Wow, I’ve been home over 2 weeks now and the tour seems like a distant dream, or that it happened to someone else entirely, with the only evidence being my as-yet-unhealed split fingernail, an increasing number of photos appearing on Facebook, and the fact that The Karate Kid soundtrack is on a permanent loop around my brain – if my future musical output all ends up being synth-led aspirational nonsense about winning “the fight” and being “the best” then you’ll know why.
So, let’s try to get down as much of this as I can before the dreamory (dream-memory) is still slightly recent and before a person from Perlock comes along to banish it forever.*
Any similarity to Ben Marwood’s blog of the same period is totally coincidental, and nothing at all to do with the fact that a) we were both there at the time and b) I’ve already read his to remind myself what happened. More on my atrocious memory later.
DAY 5 – YORK. In which we get up early, eat a hearty breakfast, I get an accidentally vegetarian beef & ale pie, and we live in the lap of luxury (sort of).
Waking up unfeasibly early to be turfed out into the frosty morning by the cold hearted Jack Alcopop, whose cruel maniacal laughter could be heard echoing down the street long after he disappeared from view**we took refuge at my friend Alice’s place which weirdly happens to be directly opposite chez Jack. Spooky indication that there is a benevolent force guiding all our actions through life, or meaningless yet happy coincidence? you decide.***
Heading back to the car, memories of inserting “i”s onto numerous “To Let” signs with a permanent marker pop into my head, and I feel very proud of myself indeed. Heading out of Oxford I complete my second culinary first of the tour; a Little Chef Olympic Breakfast. Apparently all non-British athletes will be required by law to eat one of these every day before competing, thus boosting our chances of getting a few golds by upwards of 10%. Apparently the sausages were “award winning”, though not unpleasant I’d be surprised if the award was anything other than the annual “Best Sausage Served At Little Chef” award. We were also given a lollipop that tasted exactly how toilet blocks smell. Kev and I amused ourselves trying to throw them into the bin from across the carpark, failing of course but being quite satisfied when they smashed to bits on the cold tarmac below.
The rest of the day went pretty much like this: DRIVING, DRIVING, ROAD, ROAD, MOTORWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY, service station, MOTORWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY, ROAD ROAD, Travelodge. Which as you can tell, was thrilling. I’m pretty sure we would have talked some nonsense at some point, though maybe we had a deep philosophical conversation. We’ll never know for sure.
Heading out onto the streets of York in search of sustenance, we chose Harkers – a food pub that looked like it might meet the balance between dirt cheap and half decent. I opted for the beef and ale pie, which turned out to be one of those fake-pies that are a bowl with a huge piece of puff pastry on top. “No bother”, thinks I, and I begin to tuck in. After a bit of exploration I casually remark that there “isn’t a whole lot of beef in this pie”. I remove said pastry lid and swish my fork around in the sauce “actually, there’s no beef at all” – it’s an ale pie. Normally, being English, complaining about food feels like a strange and alien activity, always tinged with the fear that the staff will scoff and proclaim that “it’s supposed to be like that, you fucking idiot!” or something, but this time I felt safe in my assertion that all was not well. Steeling myself for combat I carried the offending dish back to the bar, took a deep breath and proudly asserted “um…there’s like, uh, no beef in this pie”. The waitress capitulated immediately, brought me a new one, and I ate it. Ironically the second one could have done with a bit more “ale”, but was otherwise beef-tastic.#
Later my arms nearly fell off from carrying the merch/my effects box across town, but they recovered by gig time. Sadly I didn’t get any insane nonsense from the sound engineer (see Ben’s blog) but had an entertaining time nonetheless – highlights including starting a two man wall of death during Mestle & Portar, poet Henry Raby transforming from affable compere to angry politico in the blink of an eye, reciprocating the mosh frenzy during Don’t Let Paris Fool You’s set (nearly being destroyed by Ben Marwood in the process) and witnessing Tom DLPFY’s artistic level of drunkenness – it was like he’d constructed an aqueduct of booze connecting his subconscious directly to his mouth, resulting in the kind of free-association rambling that would make Johnny Vegas give up and go work in a bank.
Afterwards we went back to the Travelodge for wild rock & roll party times, but as I tweeted at the time we “put all the hooker money in a parking meter thinking it was binoculars” earlier in the day, so made do with tv, rum, and then sleep.
DAY 6 – CHEZ TRIMBLE. In which we buy the world’s smallest bottles of whisky, then get drunk and play in a dining room.
