Frenchy's Rant

Once in a while something goes wrong in the grand scheme of things, maybe somebody somewhere screws up, maybe its just my turn, or maybe someone was just being nice – though that’s doubtful. Anyway, whatever the reason, somehow I ended up in the ‘Admiral Suite’ at the Hyatt last night.

When I first walked in, I thought I must be in the wrong room. There was a full living room area, a spectacular view, a dining room table that could easily seat eight, and a kitchen area complete with a bar (no booze though.) Why would the powers that be give me this room?

Then I noticed something was wrong. I walked around the room again. Yep… something important was most definitely missing. This luxury suite had everything a person could want, except for a bed. In fact there wasn’t even a bedroom to put a bed in! Leave it to me to get a suite without a place to sleep.

I checked five times to be sure I wasn’t missing something, decided that I didn’t really want to sleep on the couch, so I went back to the front desk to explain my problem.

“Hi, I have what is probably the stupidest question you’re going to get today.”

“Oh yeah? I doubt it, but go ahead and try.”

“Can you tell me where the bed is in the Admiral Suite? I can’t seem to find it.”

“Oh that? Yeah, well, you see, when the hotel isn’t completely sold out, the two adjoining rooms are actually part of the suite, but when we are sold out, we use them as regular rooms. So sometimes that room ends up without a bed in it. Don’t worry, we’ll send one up.”

Send one up? You’ll send one up?? Just like that? Great.

And send one up they did.

A cot.

Earlier today I was talking to the WWE Vice President of Operations about some upcoming shows and stuff. As usual when we talk, he was interrupted. Such is the nature of the job I guess.

Here is a rough transcript of the most interesting interruption, which could only be heard at a WWE event:

“Excuse me, I hate to interrupt, but do you know if we travel a copy machine, like in a road case or something?”

“No, not yet… why?”

“Well, the building doesn’t have one for us, which is kind of a disaster. We can do this show without anything else, including a ring, but without a copier, we’re fucked.”

“OK. So… get one. Order one from somewhere. I don’t care how, but just get one, OK?”

“OK.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, there is one more thing. We need to find a lot of blood for tonight too.”

Once again, I woke up in the middle of the night, but this time without assistance from the fire alarm.The alarm came from my poor, abused stomach. It felt like two angry cats were fighting in my belly, thanks to that questionable street meat.

Unfortunately, death didn’t come to save me from the ferocious felines.

And in a related unpleasant topic, when I finally crawled out of bed, I learned firsthand exactly how airtight the blankets were, and I’ll just leave it at that.

Equally unfortunate, we had a show on both Day Three and Day Four, which pretty much ruined the rest of my vacation. Having to work will do that.

The shows went well, the UK WWE fans went home laden with merchandise and happy, looking forward to our return in April to London and… for the first time ever… Milan!

Have to find a place to rent a motorcycle before April!

WEEE-OOOOOOP!! WEE-OOOOOOP!! WEE-OOOOOOOP!!

Whaa?? Half asleep, I tried to focus on the clock next to the bed.

5AM? What the fuck??

Then it dawned on me. The fire alarm. Again. But 5AM is too early for Shroder to be in the shower, so what the hell? Ignoring this intrusion, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. I’m sure some people heeded the alarm, but I was just too tired to care. Ironically enough, the 5 AM false alarm was set off by someone else on the WWE crew – one of the pyro techs showering before work.

I just have to stop for a minute and award the Copthorne a GFY award – UK style. Even though the beds at the hotel are comfortable, there’s really no excuse for having the stupidest fire alarm system ever.

Congratulations Jolly Ol’ Crapthorne hotel!

Anyway, since I couldn’t get back to sleep, I wandered downstairs for some breakfast. Runny eggs, baked beans, some unidentifiable black thing and mushrooms. MMmmmmm!! There is something insidious about a English breakfast, something evil that sets my stomach rumbling all day. My poor stomach tied with my liver for the prestigious “Most Abused Organ’ award during this trip.

The set day was unremarkable, the set and ring were set, the TV truck was set up, and plans were made with the local British audio crew to visit one of their favorite pubs – the Lass O’ Gowrie – after work.

Going out drinking with people that eat those insidious English breakfasts regularly was definitely not one of my brightest ideas. After trying to match these lads pint for pint all night, I understand why England has a town called Liverpool.

The end of the night is still somewhat of a blur, but I do remember it involved eating some type of mysterious ‘street meat’ in a wrap. Vaguely, I knew I would regret it later, but at the time, it was deeeee-licious!