"He became a father figure to me at a time when I might have ended up in the morgue": Lemmy's personal assistant looks back at six years on the road with the Motörhead legend

I was Lemmy’s personal assistant and Motörhead road manager for six years… and I lived to tell the tale! From 2005, I spent 24 hours a day with Lem and the band for 11 months of each year. I loved every moment, the ups and the downs. No two days were alike. Lemmy was so funny and intelligent. He became a father figure to me – albeit a pretty maniacal father figure! – at a time when I might have ended up in the morgue. He took me under his wing.

I got lucky. I had been working with Nick Oliveri from Queens Of The Stone Age when they supported Motörhead, and we kind of clicked. When the job was offered to me, I had a flashback to seeing Motörhead on The Young Ones and thinking: ‘Fuck me, that’s a band’.

I was the only member of the crew to travel on the band bus with Lem, Mikkey and Phil. It was my responsibility to check the driver knew our destination and that the band got to the gig. It was also my job to call around the strip clubs and say: ‘Hey, Lemmy is in town. Can we come along after the show?’ Nobody ever said no.

I became very close to Lem. It was like being someone’s best mate, but also their designated driver. He was such a decent guy. He insisted on good manners.

In the 10 years since he passed, the legend of the Lemmy persona has grown. What’s been lost a little is Ian Fraser Kilmister. He was unique; funny, cantankerous and chivalrous. But the slightly cartoonish Lemmy from Motörhead character has taken over, and the man behind it was so much more than that. What I loved most about Lemmy was that he could be both.

He was so intelligent. You could have an in-depth conversation with him about almost anything. He was very opinionated, without a doubt, but he could back up those views. And he wasn’t a hoodlum; Lemmy was an old-school gentleman. I’ve seen him in huge crowds of fans waiting for autographs, and he’d yell, ‘Stop!’ and open the door for some old lady. Those little traits of his have become mislaid, and it’s a shame.

I’ve still got the scars from trying to keep up with Lemmy in the ‘recreational’ stakes. Waking him could be difficult. At first, I set several alarm calls: three hours, two hours, one hour and so on. But as we got to know each other, that became less necessary. Going into his room, there’d be a Jack and Coke and a line of speed by the bedside. Lem drank a lot, but I never saw him drunk, and he was always in control chemically. I knew when he had taken a little too much speed because he’d ask for chewing gum before going on stage.

Lemmy was one of the most resilient and motivated people I ever met. From getting kicked out of Hawkwind to the frustration over having the first album shelved, he developed a real attitude of: ‘Fuck you, I’m going to prove you wrong.’

Also, remember that Motörhead had a career lull. He told me that there was a time when they couldn’t get a show, and nobody wanted to work with them. But they stuck it out, came through it and became icons. He was very proud of that.

I’ve so many road memories with Motörhead. For instance, we arrived knackered for a gig in Germany. I went up to Lemmy’s room for a quick drink, but he was really tired and wanted to go to sleep. Right on cue, somebody began using a road drill outside, and he sighed: ‘Could it get any worse?’

Well, it did. A marching band came down the street and stopped right outside the hotel. So Lemmy called down: ‘Hey, mate.’ When the band leader looked up, Lem hollered: ‘Do you know the theme from Dambusters?’, then closed the window and hid behind the curtains like a little kid who’d done something naughty.

When Lemmy died, I disappeared to the pub all day. I had a few beers and laughs, and I played his tunes on the jukebox. I think that’s what he’d have wanted. And at last, he could finally put his feet up.

Now there’s a statue of Lemmy in his home town of Burslem. Honestly, I think he considered himself an anti-statue, but there are two sides to that statement: Lemmy from Motörhead would have fucking loved it, though Ian Kilmister would have hated being put on a pedestal – quite literally. His mindset would have been that there were far better people to have statues of. The plans for a local music venue, Kilmister Halls? That’s something he’d have bought into. Anything to do with live music, because that was Lemmy’s lifeblood.

Dan Hawcroft was speaking with Dave Ling. His book, Wasted Opportunities: Tour Tales And Stories From The Road, is available now.