MMmmm sleep, lovely sleep. Managing to tear ourselves away from the Travelodge’s opulent surroundings, I insist that we have a stroll around York before heading off to Nottingham. It’s fucking freezing cold though, so our stroll essentially is a walk around the block, about 20 minutes in The Whisky Shop (where I could easily have spent a few hundred quid on awesome booze, but decided that being able to afford food and bills was boringly more important) coming away with what are officially the world’s smallest bottles of whisky. Mine came in an “in emergency, break glass” style surround which I resolve to blu-tak in a prominent position when I get home.
Tonight is house-party night – originally mooted as a day off, but PAH: we laugh in the face of exhaustion^ so it’s to the outskirts of Nottingham to Gerry Trimble’s place to play to a handful of people I previously only know via the interwebs. Gerry kindly texted to ask whether there was anything we wanted food-wise as he was preparing a buffet; I checked my mental list of diva-esque demands, and selected for “a bag of salad to accompany the nibbles” and bless him, he obliged. Next time it’ll be a lifesized replica of the Venus de Milo constructed from blue smarties and haribo eggs, with a framed photo of Bob Holness – my rider gland has been stimulated.
The rest of the night is a bit of a blur – singalongs, hand clapping, collaborations, a chap called Rob being determined to bankrupt himself at the foot of our merch alter, and a rather comfy sofa to slip into unconsciousness on. Thanks Team Trimble!
DAY 7 – FARNSFIELD ACOUSTIC. In which we have the 2nd shortest drive of the tour, I play the most unusual 20 minute set of my life, and I eat too many sandwiches, and we sip £4 Cava whilst watching/reciting Withnail & I. Warning – may contain traces of artistic self-doubt.
Nipping across town to Laura & Matt’s house, Ben and I have a conversation that vaguely resembles the following;
Me – So who are we staying with today?
Ben – My friend Laura.
Me – Ok, who’s that?
Ben – My friend from college, you met her when we played Nottingham before.
Me – Ohh yeah, I remember, cool.
Ben – We stayed at her house that time as well.
Me – Did we?
Ben – Yes.
Me – I…really?
Ben – Yes, remember?
Me – No. Was I drunk?
Ben – No, you drove.
Me – Um…really?
*Racks brain. Remembers gig. Remembers Laura & Matt. Draws blank on house*
Me – Nope, nothing.
Ben – You slept in the lounge, we watched TV.
*lists of a Father Ted-esque list of things that happened that I have zero recollection of, not quite culminating in “you were wearing your red jumper”, and not resulting in my memory doing anything remotely like flooding back.
Ben – My friend Laura.
Me – Ok, who’s that?
Ben – My friend from college, you met her when we played Nottingham before.
Me – Ohh yeah, I remember, cool.
Ben – We stayed at her house that time as well.
Me – Did we?
Ben – Yes.
Me – I…really?
Ben – Yes, remember?
Me – No. Was I drunk?
Ben – No, you drove.
Me – Um…really?
*Racks brain. Remembers gig. Remembers Laura & Matt. Draws blank on house*
Me – Nope, nothing.
Ben – You slept in the lounge, we watched TV.
*lists of a Father Ted-esque list of things that happened that I have zero recollection of, not quite culminating in “you were wearing your red jumper”, and not resulting in my memory doing anything remotely like flooding back.
Arriving at the house I expect things to fall into place, but they stubbornly refuse. I begin to worry about what might have happened that evening to cause such a huge repression of memory and begin to treat Ben with suspicion.
A trip to the pub for lunch plus a light stroll later and it’s off to Farnsfield – a small village outside Nottingham that has regular folk nights in its village hall.
I think it’s fair to say I was looking forward to this night with a sense of bemusement, wondering what its attendants would make of my shouty nonsense. Thankfully we arrive to friendly faces, warm welcomes, and a fridge full of beer and sandwiches. I soundcheck looking out at the rows of tables with a feeling that although this isn’t going to be within my comfort zone, but that comfort zones are for losers and I’m hardcore enough to take this unusual situation on and win. All feels brilliant until the houselights go off and I’m presented with a faceless black wall, pinpricked by some scattered tea lights, then I start to feel a wee bit uncomfortable, but make a go of it anyway with a comment of “Goodevening Farnsfield Acoustic – I’m led to believe that I’m pretty typical of the acts you have at these events” being met with knowing laughter. I play a setlist devoid of gratuitous metal screaming, and modify the word “shit” to a Hot Fuzz dvd extra-esque “silt” as I don’t want to pointlessly upset people for the sake of it. There’s applause between songs, and some amusing heckling from a voice that I’m guessing isn’t a regular to these events~ but I can’t help but feel that I’ve cheated myself out of a good time by not giving 100%. I mope about for a bit until Inlay, a trad-folk outfit, get to a song that has some weird timing and sounds remarkably metal at which point I perk up and realise that I’m being stupid – what was I expecting, people to throw over their tables and start moshing viciously?
