."
Don't you find that under those circumstances you begin to revel in the role of barbarian invaders. We know we do.
"Well," says Simon, "we get a bit snotty."
Craig: "Phone them up immediately if there's anything even slightly wrong with 0the room."
Mick: "Which is definitely an improvement because he used to phone me up. It were like four in the morning and it's like BRIII NG, BRIIING, and I'd go, 'What. What?' and he'd go, 'Me TV don't work, me f*'*ing trouser press is knackered.'"
Craig: "Well, you need your trouser press to heat your room. I complain about everything."
Wayne: "He does really well out of it too. He gets bottles of champagne and stuff.
Craig: "It's true. You say something's broken and they'll bring you a bottle of wine up. Then you say, "I'm not paying for the room service because the food was cold." You still eat it, but you refuse to pay for it, you don't have to pay for if."
Can't be that bad though. For every hotel porter that treats you like scum there are a thousand fans that treat you llke God.
"Nah."
Come on, there must be loads of boys asking for your autograph, loads of girls beating on your dressing-room door.
"No, not really," says Mick.
Come on.
"No, really, they come in the dressing room and it's like ZOOM straight to Wayne. Then it's the lead guitarist and by the time they get to me it's, Oooh dear, f"' that! I don't want anyone else's cast-offs."
Craig must've swapped his beaver cap for his feminist hat. He looks distinctly peeved by this turn in the conversation.
"It's a fallacy," he says, "a fallacy that just because you're in a group you've got loads of girls draped all over you."
Well, we were in Brighton a week ago with Wayne and there were loads of girls draped over him.
Craig is adamant. "Yeah, but they didn't want to sleep with him."
"Not necessarily, no," says Wayne.
Do you think they fantasize about you, Wayne?
"Yeah, I suppose they do. But I fantasize about them."
How far does that go, do you masturbate about them?
A full second's silence followed by a drunken guffaw.
Wayne: "Well, that was direct and to the point"
Mick: "On a good night we wank each other off."
Wayne: On good nights we have posh wanks."
What s a posh wank? Do you have a manicure beforehand?
Mick: "No, a posh wank's when you use a Durex."
Simon: "It s the only thing I ever use those things for. Girls, eh, who needs'em?"
Craig's looking really annoyed: "Well I don't know what you're all talking about, I m a happily married bloke. I don't understand all that stuff about girls on tour, I never thought it was worth the hassle. It's ridiculous, it's just not worth the shit you get for it."
What sort of shit do you get for it?
"You have to talk to 'em afterwards, don't you?" says Mick, much to Craig's consternation. Simon chips in with a song.
"What do you get when you fall in love/A smelly wet knob and a load of earache'. That's what I say."
Craig shakes his head and sighs, despairing of his lead guitarist. "I just don't know why girls do it."
Because they want to?
"But they'll regret it," says Wayne, "it's a horrible experience.
What, it's a horrible experience sleeping with one of you?
"No, no, I don't mean that," protests Wayne.
Mick butts in. "It is a horrible experience. We've got really small dicks. They're like dicks, but smaller."
"More drinks?" asks Simon. We'll get these.
Ah, okay. I'll have a large Jack Daniels please. I believe in mixing it."
So, that's, um, a large Jack Daniels, one pint of cider and 20 bottles of Pils. Oh, and a tone-raising Baileys Irish Cream for Wayne.
The barman eyes us with weary indifference. "Someone's birthday, lads?"
(It's almost Christmas. The festive f***ing season!) No, we're with a band and we've got a one-way ticket on the highway to Hell. And, er, could we have a tray please?
They're still talking about it. Well, everyone except Craig who's sunken into what looks like silent, brooding rage.
"There's the occasional time," says Wayne, "when you can be with someone all night and you don't actually bonk. You can be as intimate as with anyone you've ever met and that's wonderful, but there's this whole ritual that says you're supposed to bonk. And that's not always necessary."
"It's not always possible," says Mick.
"You know," interrupts Simon, "it's always when you come offstage. There's the drink you had before, the drinks you had during -- I get through a bottle of wine every gig--and then a load of drink afterwards and, by the time people come into the dressing-room, you're really pissed and your sliding-scale goes straight down. You'll have anything."
Craig turns furious eyes towards us: "I would just like to say that this part has nothing to do with me. I don't have anything to do with this shit at all. When this shit starts up, I leave."
Wayne turns to Craig. The curious and undeniably revolting mixture of cider, pils and Baileys makes him evermore diplomatic.
