I never stole a horse from someone I didn't like..

Phoned In

2009-10-23T23:47:00.000-07:00

I'm in Australia again. Actually New Zealand today, since last night. And back to Adelaide tomorrow. Very little to report otherwise, apart from the fact I'm being gently nudged out of my job after 3 years and will soon be Daddy Daycare.
It's a tough call, really. Spend weeks on end away from home, being blamed for every fault by a gang of petty backstabbing losers, or...

Hmm, tough choice, that. As they say in Holland; 'Doeeeee!'

Endless Summer?

2009-08-10T05:29:00.000-07:00

A few words (some real, some made up) I could gladly never hear or read again.

Staycation

Barbecue summer

Second-home allowance

Helicopters (more of)

Berlusconi

Tombstoning

GaGa

Yes, this is just a list of the stuff that's currently fucking me off. If you're British and you've picked up a paper in the last three months you'll understand.

Sunrise, Sunset II

2009-06-22T10:26:00.000-07:00

I didn't bother trying to stay awake for the drive from LA. In the past I'd got drunk as a monkey before check-in but this time I had reason to go straight to bed. After the usual petty grumbling about his room from the same petulant wankshaft, I got into a real bed around 3.30.

I was awakened from my fuzzy slumber at 7.15 and almost went back to bed, but soldiering on, I packed my bag and went downstairs for breakfast.

Following a quick trip to the bus to raid the beer fridge, the cooler was packed and we were on our way to Mission Beach, San Diego. Sitting on the near-deserted beach at 8.30 in jeans and a jacket, ominous clouds overhead, I was wishing I'd stayed in bed.

Not being the greatest swimmer, I let my regular off-day buddy Crabman go first. The other guy, Lobsterboy, had his own board and suit so he would act as instructor.

When I finished laughing my ass off at watching Crabman get dunked by the waves, it was my turn. lobsterboy, in broken English, gave me the very basics on paddling out, surviving breaking waves and sitting up on the board.

Then he high-fived me, said 'you are surfer now!' and fucked off.
Now, I know a lot has been written about the sea and surfing. Surfers have a certain 'you wouldn't understand, mere land-person' attitude. But there's definitely something special about it.

Once you're in there, paddling for dear life to catch up with your buddy, regularly rolling under the breakers or getting ripped from the board, the sea is a beast. It doesn't want you there, wants to dump you back on the sand. I knew standing up would be a struggle, most likely would never happen on my first day. I knew it would be tiring. I wasn't anticipating a David & Goliath-style battle of wits.

I expected the tide would be regular, like that part in Papillon where he counts the waves, times his leap and in doing so avoids the deadly rocks, instead being flumed harmlessly out to open sea and escape. This was not the case. Some waves were only feet apart, so that if you survive the first lashing, you find yourself scrambling in a trough, a bigger wave breaking right over you.

It's a weird feeling to be belly-deep in water one second, then be 15 feet from seabed the next. Or to be thrown from your board, the waves roaring over your head and the force of the wave dragging you by the ankle back towards shore. In 2 seconds you can be 30 feet closer to the beach, coughing and spluttering, stinging from the shock of the wave or maybe the board hitting you on the head as it's forced from the water.

Pretty soon we were all exhausted, and collapsed on our little spot of safety with a beer. For Lobsterboy it was simply hair of the dog, for us a hard-earned reward. As the tide died down and the waves got more crowded, Lobsterboypassed out, so Crabman and I went out together for a while, laughing at each other's misfortunes.

This time I felt different about the waves; less frightened yet more wary. Up to now I'd been fighting against the sea, and unless you're that guy with the blue penis in Watchmen, that's pretty much an unwinnable battle. Now I was treating it more like a difficult friend; employing techniques to get my way, treating it with caution and respect.

Being rushed towards the shore at an unexpected pace, I managed to stand for a brief, shining half-second before tumbling into the surf in a foot of water. Lobsterboy seemed to sense it, as he rose from his coma to witness the glorious moment.And yet, something overshadowed this shining day. As you all know, yesterday was Fathers' Day. This one was different for me, as rather than being the one who had to buy a card, I actually received a card.

But being away from Trousers Jr and Mrs Trousers was more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. It's difficult anyway, being so far away and knowing Mrs T is raising him pretty much single-handed.

But seeing young fathers on the beach with their sons, digging sandcastles and throwing balls? Yep, there was sand in my eyes yesterday. That must have been it.