Then Ben does his thing, we all jam on a couple of songs at the organiser Mike’s request, and I have a nice chat with some lovely people, then it’s back to Laura & Matt’s to drink a couple of surprisingly awesome £4 bottles of Cava, watch Withnail & I (which I had to force myself to stop talking along to after about 45 minutes) and then Marwood & I did our first double-bed share of the tour.
DAY 8 – SWINDON. In which I almost spoon Ben in the early hours of the morning, drive the scenic route, and nearly fall asleep onstage.
For once on this tour my body clock allows me a bit of a lie-in, though it finally giving in just when I’ll need it for the day at work tomorrow is typical of its selfishness. I wake up not fully remembering where I am as I see a person-shaped mass in the bed next to me and my left arm states its intention of initiating an embrace before my mind takes over and informs lefty that it’s Ben sleeping there, not Kat. Lefty felt a bit sheepish for a while, but seemed happy with me typing that so he must be over it by now.
We do the morning thing; Kev accepting the offer of tea at every opportunity like the fiend he is, then drive down the road for a bewildering choice of delicious looking sandwiches, and it’s fist figuratively meets tarmac again to head southwest to Swindon. I decide that I’ve had enough of motorways, so conspire against the satnav to find a route that will not leave me paralysed with grey boredom. This tactic doesn’t really work – I’ve pretty much had enough of driving by now, and as we approach Swindon I manage to ignore all manner of “YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TURN RIGHT INTO THE PETROL STATION” signs and cause a bit of a backlog by sitting with my indicator on, patiently waiting for a gap in the traffic so I can turn right into the petrol station. Therein Ben buys about 20 chocolate bars, and eats most of them in the 6 miles we have left to Swindon proper – I fear for his mental state at the point the sugar kicks in, and the subsequent sugar crash – then go to meet my mum for some dinner, I go for a Calzone as they are the most win type of pizza in the world ever. FACT.
Getting back to the venue I start to feel the fatigue of the last week stacking up on my shoulders, but am convinced that everything will be fine until our illustrious promoter and sound engineer Alex tells me that I’m being “a bit quiet for such a loud guy” and I worry that I may have fallen asleep with my eyes open or something. My set passes as I try to perk myself, and the lethargic Sunday night crowd, up a bit…failing slightly on both counts as I step off stage and realise that I definitely need to go to sleep straight away…………but can’t as I have Ben’s set to watch (not that it’s a chore of course, but at this moment in time I’d turn down a half hour consequence-free punch-David-Cameron’s-smug-face session for the opportunity to curl up and have at least 4 day’s sleep) and then have to drive home. Seriously, why did I ever learn to drive? To steal some wise words from Left Side Brain’s drummer Ryan “I think I might get myself banned”. Though sadly while he’d have 3 band members to take up the driving slack, I’d just have to start getting trains. Yuck. I managed to enjoy Ben’s set, have a chat to a couple of lovely people who’d enjoyed the gig, hug my Mum goodbye, and then slouch off to the car to attempt the drive home.
Sorry to end on another, almost identical, cliffhanger – and a slight downer as well, I’ve been hanging round with Ben for too long – but you’re really going to have to wait until next time to find out whether I made it home alive……………….
[imagine that Eastenders drum noise kicks in here]
*Coleridge reference ftw. Though I had to Wikipedia it to be sure, and I was going to write “postman” instead of “person from Porlock”.
**this is of course, utter lies – Jack couldn’t have been more apologetic and gifted me an Alcopop t-shirt at some point in the evening as well, I just like the idea of imagining such a lovely chap being pantomime evil.
***Though the answer is clearly b).
# Quite an outrageous tale eh? If anyone’s interested in the film rights then I’ll accept nothing less than a 6 figure sum; The Beef Pie That Had No Beef – surely a cinematic licence to print money?
^or at least snigger behind its back when it’s not looking.
~Me “Ben Marwood’s coming up later. Man “YAYYY MY NAME’S BEN!”. Me “I’m from Bristol”. Man “YAYYYYY SOUTH WEST YAAEHH CORNWALL!”. It was bring-your-own-booze though, so who can blame him? Plus we did talking afterwards and it turned out fine.