"It doesn't have to be shit though, Craig. All these kids want is to be close to the band and they think they have to sleep with you to be intimate, they think that's what bands are like. But really you can just sit up all night and talk and be just as intimate,"
"Yeah," says Mick, "and you stand a better chance of remembering their name afterwards."
Simon, being Simon, is not in the least bit diplomatic. Simon, being Simon and a Simon full of beer and Jack Daniels at that is a social bulldozer out of control and heading for Craig's feelings.
Simon roars, with laughter. "Ay, it's really funny when you can t remember their name. 'You can't even remember my name, can you. You can t, can you?' 'Well, love, I wouldn't exactly say that. I do have a name for you'."
Craig's bubbling ominously at Simon's vile parody of a recently despoiled Northern girl.
No, Simon, no. Not the names.
But he's determined to ploy his ace. He purses his lips for the P in pig.
"Look, look," interjects Wayne, " It's Siouxsie."
What? What? It is Siouxsie, and her blonde friend, Budgie. What are they doing here?
"That's why we came," says Wayne despondantly. "The Creatures are playing."
Oh great, when?
"About half an hour ago," says an alien voice.
We look up. The stars are out tonight. It's Tony from Big Country. Wayne excuses himself and wanders off with Tony to Siouxsie's table. A minute later, Simon and Mick spot some friends. And we're left with a black-faced Craig.
We beam at him.
He leans forward, evidently ready to impart some all important nugget of truth.
"If you ever, ever misquote me, I'll come round your house and stab you."
Clearly the mixture of cider, cider and cider doesn't bring out the statesmen in Craig. We suggest that maybe we should go into the fresh air, slap one another on the back and sing a few football songs. The Zen Cockney Mantra possibly--"'Ere we go 'ere we go, 'ere we go." Or should that fail, a long and loud rendition of "Come an' 'ave a go if you fink you're 'ard enough " addressed to the bouncers. This, we've found is guaranteed to inject some spirit of community into even the most extreme misanthrope.
Craig shakes his head. He just wants to go home to the wife.
As a last resort we suggest our own personal favorite -- "You're gonna get your f*ing 'ead kicked in."
No, it's hopeless. Craig is beyond consolation. He gets up to leave. He looks truly sick of it all.
Ho, ho, ha! Green Craig.
THE COLUMBIA HOTEL
"I've got nothing against you, I've got nothing against the Mish, I've seen you before. But no drinkie, you look like trouble."
We don't know how we got to The Columbia. We know we didn't walk because we couldn't have. So either we got a cab or Mick carried us. We turn to Mick. It must've been a cab.
We don t know who this man is. He's short, polite and absolutely determined that we leave immediately.
Mick, who is this man?
"I dunno. Wayne?"
"Nope. Simon?"
"He's a bastard, that's who he is."
Well for God s sake tell hin, tell him it's your perfect right as guests of this hotel to have a drink whenever you want one.
"Well, we would but we re not staying here. We only came for a drink."
"I say no drinkie. Leave now or I call the police."
There's a moment of doubt. Subliminal. Then bravely and decisively we stagger into the bar, prepared for anything.
"Bloody 'ell," says Mick. "I weren't prepared for this."
We stand stunned and swaying in the doorway. Before us, like in some futuristic Madame Tussaud's, are sifting and standing a gallery of... of, well, Eighties pop personalities. At the far table are The Primitives. Along from them Happy Mondays Over there, The Almighty. Here Mary Margaret O'Hara. In on corner Frazier Chorus. Okay, so maybe not a gallery in Tussauds. Maybe a couple of exhibits and half e cleaning staff, but it still looks a party to us.
We take pole position, nearest to the bar, nearest to the door, our two options a swift pint or a swift exit. We do our best to look as unlike trouble as possible.
Obviously our best just isn't good enough. The short man who threatened us with the law has closed the bar snd, unbeknown to us is serving everyone, everyone else that is, through a small and cunningly placed arch in the corridor.
"How long are we gonna sit here without a drink?" asks Simon.
"We're beginning to sober up," adds Mick.
Tracey Tracey appears.
"If you need a drink you can borrow my room-key," she offers.
Extraordinary. We thought she came from Leicester. Well, she does but her voice is perfectly free of any regional intonation. We all remark on how odd that is. What's that called, that way of talking?
"Poncey?" asks Simon.
No, no, REP. Received English Pronunciation.
Either way we toke Tracey's keys and, after pausing briefly to ponder on the devilish things we could do with them, take them to the bar and wave them at the short man.