Sunrise, Sunset

2009-06-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

In a world of mid-life crises and weekend motorcyclists, my dad remains a true man of the woods. Just as the sun will rise in the early maudley, so my dad would turn up filthy at 5 oclock every night and eat his tea whilst watching Neighbours. I used to believe him when he'd come back with a bag full of fish on autumn nights, saying he'd opened the back doors of the van by the riverbank and the fish just jumped in.
I regret the fuzzy contempt I held for him when I was 19 or so (ten freakin years ago!) and working with him as a lumberjack. In my defense I was a terrible pothead- waking up at 5am to drive to Scotland and drag a steel rope up a muddy hill was never going to be easy. Tree-murder is a pretty dangerous job. Nature will bite back at any given opportunity. Despite a catalogue of injuries, he still finds time to get on the European history trail with this, his 1938 Matador, lovingly restored from scrap.
Now aged 69, he's still out there making his own living, and a couple of years back he and his lifelong friend 'Dangerous' Ken built my sister's house. And a damn fine job they did, too.

Easily as hard and as resourceful as Jason Bourne, I'd say. Obviously this is a bit of a mushy post, but I feel my dad deserves some credit, even as I continually let him down. Happy Fathers' Day, Beardface.

Postcards From a Hedge: San Francisco

2009-06-20T16:42:00.000-07:00

Three shows down, another day off. I like this tour.

San Francisco must be one of the most popular cities with tourists. I'd google it, but, you know.

The famous cable cars are literally dripping with humanity, hanging off the side and filming their progress. It was like Delhi but with more knock-off Ed Hardy. My regular off-day buddy and I jumped on and were barked at by the guy cranking the handbrake (nice brown uniform, by the way, kamerade) to get all the way into the cart. Being over 6 feet tall and having to stand, I saw absolutely nothing as we chuntered along. Still, Ive done it once before and we didnt pay for it so suck it UPS guy.

After gorging ourselves we hit the harbour and hired bikes, though I was tempted to sack it off because of the aggressive style of the Eastern European touts.

Quick tip Malgorzata- when I'm at your desk with my wallet out, you don't need to shout in my face about your great rates. It's pretty clear Ive made my decision to pay 8 bucks an hour to ride your boneshaking deathmachine.

Nor do you need to shout when you're pointing out the route to the bridge. In fact just shut up. It's that big red thing over there in the distance. I'm pretty sure I'll find it. If not I'll just send up a flare and you can shout directions to me from where you are.

Anyway- if you're thinking of hiring a bike for the 2-hour bridge trip in San Francisco, don't be fooled- if you ride as hard as you can and don't stop to take a picture, you might make it in 2 hours. if you want to enjoy the experience at all, that shitty paperboy's bike is going to cost you at least 40 bucks.

Suffice to say I spent 24, I barely had time to touch the ocean, we didnt quite make it to the centre of the bridge before turning back because fuck taking the ferry back over. And the pedal finally broke on the way back down the hill. I'm also pretty sure some courier said 'go home' to me as he passed on his way to racquetball practice. Asshat.

Moaning aside, we did have a lovely wander around the Roman replica Exploratorium (or did I hear that name in an episode of South Park?) I'm pretty sure the Doors were photographed there at some point.

I'd also say that San Francisco is a beautiful city from afar- it doesn't look like an American city. Reminded me more of Marseille.

Suitably thirsty from our ride *forced march* we headed for a bar with the idea of stopping for one or two. Alas we chose a bar with 68 beers on tap and closed it about eight hours later. There was a brief respite when we went to the harbour and got crabs. That's what she said, barump-tiss!

Yep, live on the scales, cruelly boiled to death a few seconds later. I think it's the agony they go through that makes them so delicious. We also ate 16 oysters and a carton of calimari. If you're on the harbour, skip the pricey restaurants and buy off the street. I only shat liquid for the next day and a half.

To be fair that was very likely more to do with the samplers of beer. I tried at least 8 before we settled on Downtown Brown. There's a Hugh Grant joke here somewhere, surely? As bars go, Jack's is great, but I was surprised there were so many English in there. True to form they ignored the 66 other choices, settling instead on Bud or Strongbow. Everyone was very friendly anyway. One cougarish woman even over-friendly. My mate is still suffering from her backrub. But she was one of the 5 people to ask if we were a couple. No idea what gave them that impression.

