Billy Idol in Thailand, 1989. Just a holidays, that was a proper punk holiday. Not jus sipping cocktails in five-star hotels and getting up to no good in the underbelly of Bangkok.
I has been one of his fans since Rebel Yell (1983). That album was punk—but not too punk. New wave—but not too new wave. A perfect cocktail of attitude, melody, and just enough gloss to slip through the cracks of mainstream radio without getting lost in the sugar. And then Whiplash Smile (1986) came along. Critics raised an eyebrow, the charts embraced it, and Billy kept strutting.
Then, one day, some entertainment rag—can’t quite remember which—whispered a delicious piece of news: Billy Idol was in Thailand. Not on tour. Not on some grand press junket. Just there. Escaping. Running from himself, or perhaps running to himself.
You see, life wasn’t exactly sunshine and roses for our peroxide messiah. Trouble brewed at home with Perri Lister, mother of his son. The whole rock star schtick: indiscretions, bad behaviour, excess upon excess. And as if that weren’t enough, even Steve Stevens, his guitar-wielding right-hand man, was keeping his distance. Alone in a spiral of chaos, Billy did what any self-respecting rock god of the ‘80s would do—he took off.
Going to Thailand, the land of anything-goes. And Billy? He was going all in.
Billy Idol in Thailand, 1989
According to Dancing with Myself, it was Harry Johnson who advised Billy to take refuge in the Kingdom, assuring the management team that, no worries, mate—Billy would only drink himself into oblivion, not touch any drugs. Well, that aged about as well as a pint of milk in the sun.
They stay at top floor of The Oriental Hotel. Strolled the neon-lit streets. Patronised massage parlours. Turned entire floors of the hotel into their own personal debauchery zones, much to the chagrin of the staff who were perhaps a little too polite to throw them out immediately.
A week went by. No drugs. Just booze. But then came the itch. The desire for something more. So, Billy does what any travellers in Bangkok do.
Asks a taxi driver.
And lo and behold, the driver delivers a glass tube, eight inches long, filled with a white powder. Now, Harry, the ever-diligent comrade-in-arms, takes one look and thinks—Well, that’s not cocaine.
But what the hell is it? Did they stop?
Did they ask further questions?
Of course not. Rock stars in a haze of excess rarely do.
Billy figured it was China White—some form of heroin. No foil to smoke it? No problem! They got creative ideas to used the wrappers from the hotel’s chocolates instead.
And whatever it was—it hit hard.
Billy, in his chemically enhanced state, even met Mel Gibson at The Oriental. But before he could properly say hello? Bam. Passed out. Right in front of the lift.
Pattaya
Soon enough, Bangkok got a little too small. Billy and his merry band of misfits relocated to the Royal Cliff Hotel in Pattaya, where they truly lived up to the whole sex, drugs, and rock and roll mantra. So much so that even the Royal Cliff had enough. Hotel management, fed up with their antics, called the police. But rock star money talks, and after handing over a hefty chunk of change in damages, Billy packed up and returned to Bangkok.
But even he knew it couldn’t last forever. The reality of the 14-hour flight back to England loomed, and the thought of coming down mid-air wasn’t exactly appealing. Solution? A quick trip to the pharmacy for some very strong sleeping pills. The plan? Knock themselves out before boarding the plane.
Except… slight problem. The pills didn’t just sedate Billy—they transformed him. Unleashed something wild, something violent. He went on a rampage, breaking things left and right. This time, it wasn’t just a case for the local bobbies—this needed special forces intervention.
Now, here’s where the details get murky. Some say Thai officers had to tranquilise Billy with darts to get him under control. Others claim it was a nurse who jabbed him with a sedative. Either way, one thing is certain: Billy Idol was done in Thailand.
They tied him to a wheelchair. Escorted him to the airport. Four armed soldiers flanking him on all sides. Just to make sure. Just to be certain that the peroxide punk hurricane was officially out of their country.
A year later, Billy crashed his motorcycle in Los Angeles, nearly lost his leg,
and his golden era began its slow fade.