The following text is an excerpt from "Salad Daze", the Wayne Hussey autobiography published by Omnibus Press on May 23rd and available to pre-order from here along with other related merchandise. The book will also be available from the usual reputable on-line outlets and high street book shops. A digital e-book version will also be available at time of publication. There are also provisional plans for a later audio book, narrated by Wayne himself. Keep your eyes peeled for further info on that. Please note that none of the photos on this page are included in the book but some of the ones that are captioned are included in the photo archive on the branded memory-stick that is part of the deluxe package.

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Excerpt One taken from: Salad Daze - Chapter 13. In The Temple Of Love, Love, Love...

In the early autumn of 1983 I received a phone call from Andrew Eldritch. “Hello, I’m with a band called The Sisters Of Mercy and we’re looking for a new guitarist and heard that you are quite good. Are you interested?” Now, I had only recently become aware of the Leeds-based Sisters, my girlfriend at the time being into all things dark, but, shamefully, I wouldn’t have known the difference between a Sisters or a Sex Gang Children or even an Alien Sex Fiend record. But that mattered not. Yes, I was interested. My time in Liverpool had run its course and it felt like the right moment for me to move to pastures anew.

Apparently, I had been recommended to Andrew by Annie Roseberry and Muff Winwood, the A&R people at CBS who had looked after Dead Or Alive during my latter time with the band and who were talking with Andrew about signing the Sisters. They had just returned from their first tour of the USA and Ben Gunn, one of the guitarists, had opted to leave to pursue university studies. Andrew and I arranged a time for me to travel to Leeds to meet with the band.

My friend, Kenny, who, along with his girlfriend, Doreen, ran the Planet X nightclub in Liverpool, owned a car and being a bit of a fan of the Sisters offered to drive me over to Leeds for the scheduled meeting. We set out from Liverpool one weekday morning and hit the M62. Within a couple of hours we were in Leeds and looking for number 7 Village Place, LS4, our rendezvous.

We arrived at our destination and wondered if we were at the correct house. All the curtains were drawn and the place looked deserted. I checked the address I had scribbled on a bit of paper. We were at the right location. Walking up the side of the house to the front door – a contradiction in terms I know but some houses do have their front doors on the side – we rang the bell. It was answered by a tall blonde woman who introduced herself as Claire and invited us into the living room. Adjusting our eyesight to the gloom of the room I spied a bearded figure clad in black curled up in an armchair in the far corner like some apprentice Erebus.

“Hi, I’m Andrew. Which one of you is Wayne?” “Oh, that’ll be me then,” I replied, “and this is my mate, Kenny, who has kindly driven me over from Liverpool.” Introductions having been made and seats proffered on the couch we made ourselves comfortable. Claire asked if we’d like a cup of tea. “Yes, please, we are all English after all.”

With the tea duly served Claire excused herself and left us boys to converse. To aid the breaking of ice some hefty lines of speed were quickly and ceremoniously chopped out on the coffee table. Once we’d partaken there ensued a rabid conversation about music, the gentlemanly sport of fencing, the Chinese language – a subject that Andrew had apparently studied at university – and football. With Andrew supporting Manchester United I should’ve known then that our relationship would forever be troubled.

After a while a tall man entered the room and introduced himself as Gary Marx. Gary, whose real name I was later to learn was Mark Pearman, was the other guitarist in the band and he lived in the house with Andrew and Claire. More lines, Mark abstaining, more tea and more conversation. Things were seemingly going swimmingly. With all the tea my bladder was rapidly filling and I needed to expel some liquid. After being told directions to the toilet I excused myself and left the room.

During my absence the doorbell rang and the bass player, Craig Adams, arrived. Thinking that Kenny was me, Craig asked him how long he’d been playing guitar, to which Kenny apparently replied, “Oh, just a few weeks. I’m more of a keyboard player really”, which, of course, flummoxed our dear Mr Adams as he’d heard this bloke from Liverpool was some kind of guitar hot shot.