The cablecar ride home was blurry but, again, free. God bless ze UPS.

Postcards From a Hedge: Vancouver

2009-06-20T11:39:00.001-07:00

I'm kind of over cities. But when we got to our hotel in Vancouver, I actually felt like I was on holiday. And for once, a holiday I'd like to go on.

After 36 hours without sleep, I'd planned to go to bed for a while, crawl out for dinner and drag myself back to my room. But as soon as I stepped off the bus at the hotel, the air and the mountain views revitalised me so I took a long walk around Stanley Park and along the harbour.

Some places I take an instant liking to, and can imagine myself bringing the family for a real holiday. This place is currently topping 'the List'. Sea planes, whale watching, bears on Grouse Point, great affordable food.

On the second day we ate our bodyweight in sushi for 10 doolars and got us some beaver. Or at least, we went to Beaver Lake.

So yeah, if you haven't been, go. Just don't be surprised when you don't want to leave.

Bonus Material
Vancouver's versatility (and lower costs of course) mean a lot of TV shows and movies are filmed there. The front of the hotel was turned into a casino for Pierce Brosnan's latest vehicle Percy Jackson. Let's just hope he doesn't sing, eh?

Mailed In

2009-06-20T11:26:00.000-07:00

Fear not, dear reader, I haven't fallen victim to the current trend of ditching blogging in favour of loser stuff like getting a job that doesn't make you want to bang your head repeatedly against drywall.

I am slightly busier than normal but the main reason is, I'm on the west coast of the USA and it's hot as balls. Being English, I get my shirt off pretty much as soon as the hail stops.

So I've been outside a lot.

I have a nice camera and I figure it's time to start putting it to use on here, so I'm starting a regular post. Since I'm on tour at the moment, it's going to be travel themed.

I'm off to think up a witty title. Could take a while.

How to get ahead in your armpit II- The Re-Dressing

2009-05-22T19:38:00.000-07:00

In the previous episode, Pretty Boy went to Pittsburgh and got his boil lanced. This week, our hero and his owner take on the mean streets of Detroit...

It went from scary to weird to hilarious. First the runner drops us at the wrong hospital, but we are given directions and put on a shuttle bus. Then another shuttle bus, whereupon Pretty Boy sees the word 'emergency' and decides we should go in, even though it clearly isn't the ER we've been directed to.

We go into the waiting room, the only white people (apart from the armed guard), speak to the sullen jobsworth at the desk and put Pieter's name and time an a clipboard. In the corner is probably the fattest guy I've ever seen, clutching a pair of hot-pink running shoes. The woman next to us is eating Cheez-its and occasionally burping/hacking/prolapsing.

Someone has their name called and a guy who looks like Wee-Bey in The Wire got up and went to the desk:
"This guy come in 20 minutes after me, he gettin registered before me. I jus had a kidney traaaansplaaant, you don't get me in there soon so's I can get mah medsin, ahm gonna hafta start doin sumtin."

He receives pretty much the same blank stare we got when I said "Good afternoon, we're looking for the walk-in center? My colleague needs to have his wound dressed."

The waiting room starts to fill up. The thing is, people are just walking in and ignoring the desk; they weren't signing the clipboard as far as I could see. Anyhoos we're finally called to the bulletproof glass and Precious Byrd processes Pretty Boy. A woman behind us calls her mother and goes into a spiel:
"Come get me up out this mu'fucker. I stay here any longer ahm gonn start hurtin folks."

Maw: "Why? What's wrong?"

"Ah got chest flutters and mah head hurts"

Maw: "No, I mean why you wanna leave?"

"These dudes getting registered before me and I was here before 'em."

Maw: "Maybe he got a serious condition'

"It ain't that serious"

Maw: "How you know?"

"Cause ah seen 'em walk in.."

She rants for another minute or so before leaving in faux-disgust.
Fucking genius. It's becoming clear that the desperately poor in Western society are lacking pretty much anything more than the most rudimentary survival skills. But the sense of entitlement required to plonk yourself in a seat and expect the staff to know who you are and what's wrong with you seems a little much.

Anyway, a few uncomfortable minutes and we go through to Triage, where I overhear the nurse asking Pretty Boy about prostitutes and marijuana.

