'If we don't end up killing each other this band has endless possibilities.'
- Richey Osgood, NME, 1989.
*
Having put in place the measures that would hopefully take the band forward into the Nineties, Richey took one further step towards conformity. The photographs that arrived in the post in August 1989 depicted Richey in a grey morning suit and the new Mrs Osgood radiant in a cream dress and tiara, stood in the doorway of a ramshackle chapel among a smattering of undistinguished witnesses. A brief note from Cass disclosed that they'd married three weeks earlier in Cancun and offered apologies for the lack of an invite – it had all happened rather suddenly. 'Ah'm re-lee glad Richey's found love at last,' Jan drooled.
'I'll give it a year,' frowned Nick with his usual cynicism. 'Richey finds monogamy harder than facing a crowd.'
Whilst Vaughn honed his newly discovered writing skills, 'Dead Pretty' was chosen for release. Earning plaudits in the press and its fair share of airplay, it entered the Charts at 33. In a landmark moment in October 1989, the Speeding Hearts lined up on Top of the Pops for the first time. Yet in spite of marriage and a resolution to kick the habit, these were hard times for Richey. Looking haggard and downbeat, it was, he later claimed, the effect of coming off the heroin.
Yet success being the indomitable incentive it was, when the band reappeared on the show a fortnight later, the song hovering just outside the Top Twenty, the old swagger was back. Eight years of hard toil was rewarded in a three-minute delivery of epic stature.
With Doug Perry's twanging, banging guitar, 'Diamond' Dave's dizzy melodies and Vaughn, the rock at the back holding it all together, the band had become the most cohesive unit since the early days. Yet it was Cass that stole the show – and the hearts. No disrespect to Kirk, but she played a mean bass, a thumping, bumping pulse that drove rather than rode with the song. Visually striking too, the freshly bleached blonde hair was worn in a sexy-looking bob, above a pair of panda eyes and bee-stung lips. A dark see-through body stocking revealed just a black bra beneath, complemented by a preposterously short leather skirt, fishnets and six-inch stilettos. That image alone seduced hordes of adolescent boys, translated into record sales when the peak of 15 was reached a week later.
A great platform from which to launch the promised onslaught on the music world, no one foresaw the events of New Year's Eve 1989 that would send the decade out with a bang. Assigned to cover the band's one-off gig at Glasgow's Barrowlands, Nick would rather have been elsewhere. On top of a long journey he could have done without, there was the added wrench of having to leave behind a young family during the festive season. Light snow falling like a burst pillowcase, he arrived at the venue with mixed feelings. Thankfully imbued with Hogmanay spirit, band and audience barely paused for breath throughout a two-hour tour de force that left even the most indifferent and embittered journalist impressed.
The snow having thickened, resigned to abandoning his frost-blighted car to the elements, Nick consented to join the party backstage. In the wake of the Kirk tragedy, Richey's recent nuptials and a spell in rehab, Richey deigned that alcohol was the only temptation on offer. Understandably, all had risen firmly to the challenge, countless crates of Grolsch disappearing within an hour, Richey's eyes as distant as their friendship. It was so cold that even the groupies were conspicuous by their absence.
Adjourning to a nearby hotel in the early hours, bemoaning the lack of recreational drugs and female company, the crew dispersed, leaving just Nick and the band in Richey and Cass' suite. Whilst Dave and Doug played pontoon to conquer the boredom, Vaughn immersed himself in television and Cass headed off to freshen up. With Richey having become incoherent, Nick was preparing to head off somewhere quieter. Cross-legged on the floor, Richey flipped open a bottle of Grolsch and forced it up into Nick's grasp. 'Did we rock tonight or what?'
Nick let the beer dissolve on his tongue, gazing into the bottle, its effervescence matching his frustration. 'Yeah, you rocked,' he conceded.
As Dave and Doug grew frustrated, the pack of cards was tossed in the air, falling in a paper blizzard, Richey's offer of more beer failing to satiate the restless mood. From somewhere a game of Truth or Dare was suggested and Richey nodded appreciatively, fingering a discarded bottle. Dave and Doug joined Nick overhanging the bed and Vaughn was cajoled in, taking up a position on the floor, leaning back on the bed.
As the bathroom door swung open, all eyes were drawn appreciatively to Cass, towelling her hair. The rock chick of earlier had shed the leather and denim of the stage and was now sporting a diaphanous pink kimono. Flopping down next to Richey, she popped open a Grolsch. 'No bullshit, right,' ordered Richey, taking the first spin. 'Anyone found to be lying will have me to deal with.'
The neck end came to rest, pointing accusingly at Nick. 'Mr Silver.'
Nick's request for a truth question was met with a rub of Richey's chin, followed by a sly smile. 'So, Nick, now that we're a successful fucking rock band, any regrets at walking out?'
'None at all,' shot back Nick immediately.
Richey raised his eyebrows but held his tongue, allowing Cass to take hold of the bottle and spin. It indicated towards her husband. 'Fire away my little firecracker...um, truth.'
She pondered. 'Okay, tell me how many women you've slept with.'
'Jeez,' he exclaimed, mind ticking over.
'To the nearest thousand will be fine,' said Doug with a grin.
'Slept with, yeah?' Richey clarified, before replying: 'Fifteen, twenty maybe.'
'You said no bullshit,' protested Doug.
'Err, hang on,' continued Richey. 'Slept with, she asked, S-L-E-P-T with.'
'You know what she meant.'
'Excuse me Douglas but I answered the question truthfully: I've slept with twenty women. Okay Vaughn, your turn.'
Vaughn rotated the bottle and once more it pointed Richey's way. 'This bottle's fucking loaded...truth.'
'So?' prompted Vaughn. 'How many woman – every sexual encounter?'
Richey raised his hands. 'I don't know. I was off me face most of the time...250?'
'Is that before or after you got married?' Doug quipped, causing Richey's lip to curl.
Donnelly's turn, the keyboard player stretched for the bottle with his gem laden digits. The neck came to rest before Vaughn. 'Dare,' confirmed the drummer.
'That's more like it,' Richey enthused.
Fingering his goatee, Donnelly stood to pace the room. Stopping at the window, he scraped away the cold mist, the television continuing to babble close by. 'Roight, get rid of that fucking TV – out the fucking window, rockstar style.'
Vaughn staggered to his feet, hoisting the bulky television set above his head. Legs threatening to buckle beneath him, the drummer zigzagged to the window, resembling a struggling weightlifter. A heavy crash caused the others to turn to witness the television bounce off the glass and back onto Vaughn with a muffled thud. 'Fucking hell!' exclaimed Richey. 'This frigging hotel is rockstar proof.'
