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  • Writer's pictureFaith No More Followers

RIP | July 1991

Mick Wall 

DAY TWO: Saturday January 19.


Emerging onto the poolside third floor terrace to the sound of a half dozen drums the size of tree trunks furiously being thumped by a roving cluster of semi-clad tribesmen — the Rio Palace's lizard-brained idea of the kind of mid-morning entertainment the poolside decadents like served up with their eggs and sangria – the first person I ran into was Big Jim Martin from Faith No More, themselves just arrived that morning from San Francisco.


He was wearing a black baseball cap with the words 'Satanic Gulf’ clearly scrawled in Portuguese across the front. "The guys at Customs just laughed at me when they saw it”, he told me, non-plussed.


RETURNING JUST in time to catch last call at the bar of the Rio Palace, I bumped into Big Jim we shared a glass together. Jim said he was on his way out to see a live sex show. "I just live for naked women," he explained, tugging on his beard, his dark bespectacled eyes fixed on a space about two inches above my head.


But then, as he will be the first to acknowledge. Big Jim Martin is a very sick man and a persistent hankering after naked female flesh is merely one of several more worrying symptoms of a condition , doctors have told him may actually be incurable.


Ladies, he deserves your pity, not your scorn. He also needed someone to go with him to the live sex show but that someone was not going to be me. I was so tired I wasn't fit to shit and the idea of travelling many miles just to watch Jim's glasses steam up somehow failed to appeal. I left the big fella to his ablutions and disappeared to my room. Jim promised me a full report.


DAY TWO: Saturday January 19.


Emerging onto the poolside third floor terrace to the sound of a half dozen drums the size of tree trunks furiously being thumped by a roving cluster of semi-clad tribesmen — the Rio Palace's lizard-brained idea of the kind of mid-morning entertainment the poolside decadents like served up with their eggs and sangria – the first person I ran into was Big Jim Martin from Faith No More, themselves just arrived that morning from San Francisco.


He was wearing a black baseball cap with the words 'Satanic Gulf’ clearly scrawled in Portuguese across the front. "The guys at Customs just laughed at me when they saw it”, he told me, non-plussed.


RETURNING JUST in time to catch last call at the bar of the Rio Palace, I bumped into Big Jim we shared a glass together. Jim said he was on his way out to see a live sex show. "I just live for naked women," he explained, tugging on his beard, his dark bespectacled eyes fixed on a space about two inches above my head.


But then, as he will be the first to acknowledge. Big Jim Martin is a very sick man and a persistent hankering after naked female flesh is merely one of several more worrying symptoms of a condition , doctors have told him may actually be incurable.


Ladies, he deserves your pity, not your scorn. He also needed someone to go with him to the live sex show but that someone was not going to be me. I was so tired I wasn't fit to shit and the idea of travelling many miles just to watch Jim's glasses steam up somehow failed to appeal. I left the big fella to his ablutions and disappeared to my room. Jim promised me a full report.





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