Then we go into a curtained room opposite some guy who looks like he's 5 minutes from death and explain, again, why we're there, where he was treated last time and so forth. The nurse is nice, kinda like Barbra Streisand with a tongue stud. She and the doctor are pretty shocked that the doctor in Pittsburgh gave him antibiotics but told him not to take them unless there was a flare-up. They pull his sterile strip out and decide that, for safety's sake, it's tetanus time.

Then it gets weird. Another doctor comes in, then the ward supervisor, then a woman called Hightower; the Customer Service Officer. I suspect she's ambling for free tickets. Then I overhear Pretty Boy can't be discharged until the International Officer comes by for an interview... So the international guy comes in, takes all his payment information, again. Checks his card and so forth and then Nurse Babs returns with the tetanus jab.

She's already given him 2 painkillers and she starts cleaning the.. insertion spot, for want of a better word.

Suddenly her arm jerks back in this Psycho/Jason Voories motion and Pretty Boy pretty much wet his pants. "No! No, not like that" "Please, no, it will hurt too much!" and backing away from her until he almost falls off the bed. I can see pure fear in his eyes. He's silently begging me to whack this psycho with a drip-stand so he can escape in his bed-gown.

It. Was. Piss-funny.

Nurse Babs is reassuring. She's dealt with whining pussies before, evidently.
"Come on, baby, I won't hurt you, it'll be real quick.' He's squirming and whining and looking at me, fucking terrified. I'm in stitches. I think the old guy across the way even perks up.

So the nurse uses a bit of machismo reverse-psychology and says 'come onnnn, be a man.' (Pretty Boy was born in 1988. eeeeeeeeeep)

He doesn't like that, and with a bit more coaxing he calms down and she jabs him, right to the hilt. He didn't feel a thing.

How to get ahead in your armpit

2009-05-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

This tour is weird. I have a lot more free time, thank God. See, one of our crew (let's call him Pretty Boy, as he's 19 and looks like he came fresh from tryouts for Boy Story II- Back to the Log Cabin) arrived on tour with a medical problem. He likes to pretend he doesn't speak good English and he definitely gets treated a bit preferentially as he's basically everyone's kid brother. So muggins here gets to escort him on his trips to the E.R. See, Pretty Boy has something that looks a bit like this...

Only bigger and more angry. I'm talking Oprah when the wireless mic guy has eaten her fudgecake angry.
Zing!

Now I would put my severed dick in a tub of Ben & Jerry's and go back to bed rather than go to A&E on a Sunday morning, but when pretty Boy started flashing the armpit around, it looked like it was time to jump in cab and head to the laughin'est place in Pittsburgh(TM).

If I'm honest, I was just glad to get out of the office and into the sunshine. I figured I'd be left in the waiting room and could soon sidle off to sun myself and look at buildings. Fortunately even the youth of Pittsburgh aren't as ridiculously irresponsible and brain-dead as the Brits, and it was pretty quiet. We signed in, went into Triage and then waited for a nurse and a doctor.

I figured by now I was pretty much here for the duration and I was looking forward to watching medical professionals slice that fucker open and squeeze of some pus. And so they did. Pretty Boy was pretty much just yelling 'fuck... fuck... it's too much... fuck...too much... fuck as they anaesthetised it, squeezed out the evil and rinsed it with salt-water. The doctor then packed the wound with sterile gauze, dressed it (terribly), gave him some Vicodin and antibiotics and we were on our way without paying a dollar.

If you're travelling short distances in the US, say a mile, it's usually quicker to walk for some reason. Plus we wanted to avoid work for a bit longer.

Pretty Boy was now in full patient mode, deciding he should take it easy for a few days and avoid all lifting. Sorry, but what lifting? He's the first guy to finish (after me anyway)and he constantly has 6 stagehands at his beck and call to handle the instruments.

Two days later, I'm helping him with his set-up and breakdown, more from sheer boredom on my part than actual need, and it's time to get his gauze pulled out and the wound redressed. In Detroit...

Stop the train, I want to get off

2009-05-22T17:23:00.000-07:00

I'm in Milwaukee today, where apparently swine flu has 'gone airborne'. We're through the looking glass, people. They've recruited Chuck Norris.

At this very moment there is a Belgian at my desk rummaging through a box of 100 assorted bottles of hand sanitizer trying to decide which one will keep him safest - Atomic Apple or Blasting Blueberry.

By the end of the week we'll all be wearing masks and we'll have sacrificed one of the percussionists. The Belgian's still here, the fucking moron.

