Mark was in Chicago in 1990 staying at a very ritzy hotel.
He rang me one night to say "Something weird's happening. There is security on my floor and I have to be checked in to my room"
He went down to the bar and was only allowed in because he was staying in a flash room.
The bar was empty except for four people and now him.
So he gets a drink and his accent is noticed by the four and he is asked over for a drink or twenty.
I get another call. He's complaining that his quiet drink has been disturbed by this group. His description "There's this really blousey blond woman with exploding bosoms and a man with very tight red leather pants being really annoying, what will I do?" I suggest buying them all a drink and then toddling off to bed.
Next morning he goes downstairs for brekky and bumps into them.
There are queues of people all over the shop holding record albums (remember them?) Anyway he waves hello to his new friends and they all wave back and leave in the biggest winnebago he's ever seen.
Mark asks the doorman "Who are those people?" response "You've got to be kidding me buddy, that's Fleetwood Mac".
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