Yep, and you thought the two-part On The Road Rock Monster feature had died a death.
Not so. Climb aboard and disbelieve as THE MISSION led by the noble HUSSEY travel the highways and bi-ways of South America, wooing the rock fans.
Meanwhile, the NME's own Gulliver TERRY STAUNTON goes on a mission from Goth and has his buttocks groped by a gang of underage prostitutes, gets drunk with RONNIE BIGGS, and ms, supposedly, mistaken for STING by blind Brazilian schoolkids. The boys from Leeds caught Sugar-loafing about by DEREK RIDGERS.
The saintly figure of Christ stands high on the mountain overlooking Rio De Janeiro, arms open to welcome all pilgrims, and looking not unlike a whitewashed Wayne Hussey (Whaaaat?!- Ed).
A narrow gauge railway track girdles the sleep incline and a slow train carries The Mission upwards towards the most profound experience of their entire South American excursion - a masturbating mountain man.
"It was weird," recalls guitarist Simon Hinkler "there he was standing in this derelict hotel on the mountainside, goin' for it in a big way"
"He were a big lad," comments drummer Mick Brown.
"The weirdest thing" continues Simon, "was that he came exactly at the point we passed him, pints of the stuff everywhere It's probably the thing I'll remember most from this entire trip, an image that wilt stay with me until the day I die.'
Weird indeed, but perhaps only slightly stranger than a barbecue with Ronnie Biggs, three-wheeled tour buses, underage prostitute disco dollies, an Argentinian Arthur Daley, an acid flashback kids' TV show and petrified piranha paperweights.
Somewhere along the way The Mission played some concerts as well, in Uruguay, Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay- the lager's first ever musical guests from the West.
They sang some songs and sold some records, then returned with armfuls of anecdotes and experiences that most right-thinking human beings might dismiss as utter bollocks.
"Nobody's gonna believe some of this stuff," Mick tells me, "You're gonna have to try and put it all down on paper, you poor bastard."
The capital of Uruguay in Montevideo, a Spanish word meaning Betamax. The city is almost obsolete, as if it is only allowed to exist out of a sense of history
The city center resembles a neon-fixated New York of the 1940s, littered with coffee bars, prototype Woolworth stores and clothes shops which seem to deal exclusively in cheap check shirts and Adidas denim Montevideo is not geared towards European or American visitors and communication can be a problem, although even a plank like myself can understand the signs on the buses: 'Prohibido salivar y fumar'
"Sting! Sting!" Two girls shout and point at my hair in the square by our hotel, which either means I resemble the English pop star or the word translates as "A prat who can't speak our language".
The Mission are in the country for less than 24 hours to play just one show, the NME posse have been here for three days, as our visas for Argentina weren't ready on time, But Wayne Hussey fills me in off what I missed over a couple of vodka and oranges ("vodka makes me violent") and it would appear I've drawn the short straw.
"Buenos Aires doesn't have the vague American feel of Montevideo, it's more like 1930s Berlin, actually. It feels very Eastern European and I sensed some kind of familiarity with the place even though I'd never been there before, and the people were the warmest I've ever come across. We couldn't go out of the hotel there,"
"I suppose part of the reason they're so keen over here is because they don't gel many English or American groups coming over and they may well act the same way for everyone. But at the same time we've been told that we are something special over here, and I can sense that, it's nice."
The Mission were nearly a few fans short during their Argentinian slay, a group of followers had a brush with death in their efforts to be close to the band. Well, a brush with the wheel of a bus at least,
"Some of them followed us around in taxis everywhere we went and once, when we were on our way to a TV show, they nearly copped it,' says Simon.
"All the drivers are mad and there's traffic everywhere. So, we turned this corner and the next thing it was 'Clump!' The back wheel fell off the bus! At first I thought we'd run over someone and then I looked out the window and saw this wheel bouncing down the road, narrowly missing a taxi full of our fans.
"It was a bit embarrassing, we had to walk the rest of the way to the TV studio and apologize to the fans on the way past, apart from that everything went swimmingly. Nobody mentioned the Falklands at all, it seemed as it everything had been forgotten We got asked more questions about Led Zeppelin, actually."
No dodgy jalopies in Montevideo although The Mish very politely put up with a stowaway We first meet Georgie at the hotel on the way to the evening show, insisting that the band were better than anything he's heard, 'I like you, better than The Who's 'Magic Bus', or Janis Joplin. You beat U2."
Georgie is the widest of wide boys from Buenos Aires, who has followed the band across the River Plate regaling us with pidgin English stories about his import/export business, We say our goodbyes and board the hits, thankfully with a full quota of wheels h couple of miles down the road we realize that Georgie is still with us, riding shotgun up front with the driver.
Casual inquiries are made when we arrive at the venue, Cilindro Municipal, a huge basketball arena last used for the South American championship final in which Brazil stuffed Puerto Rico 13 t-16.
We wait until Georgie is out of earshot and then try to establish a few facts "Who is he?"
"Dunno, thought he was with you"
"No, I thought he was with you," and on and on.