This is doing my head in- it even started affecting me in Chicago. I was pushing the elevator button with my elbow, flushing toilets with my foot. Every pint was like a dance with death. Or at least a small jig with a sniffle and a sore throat.

Contrary to company advice we did brave the plague and leave our hotel rooms on our only free day amid a twelve-show run. I mean, hello, who's cleaning rooms and serving you breakfast in American hotels? Where did this thing originate again?

Hit Lake Michigan's beach in the morning, sushi for lunch and wound up in the blues part of town watching a country-rock showcase with 3 bands based around Nashville. It was canny good actually. No attitude or posing or preening. Just good, fun country-rock, well-played.

Having stumbled into Little Italy in Baltimore (very Little- it was basically two guys in wife-beaters arguing over a parking space)and walking through Foxtown in Detroit after a trip to the ER, Chicago seemed pristine, leafy, safe. Even serene.

Now if you'll excuse me. I have to go and wash my hands.

Whatever floats yer boat...

2009-05-14T18:16:00.000-07:00

I've no idea why, but this fills me with a mix of awe, contentment and excitement at the same time.

Like father, like son, I guess.

Ignore everything we've taught you...

2009-04-28T06:57:00.000-07:00

Fatherhood, it’s a funny old thing. I went on paternity almost 8 weeks ago, just because we had no shows coming up. Im currently sitting out one tour, and dreading going to the US on the next leg, next month.

(L)Amazingly, I made it to all six of our antenatal classes. I anticipated seemingly endless hours of whale sounds and deep-breathing exercises. But what I actually got was a good grounding on the birth process and some essential tips. There were, of course, a couple of incidents of group massage set to repetitive new-age sounds.

The second week was much the same as the first, and the third much the same as the second. And so on. But repetition works, dummies.

The second week was much the same as the first, and the third much the same as the second. And so on. But repetition works, dummies.

See? The big bonus is, you can rely on the other people there to ask the stupid question you’re afraid to ask. Such as ‘what is a contraction?’ ‘so, the placenta is attached to the baby?’ and ‘what month is it?’

There was a definite atmosphere of ‘expect the worst’. They forgot to tell us to ‘hope for the best’.

The actual labour was a lot shorter than we had been told to expect, clocking in at just over 6 hours. All that massage gubbins went straight out of the window, as Mrs Trousers and Trousers Jr. conspired to skip the boring stuff and go straight into delivery mode; she was 7-8 cm dilated when we arrived at the hospital. On entry into the delivery room Mrs Trousers promptly stripped naked and refused to be touched. I was so proud.

And that’s all there is to say, really. I’m just immensely proud of Mrs Trousers, and our son. Gotta go, I have a baby to stare at…

My word, that was fun!

2009-03-27T07:16:00.000-07:00

The gig, by the way, was great. Highlights from A Certain Trigger and Our Earthly Pleasures and maybe 10 tracks from the new album. It's always a bit hard to really get into songs you've never heard before, but there was a lot of promise. Paul Smith, so polite and eloquent face to face, just drips confidence on stage.

Muscular, jerky Jagger-dancing and appreciative banter kept the audience rapt.
One new song, he explained to kids who would have no idea of it's existence, was about the revolving dancefloor of the Tuxedo Princess/Tuxedo Royale, a relic of Tyneside nightlife's dubious recent past. This is the great thing about this band- no other band in recent memory (okay, okay, Lindisfarne fans) has put out an album with such regional reference points, while managing to appeal to a broad audience. "Nothing works round here/where cranes collect the sky" he sings on 'I Want You to Stay'. Such a statement can be applied to any modern city, but locals know he's referring to Wallsend's shrinking shipyards. On the next album,'By The Monument' describes waiting for a date or potential loved-one at the standard meeting point in Newcastle. This, I think is one of the reasons for their loyal, steadily-growing local fanbase.

They can also be commended for their efforts in showcasing the North East (Newcastle in particular, I suppose) to a wider audience.

However, the aftermath of this gig has left me a bit disappointed. NME comes into print the next day, and they somehow managed to have a small article on the gig; here's the headline:
'2500 fans turned away from free Maximo Park gig'.

As mentioned in the last post, some former workmates came through for us and we were the last people to get into the gig. There was a line behind us, but 2500? 200, absolute maximum. Still, that's the NME for you. And the information came from the NME in LA. Oooo-kay. I guess all publicity is good publicity.

