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(Theyre still good friends to this day, so who are we to judge?)
Pete, fueled by the best part of a bottle of brandy, went off like a firecracker.
He was up in my face, prodding me.
Youll do what youre fucking well told, he sneered, Daltrey writes.
This is not the way to talk to me, but I still backed off.
The roadies knew what I was capable of so they sprang into action and held me back.
Ill kill the little fucker.
They let me go.
I still hadnt retaliated, but I was beginning to feel quite put out.
Hes called me alittlefucker, after all.
Pete went up and backward like hes been poleaxed.
And then he fell down hard, cracking his head to the stage.
I thought Id killed him.
My God, said the horrified MD.
Is it always like this?
No, said Keith.
Today is one of their better days.
I was the one who had been attacked, but somehow I ended up feeling responsible.
It was just like being back in the playground at Acton again, Daltrey concludes.
To his day, I think he believes I was the aggressor but this is how I remember it.
Either way, better a bald spot than brain damage.