The Mission sneak off for a soundcheck leaving the journos, manager Tony and Sian from the record company to entertain Georgie, liberally offering him cigarettes and wondering if he's going to try and sell us something.
"I like this group," he says "I see all the English groups and I like this one the best. You know Rod Stewart?"
Er, yes...
"Next time you see him, you tell him hello from Georgie in Buenos Aires"
Georgie eventually disappears (off to phone Elton John. no doubt) and backstage the band are not looking forward to the show. The cavernous venue resembles the inside of a baked bean tin, the stage is being held up by condemned scaffolding and the impressive cloth backdrop of the 'Children' album cover is more than obscured by the drum kit. The sound is terrible, as if someone is playing a second set of d rums at the back of the hall.
Despite it all, the show is a huge success, with close to 6000 people screaming their bloody beads off Beatlemania style. Nervous Craig Adams is at one with his bass, having settled his butterflies with a good upchucking session in the dressing room, Wayne plays the figurehead superstar with aplomb, bouncing across the stage and risking his neck by prowling the narrow walkway in front of the PA speakers,
But it's freezing, colder than England for this time of year (all right, it is the winter over here). The band do not want to hang around afterwards, preferring the warmth of the hotel, so a runner is arranged. As they wind up with an encore of 'Like A Hurricane' and 'Wishing Well', the cars are prepared, two Chevrolets with open doors and engines running are waiting in the backstage drive-in area, white the rest of the entourage sit patiently in the bus.
The show is over and The Mission head for the tunnel, Wayne with a white towel draped over his shoulder like a prize fighter. They literally dive into the cars, the gates swing open and in seconds all that's left is the smell of burning rubber.
One slight snag, however. Immediately outside the betiding the convoy takes a wrong turning and is confronted with a set of concrete bollards. Backtracking is out of the question as the fans are in hot pursuit - A Hard Day's Night or what! Our chauffers have the solution by spinning off to the right and charging across a park, rattling everyone's bones as they go. Fingers cross in unison and silent prayers are said in the hope that we make it back to the hotel with all four wheels.
Back in the hotel bar (the oddly named Victoria "pub") it's time for an appraisal of the night's show, and it is obvious that The Mission are big business in Montevideo, The majority of he fans knew all the words to the songs, even if they might not understand what hey mean
Does the language barrier bother lyricist Hussey? He says 'Yor-a-gwy', hey say "Oo-ra-gwee'. let's call the · whole thing off?
"I don't mind that barrier because sometimes I don't understand what I'm saying, and I'm sure the rest of the band don't really. Everybody has a different interpretation of it, that's the beauty of making music, it can mean something. different to each and every individual
"It's an overall atmospheric effect that people go for, I think, and the words are just one part of it. I don't think people who can't speak English are going to reject English music just because they don't know what the singer's going on about."
Gigs last for a couple of hours a night but The Mission are doing most of their performing on this tour in front of the press and Montevideo is as hectic as anywhere, perhaps more so because of the limited time in the country. The morning after the show is busy, busy, busy.
Surprisingly, Uruguay still has a pop industry despite the country's bleak economy - but its disappearing fast. Ten years ago a home-grown group could expect sales of up to 70,000 for an album, but now, as the purse strings are pulled tighter by the day, pop music is a luxury for the few.
Piracy and home taping have taken over to such a degree that The Mission's latest album 'Children' has sold, officially, only 1000 copies. That's still quite an achievement, a couple of thousand more and they've got themselves a gold disc. Sting is the biggest noise in town, having gone platinum with 6000 sales of his latest effort.
A visit to the Polygram offices is an eye-opener. In complete contrast to the plush foyers of their British and American counterparts, the Montevideo headquarters is reached by strolling first through a record shop (ironically selling bootlegs of the company's own releases), end then through a book store.
The company chief is a small, Dickensian figure in his eighties who's more at home with a fountain pen than a personal computer. It is on these premises that The Mission must record an interview for the following weekend's video show on national TV, and they are somewhat taken aback when the interviewer is none other than the label's own product manager.
"He's also the host of the biggest pop show in the country," Sian tells me. "No wonder we got three videos screened on last week's programme."
Next it's on to the airport for the live hour flight to Rio. "Where's Harry?" everyone asks at check-in and it is here we meet a saint.
Harry is the tour manager who speaks the lingo, understands every currency in the world and basically looks after The Mission and shields them from the dreary tasks most travellers have to perform. He runs round the entourage collecting our tickets, passports and luggage, and checks everyone in while we nip off to the restaurant for a meal.
He performs similar miracles when we land, although he couldn't prevent Wayne and Mick being taken away by passport officials. But surprisingly, they are not subjected to the strip searches that airport staff relish when they see rock star types approaching.
"I haven't a f--in' clue what all that about," says Mick when he emerges a few minutes later. "They took me passport off me, and came back having given it a good wipe with a damp cloth! I must admit it were a bit mucky"
And neither could Harry fix the roulette wheel that acts as Customs Instead of walking through areas marked either 'Goods to declare' or 'Nothing to declare', everyone has to press a button on their way out. Should it flash green, you're free to go. If it's red and the buzzer goes off, you're hauled away and your luggage is given the once over. There is some kind of perverted justice at work which decides that I am the only person out of a 17-strong entourage that gets the red light.