What's more disappointing are comments on the band's website from fans. One girl sarcastically wrote 'Thanks lads. Queued for 5 hours only to get to the front and be told the we couldn't get in' Bearing in mind, I got there at 5 and got in at 8.30. And unlike most of the kids there, who -unlike me- probably have tickets for their shows in Newcastle in May, I went to the back of the line and waited.

A n y w a y
this is a great band with unique songwriting talent who actually seem to appreciate their fans. Ungrateful, grabbing adolescents that they are.

Keeping up the gig theme, 2 nights later Mrs Trousers and I went to see tabloid abortion Peter Doherty, as a Valentine's present (mwah, darling). I know, opinions are polarised on this guy. I don't buy the rag-papers that seemed so keen on bringing on his destruction a couple of years ago, when he was dating Kate Moss. His music, his personality, even the tragedy of his slide into heroin and crack addiction were lost in the mire of 'shocking' arrests, bizarre activities and model-bagging.

People who profess to know nothing and care less about music were bound to see him as a talentless, waste-of-space junkie. But even people who thought they had their finger on the pulse of music were quick to lambast him and deride his abilities. These people, of course, own albums by Razorlight and the Kaiser Chiefs.

The Libertines were produced by Mick Jones, and Jones went with Doherty when that ill-suited ship faltered and sank. Jones brought the hands-off production approach of The Clash to The Libs, and also to Babyshambles' first effort.

Here lies the difference between Doherty and Johnny Borrell or fat Ricky...
Doherty can go into a studio with a song, do a few takes on a four or eight-track and they'll pick the best one, mistakes and all. 'Up the Morning' on Babyshamble's debut album is a perfect example. It takes a while to start up, scratches and clicks throughout, and ends with Doherty stumbling off, presumably to the gin-cabinet or his crack-pipe, and falling over.

Like it or not, this a musicianship and quality which Razorlight and their like will never, ever possess. If proof is required, track down the BBC documentary about the Sgt Pepper's tribute album which came out to coincide with that album's 40th anniversary. The premise was to record the songs in the spirit of the times, using only 4-track recording equipment and techniques available to the original artists.

Unsurprisingly, both Razorlight and the Kaisers struggled, pleading with the crew to stop filming. Neither band knew how to actually play the song they had shown up to record. These are bands who have an album put together for them by a producer, then have to learn how to play their parts. they could learn a lot from someone like Doherty. In fact, they could learn a lot from Busted.

Zing!

I was talking about a gig, wasn't I? Right. Part of me had high hopes for this gig, and the rest of me was dreading it. I've had tickets for Babyshambles before, and Doherty was arrested en route. There was a mini-riot apparently. Interviews in the press were instilling me with hope, as he seemed, not clean, but almost clean. Blur's producer Stephen Street had been drafted in, who in turn had brought in guitar legend Graham Coxon to add an air of professionalism to proceedings.

The gig was vastly different to the Maximo experience. Whereas Maximo's crowd comprised of sensitive, hoodie-wearing nice people who spend too much in charity shops, Doherty has the kind of car-crash appeal which brings in the Sun-reading, wannabe hooligan crowd. Most of the guys were douched up and there were rafts of girls dressed like strippers on the traditional Monday shopping-trip. The queue for the toilet was about as big as the queue for the bar, if you catch my drift. The air was thick with aggression.

Typically, he was a half-hour late coming on stage, enough time for a nasty fight to break out near the front. He came out alone first, looking dapper in a suit and his trademark daft hat, and gave the crowd a little of what they wanted with 'I No Longer Hear The Music' from the Libertines' funereal second album. This song brilliantly sums up Doherty's predicament- he fears his persona will forever overshadow his music. He played it beautifully, no slurring or stumbling, and to rapturous applause introduced Graham Coxon and the rest of the band to the stage for his new single. A couple of numbers later he brought out a strings-section for some new numbers. Giving the rest of the band a break, he performed the Libs' first single 'What a Waster' and 2007's surprise hit 'For Lovers' - the rights to which he sold in a pub, no doubt for the price of an evening's entertainment.

Queueing for a drink, I asked the two older guys in front of me what they thought so far. They weren't impressed. They seemed even a little disappointed. Yes, he looked and sounded great, but that wasn't waht they were used to. They didn't like his new stuff- it sounded 'too whirry', like the Last Shadow Puppets. An All-Saints attired Boro-guy behind me was similarly disappointed. I had to admit, 'The Sweet By-and-By' sounds a bit like Chas and Dave doing the theme to Steptoe and Son. But this guy was saying that was a bad thing...