When I returned to the room the confusion was cleared up and I was introduced to Craig Adams for the very first time. A few more lines, many more ciggies, Craig smoked Silk Cut, same as me, Andrew Marlboro Reds, and a few more cups of tea and the meeting was deemed over. Armed with a newly acquired pile of Sisters records that I was expected to listen to before I made my decision we said our goodbyes with Andrew promising to call me in a day or two with their decision. Craig cadged a lift from Kenny and I into town and, for the first time but certainly not the last, tried to borrow some cash from me. “Sorry mate, I’m on the dole,” was my doleful reply. “Yeah, so are we. Worth a shot as I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.” Thereby endeth my first insight into the mind of Craig Adams.

Kenny and I drove back to Liverpool amped up on speed and excitement at the prospect of a new adventure that maybe, just maybe, was about to change my life.

Excerpt Two taken from: Salad Daze - Chapter 16. Treasure The Moments Touched With Joy (But Remember The Moments Tarnished & Stained)

Again, the tour passed in a blizzard of amphetamine and an ocean of booze. By this time I had well and truly bought into the lifestyle of debauched hedonism. After years and years of living with repression and religious guilt, I had finally shaken off those shackles to become the cliche ́d licentious, degenerate, promiscuous rock star – everything my mother had feared I’d become. And I can honestly say that the time I was playing guitar with The Sisters Of Mercy is the only time in my life I have truly felt ‘cool’. Being cool is a weird one though because to try and be cool is seriously uncool. Being cool has to be natural and not contrived. There is the ‘studied’ cool though that sometimes works, studied in this case meaning nicking little bits of other people’s cool to assimilate into a persona that appears cool but is in actual fact just a cover-up designed to conceal the lack of a strong personality. A bit like method acting. Just like Robert De Niro, say. A brilliant actor who, I suspect, in real life to be a little bit dreary. I could be wrong of course. Let’s look at it like this: Ian McCulloch is cool, Julian Cope is not. Jim Reid of JAMC is cool, Bobby Gillespie, nope. The Cure’s Robert Smith is cutely cool while Dave Gahan of Depeche Mode tries so hard he comes across as American – not cool. Ian Brown of Stone Roses is cool, Liam Gallagher, nah. Bowie was cool, Iggy not so. I’d say that Mac, Reid, Smithy, Brown, Bowie, are all ‘studied cool’ to varying degrees while Copey, Bobby, Gahan, Liam, and Iggy are open, flawed, human and not afraid to make an ass's tit of themselves. And that in itself is the pinnacle of coolness. There are some that have absolutely no hope in my book (and this is my book): Jim Kerr, Chris Martin, Bono, Mark King... to name just a few. And then there are those that transcend “to be cool or not to be cool”: Thom Yorke, Nick Cave, Morrissey, Johnny Marr, Mark Hollis, PJ Harvey, Robert Del Naja, Siouxsie, Bjork, ah, you know who they are. Where I fall on this spectrum of cool I have no idea. I long ago gave up trying to work it out, but when I was a guitarist in TSOM I was definitely cool and I knew it. Before TSOM being cool was something I aspired to. I craved to be invited to sit at the head table; the table at the bottom of the stairs at Eric’s on a raised dais where the local self-appointed royalty sat and held court, a table to which I was never invited. Instead of being Steve McQueen-like I was more Woody Allen. When I later became singer with The Mission I lost my cool. I became too self-conscious, a caricature of who I thought I had to be; a persona I adopted to cover up my insecurities (and there were plenty); a mask I wore to preserve a little of my true self for myself. Anyway, it’s all bollocks really, isn’t it? As with beauty, ‘cool’ is all in the eye of the beholder, right?