Red lights of a different nature are at work once we've made the half hour coach journey to the Hotel Rio Othon Palace on the Copacabana Beach. Rio's playground is very much like a film lot, all glamour and glitz out front with the grime and grubbiness hidden behind. The coach takes us through the ghettoes and slums that make up the majority of the city, through the dock area where it's not particularly safe to walk durng the day, let alone at night.
Rio would seem to be the highlight of the itinerary on paper but having been there a week earlier on a brief promotional visit, The Mission hated it. However, they did find a nightclub, Help!, which Wayne insists on visiting again. What seems at first to be a large scale Mecca ballroom soon lakes on a different complexion as we head for the bar.
Young girls, many not old enough to see 15 certificate films, squeeze our buttocks and tweak our nipples as we edge past. When we're finally settled with a drink there is an endless parade of young "Fifis" who dance provocatively in front of us, beckoning us onto the dance floor and beyond.
A rough estimate suggests that seven out of every ten males in the hall are American sailors looking for a good time; nine out of every ten females will give it to them once they've seen the colour of their money. The pop star counts for little here, should a member of The Mish wish to "jiggy-jiggy", it will cost them as much as the next man.
"These kind of places are really the heart of cities," suggests Wayne "It tells you an awful lot. I always make a point of going to red light areas when I first visit a city, not to partake necessarily, but to observe.
"It fascinates me, it's the sleazy side of life that I find quite appealing, it appeals to something in me that is very base, a different kind of instinct. On the one hand you're appalled by it, hut on the other you're fascinated by it"
Does it provide you with material for songs?
"Well I haven't written anything down about this trip as yet, but Ill probably jot a few things down when I get home and see if any of it can be worked into something for the band. I don't think any of this will be a direct inspiration for a new song, but you can't help but be affected by it."
When the "Fifis" realize we're not buying, the heat dies down and we meet some genuine Mission fans who only want autographs. Not for the first time on this voyage I am a surrogate Craig Adams as the bass player has gone off to bed early with his temperamental stomach.
"Just sign anything they put in front of you," is the advice I'm given, "They'll be happy as long as they get four signatures on a piece of paper,"
Rio's most famous resident is also one of its greatest tourist attractions. Most visiting Brits do their best to meet up with Ronnie Biggs, and the train robber claims Rick Wakeman, Ozzy Osborne, David Coverdale and Sting (that man again!) as close friends.
The night after the visit to Help! he's in the hotel bar with his lady friend Raimunda, son Mike and one of Mike's pals, ready to board the group bus to the night's show.
The NME fixed it for Biggs to meet The Mish and vice-versa, forging a great friendship for years to come, which leads to one et the strangest parties any of l he group has ever been invited to.
The show is mayhem Whereas 6000 comfortably stood in a huge arena in Montevideo here we have The Mission in a club with a capacity of 2400- and the promoter has sold nearly 5000 tickets. Doors are smashed as funs without tickets try to force their way in, the barrier at the front of the stage is vibrating like an Electrolux in final rinse. The group debate whether to play or not while Craig goes to the toilet to throw up again.
Finally, they go ahead, much to the delight of Ronnie who leaps up and down throughout the set, "they're great" he shouts in my ear. "They sound just like the London Irish Fusiliers!"
Backstage the Mish are congratulated by Ron and they have their photograph taken together. Biggs Jr gets well stuck into the beer and the 14-year-old delights in telling people outside the door to f-- off in his best Cock, flay wide boy accent, Not bad for a kid who's rarely been outside his native Brazil. This drunken revelry is tolerated by The Mission; after all, Mike, as a member of The Magic Balloon Gang, has sold something like 20 times as many records as his hosts and knows how to act like a pop star.
Wayne, meanwhile, is getting on with Ron like a house on fire when the world's most lovable criminal extends a sincere invitation: "You must all come round to my gaff tomorrow afternoon for a barbecue and I'll teach you to samba"
Mr. Hussey accepts immediately, and everyone gets stuck into the beer again, particularly Mike. Later we discover that Ron writes off his car on the way home (thankfully no injuries) and Mick is sick everywhere... but hey, that's rock 'n' roil
Getting back on the tour bus is hell, except for Craig who appears to have sneaked by unnoticed, leaving me to confront fanatical autograph hunters once again, Simon Hinkler is visibly shaken once he has found his seat.
"It's bloody madness, there's practically no security. I get really frightened when there's hundreds of them just grabbing at you, I'm still not used to this star thing.
"I want to just keep shouting at them, 'Leave me alone, I'm only a lad from Sheffield. I'm normal'."
But this is South America and nothing is normal if you're with The Mission. Any fragment of normality still loitering around will go straight out the window ' tomorrow when it's time to take part in the most surreal TV of all time, followed by the Biggs' barbecue.
"Samba time at Ronnie's tomorrow.", declaras Wayne. "Could be fun"
Could be.
To be continued next week...