Doherty is doubtless still struggling with his demons. Stooping to pick up everything the crowd would throw on stage, and obviously drinking to take the edge off his craving, he seemed to be flagging by the end of the show. But a show it was, and strange as it may sound, I was proud of the guy.

Well I've been waiting here for hours/ it's getting cold, position closed

2009-03-27T07:00:00.001-07:00

I can take or leave most bands these days. I’d imagine it’s pretty exhausting keeping up with what’s new. Plus, of course, it gets difficult to look up to someone ten years younger than yourself, or a band a few years older than myself, trying desperately to hide their age with comfortable hats and trotting out trite soundbites.

But, I decided to dust off my gig-shoes for one of my ongoing obsessions earlier this week- Maximo Park.

My job tends to put me in the same cities (even the same venues) as bands I’d love to see, but usually we’re a few weeks apart. Mrs Trousers actually has 6 tickets for the Newcastle shows in May, but I’ll be in America.

Last week Maximo Park put details on their website of a free gig showcasing new material with less than a week’s notice. The first 250 entrants could also buy a one-off 7” single, all profits of which would go to No Surrender, a cancer charity. I was pretty excited, but given the first-come first served basis and the fact that it was being held at the College, I didn’t hold out much hope, especially as Mrs Trousers is now 37 weeks pregnant.

The day rolled around and I knew that I had to give it a try, even though there were comments on the site from schoolkids saying they’d be outside from 1.30 to collect a wristband at 7pm. I certainly wasn’t going to subject my lady to that, but we both knew I'd spend the evening (indeed, the whole week) twisting and turning, wondering 'what if?....'

I wrapped up a bit and ventured out. Arriving at 5, there was already a healthy queue, but I figured it was about 150 people. I engaged in a bit of blokey chat with Mark, probably the only other guy there who could muster a beard. A few minutes later , no-one had joined the line behind us, but at least 10 kids had slinked in in front of us, joining friends or simply scanning up and down the line until they saw a face they vaguely recognised. Freakin kids. Finally a couple joined the line behind me, having driven up from Pontefract, 2 hours away.

Time edged on, the sun went down, the wind picked up and the line in front of us was swelling. The line behind, not so much. The queue tightened a bit and we had to move away from the protective wall , exposing us to a bitter wind. Mark went to speak to the security guys and we learned the theatre had a capacity of 300. This wasn’t looking so good anymore.

Still, by 6 I was resolved to stay until the bitter end. Mark’s sister joined us and Mrs Trousers decided she would join me at 7 – the assumption being I would blag her a wristband or she could join us at the entrance. So began the slowest hour of our lives. My new-found friends and I were doing our best to stay upbeat and positive, but the cold was sapping our resolve somewhat. Officials worked their way up the queue, offering band T-shirts for a donation to the charity. I got the smallest one available, for Trousers Jr. Sadly, most of the kids seemed to see this as a freebie and took what they could, giving nothing.

Mrs Trousers joined us just after 7, but we hadn’t really moved. The queue had widened, but no-one was being let inside. Another fact-finding visit to the security guys revealed plans to let the queue in 25 at a time.

7.30 and no-one had been let inside… Finally, groups were trickling inside and we began to slowly move down the line towards the barriers. Counting the number of groups going in, it was a struggle to stay hopeful.

Nearing the front I got a look at the security crew and realised they all used to work with me back when I was a bar manager. I called Awful Alan over and introduced Mrs Trousers. He told us we should just make it inside. Our little group felt their wait had been rewarded.

Finally we were at the front of the queue;the next step was to the holding pen to be issued wristbands before being allowed inside. Alan released the catch and let us through, the Pontefract couple first, then Mrs Trousers and I, and Mark, but stopped his sister. We all stopped and explained we were together and Alan let her through. There were no wristbands left, but they let us in anyway.

We got a 7” and got the T-shirt signed for baby Trousers, but we were a bit too cold for witty banter with the band. For their part I’m sure they were sick to death of signing stuff and smiling politely as people told them how cold it was outside.

Say what you like about bouncers, but if they know you and you keep them sweet, they'll work wonders for you...

Stay tuned for a gig review, and the aftermath...