"I say no drinkie, I mean no drinkie." We return Tracey's keys to Tracey and for a full half hour sit drinkless in despondent silence. We're almost looking forward to the promised arrival of the police when a red-faced fat person asks us if we'd like a drink. How kind.
"Well, give us 20 quid and Ill get the five of you one."
"Twenty quid? Twenty bloody quid?"
Do you wanno drink or not?"
We hand him a £20 note. We're not proud. Bastard.
"Our problem," says Wayne cheerfully, "is we lack self control."
It had occurred to us.
"Mind you", says Mick. "I do remember once we were on a plane, we were going to Germany to start a tour and I took it upon myself. I got up, grabbed everyone's attention and said, 'We're gonna be really busy this year, we're gonna have to account for each other, look after each other and want everybody to try their hardest to be serious.' I was drinking for four days after that."
Hic. Doesn't all this hard living business bugger up your performances? (it's about time we talked about the music).
"I think we got through it fine in the early days," says Wayne, "but I don't think I could go through it anymore. I think it s probably something to do with age but it's also to do with your sense of responsibility. I know I can t go on stage speeding out of my head and still cut it. We remember gigs now, which is something very new to us..."
Lucky you. We never have a f**ng' clue.
Do you like your reputation?
"What reputation?"
Your reputation as pissheads.., basically.
Wayne: "I don t see that we've got that reputation really, I don't see that we're any worse than anyone else. It was just something that people picked up on."
Odd that.
Simon: "I think it's down to the individual really. I mean, I get drunk every day, whether I'm with the band or not."
Wayne: "See, I don't. I get drunk maybe once a week."
Mick: "Big time. It lasts the week."
Ten minutes later, Mick's carrying Wayne to a homebound cab.
Ho, ho, ho! Green Wayne.
THE AVERARD HOTEL
We walk to The Averard. We definitely walk to The Averard. We know this because we moan all the way, all 150 hopeless, pain-racked yards. Beyond that we've done something only the very drunk can do. We'v poisoned ourselves into sobriety.
We're a so desperately hungry but haven't a penny between us. In one of those foolish moments of drunken altruism we gave everything to Wayne. For one fatal split-second it was us and Wayne against the world.
The world won. Everyone hates a drunk especially the world, and we're broke, all four of us. Our only hope's The Averard. If we con fool the concierge into giving us a room we will not only avoid the 20 mile trudge back to Croydon, we'll also stand a fair chance of abusing roam service.
"Room service?" grins Mick "You're joking, The Averard's bollacks."
What, you're coming too?
"We're staying there, you silly bastards."
Excellent.
Mick's room's smaller than we expected. There's barely enough room for us all to lie prostrate on the floor. But, pokey and dusty though it is, it does have the advantage of housing Mick s two large cans of Miller Lite. These we pass round, taking democratic mouthfuls.
"Food," we moan.
"No chance," says Simon.
We dial zero for the concierge. The phone rings for ages.
Ah, good evening.
"Good morning sir."
Would there be any possibility of you rustling up something delicious for us?
"No sir, we do not provide that facility."
We're staggered.
Oh come on mate, you must have some bread lying around somewhere.
"All right sir, I'll see what I can do."
Great. We're in Room 210.
"I'm afraid, sir you'll have to come down and collect it."
"Jesus Christ! You're a servent aren't you? Well serve.
We're possessed by Craig's righteous spirit. At least one of us is. The other's as dead as the phone and dribbling copiously on to Mick's bed sheets.
Ho, ho, ho! Green Stud.
LATE morninq hits us like a bomb, unexpected and unwanted. The phone's wailing and a hard winter sun explodes like magnesium. There's a tide of nausea followed by total disorientation.
Where the f*** are we?
The Averard. Oh no, no. Where's Mick and Simon, this can't be their room, Unless, unless of course in one fatal moment of drunken altruism it was us and them against the world and they got the bath.
We answer the phone. Mick.
"I'll meet you downstairs in five minutes- we'll get summat t'eat."
Five minutes? It's a good job we didn't take our clothes off.
Simon paid for the room. Mean Simon. He's downstairs with Mick.
This, of course, was nothing. We step into a cold December morning and the unkindest of lights. We're lucky to be alive.
Have a goffin' good Christmas.
IN THE MAKER'S BUMPER NEW YEAR ISSUE: THE MISSION PART II. Surprise surprise, The Studs actually sober up enough to, talk to Wayne about "Butterfly On A Wheel" the Mish's new single, and the band s plans for 1990.