Excerpt Three taken from: Salad Daze - Chapter 14. God Bless You, America

We arrived at the infamous Iroquois Hotel on West 44th Street, our home for the next few days. The Iroquois has since been renovated and is nowadays a high-end midtown boutique hotel but back in 1984 it was, like the rest of NYC, a dive largely patronised by lowly musicians, actors, artists, poets, drug addicts and dealers, pimps and whores, vying with the more famous Chelsea Hotel as the place to ‘hang out’ for the bohemians of the city. Like the hotel, many previously run-down areas of the city have since been developed and gentrified and as a consequence NYC is now a lot cleaner and safer than it was back then. It’s obviously better for the tourist trade and for the city as a whole but, for me, it has lost much of the spirit and edge it had in 1984. Maybe the same could be said of yours truly; no longer seeking out and revelling in the seedy underbelly of the city as I once did and that attitude has coloured my viewpoint on my last few visits. It is still fabulously vibrant though, and a city I always look forward to visiting.
We checked into the hotel, me sharing a room with Mark while Craig had the dubious pleasure of cohabiting with Andrew. I think the rooming arrangement had been agreed beforehand without Craig and I being consulted in an attempt to keep the two of us, The Evil Children as we’d become disparagingly known, apart and out of mischief. No soddin’ chance. We had time enough only to deposit our bags into the rooms and quickly freshen up before all meeting again in the hotel lobby. Our first show was that very same evening – in Boston. We were driving the four hours there and then after the show driving the four hours back to our base for the next few days at the Iroquois.
While Morrissey would be busy expounding his Meat Is Murder philosophy less than a year hence we stopped at a drive-through Burger King en route out of the city, tucking into two Whoppers each, a veritable feast on a pittance, two for $2 if memory serves. Because of the strength of the £ against the $ our per diems in the US, $25 per day, would go a lot further than they would in the UK. I couldn’t believe how cheap burgers, ciggies and beer were. We were to live like kings for the next few days. Well, comparatively. Drugs were more expensive, as I was to find out.
To ease the tedium of being stuck in a minibus for four hours we started drinking the duty free spirits we’d purchased on the flight over from London. Craig and I were both on the blue label Smirnoff while Mark necked his bottle of Pernod. Andrew, sat between John the driver and Ruth the promoter like a teacher’s pet, tutted at us from the front seat. Making the requisite piss stop about two hours into the journey, evidently I wasn’t alone in my inebriation. All three of us were a bit Tipsy McStagger, lurching around the gas station forecourt like a pack of brainless Neanderthal zombies. It was great fun. Stumbling back into the minibus I was sat next to Mark. We both quickly passed out and my head drooped onto his chest. During the drive Mark vomited in his sleep all over my head. Waking up in Boston with bits of undigested whopper and fries in my bird’s nest hair I wasn’t allowed into the venue where we were playing, ironically named The Spit Club, because of the vomitus.
“But I’m in the band!”
“Don’t care, buddy, you’re not coming in here with puke in your hair.”
“What am I supposed to do then?”

“Go to your hotel, buddy, and clean up. Then I’ll let you in.”
“But my soddin’ hotel is in New bloody York.”

“Ain’t my problem, buddy.”

“I ain’t your fucking buddy, buddy.”

I stomped off in a tantrum and a sulk. 
Mark had sick all down the front of his shirt so he just grabbed a new Sisters t-shirt from the swag-bag, changed in the street, and they let him in. The twat. Craig had already vanished into the club, no doubt in search of someone to score some speed from while Andrew just looked at me with something resembling pity, maybe disgust, and, shaking his head, disappeared into the dark of the Spit.
Ruth came to my aid. “Look, here’s 50 bucks. There’s a hat shop just over there. Go and buy yourself a hat to cover up the mess in your hair and then that jobsworth’ll let you into his stupid club.”
What choice did I have? I walked into the shop and bought myself a spiffy wide-brimmed black hat, the kind that matadors and Leonard Cohen might wear, to hide the offending mess on my head. Donning said hat I was allowed into the venue and on stage to play the show. And that was how the cult of the goth hat was born, I tell no lie, necessity being the mother of creation. Or rather, to cover up the sick.

Excerpt Four taken from: Salad Daze - Chapter 2. From One Jesus To Another

The Winterbourne C of E school still exists although it is now at a different location in the village. The building that celebrated its centenary in 1967 remains on the High Street but it is now an old people’s home. Maybe some of the current residents once went to school there and lived, as we all did, in fear of Mr Dunn and the wielding of his cane. Bless him. Don’t make ’em like that anymore. Thank God. A fellow alumni of the C of E, albeit just a few short years younger than I, was Joanne Rowling, perhaps you’ll know her as J.K., and it has been suggested that Mr Alfred Dunn, he of the cane and headmaster to us both, was the inspiration for the character of Albus Dumbledore in her Harry Potter books. I don’t wish to make any spurious claims but when you see photos of me from the same time that J.K. lived in Winterbourne and we went to school together, it does make me wonder who her visual inspiration was for the Harry Potter character.

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