When the Manic Street Preachers played in front of the Thai royal family in Thailand some years ago, James opened the show sounding like a PR agent: “This is dedicated to your lovely king.” There was a significant pause. “May he rot in hell.” The crowd went ghostly quiet. When the band came off stage, the promoter, fearing for his head, shouted at the Manics: “You cannot say this! The Police might come to your room! Something bad might happen. We cannot protect you!”
Just in case, the groups bassist Nicky Wire draped a tablecloth over a table so he’d have somewhere to hide in his room. Ever the wag, Bradfield waited for an hour before banging violently on his colleagues door, shouting in his best broken Thai police voice: “NICKY WIRE! NICKAAAAY WIIIIIIRE! Open up!”
After about ten minutes, fearing that Mr. Wire was about to jump to his death from the 10th floor to escape the police, James relented. “It’s only me, Nicky. It’s James!” he said in a soothing Welsh accent.
“You bastard!” came the not-so-soothing reply.
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