Outta my way, jerkass!

2009-02-27T04:52:00.000-08:00

Ah, repetition. I'm in Stuttgart again, trying to remember where to put the merchandise. This is my last show in over 2 months, so I'm trying my best to be super-efficient, so as to leave on a good note and not be replaced while I'm on paternity leave. That said, there's not really much to do.

For anyone interested, here's my post from last time I was here- it has ineffectual middle-class terrorists...
http://dancanrant.blogspot.com/2008/02/welcome-to-stud-garden-dont-touch.html

In other news, mothers- hold onto your daughters, rabbits- stay in your holes; I am a motorist...

Yep, I've crashed a couple of cars, but I've never owned one before. I think I managed to pick up a speeding ticket within 5 minutes of getting behind the wheel (stupid 50-zones and signs being blocked by AA vans) but I finally understand the satisfaction a manly-man gets from polishing his throbbing beast on a Sunday morning.
Cleaning the car was alright, as well.

Hey-oh!!

dancanrant - now welcoming perverts

2009-02-15T03:16:00.000-08:00

I see someone from not-at-all-repressed footballer's-playground Dubai found their way to my little-viewed site by searching for woman live horse um.. okaaaay. I hope you found what you were looking for. I will now in no way encourage further visits from such degenerates with some alluring labels...

This just in!! Er, it's snowing. In January. Umm, this is awkward. Yep, sorry, we got nothing...

2009-02-07T09:41:00.000-08:00

I'm getting confused. I flew home last Sunday (totally surprised my girlfriend by the way- big points) and when I woke up on the tourbus the day of my flight there was a lot of talk about the weather in England. 'Ooh, all the flights are being cancelled, Danny' and so forth. So of course I start shitting it, and since it's meant to be a surprise, I can't ring anyone for a weather report.

I'd noticed on the Hotmail news page doohickey that Britain was 'bracing itself for severe weather' for about a week already. I'd done some checking and it appeared the South was going to be hit and the North would escape. Ha, tables turned! How do you like that, soft southern shites?

Well, turns out they didn't like it one bit. 900 flights cancelled out of London, and even cancellations as far up as Leeds. Since that's only 90 miles away from Newcastle, I was starting to get nervous. Not helped when we spent 30 minutes parked on the runway. Maybe the pilot forgot his packed lunch or something, I don't know.

Anyway, flying over Northumberland and the North East it was all very beautiful and snow-covered but the airport was actually pretty clear. When I got to my house on the coast, there was no snow at all, no sign that there'd been any and no sign that any was on the way. I had expected the shitty weather to catch up to us, calling into question my return journey 3 days later.

I never saw any snow. However I heard that 6million people took Monday off, terrified of the 'treacherous weather conditions'. I know people take a bit of snowfall as a licence to drive like a chimpanzee on RedBull in mating season but, come on. I'm not even in the country, and I had a week's warning about this. Where were the gritters?

It's only snow, people! It melts in your hand! It doesn't crawl up your nose and eat your brain.

Did I miss my medication this week? Did someone spike my Earl Grey? Or do the news shows and papers have so little to talk about that they're turning a weather pattern into a catastrophe?

I dunno. I saw CNN or Skynews or some tripe last night (I'm in Switzerland, by the way, and this was deemed newsworthy?) and they had a computer demo of how icy, vengeful cold winds from the east invaded the coastline and clashed with low pressure surging up from the south resulting in a fearsome struggle between evil and more evil culminating in a clusterfuck of..... er, soft white stuff that fell on the ground, looked pretty for a while and then melted. I felt kind of embarassed for the newsreader.

Big. Fucking. Whup. I've had it with the media.

Watch out people, the sun is going to come out tomorrow. Do you know how hot the sun is? The surface is 5,400 degrees centigrade!!

It's going to rain next week! Sailors have been known to drown!

Piss off. Here's an idea - on days when there's no news, how about just not putting the news on? Just show a couple of episodes of The Simpsons instead, and fill the paper with tributes to me.

What a Fabulous Bastard

2009-02-07T05:19:00.000-08:00

My good mate Simon and I have been threatening to write a sitcom together for about 5years. Sadly, I'm not really very funny. But he is, and it looks like he's finally doing something about it.

Crown Prince of Piss

2009-02-06T05:49:00.000-08:00

I've been carrying this particular rant around for a few years now. I feel it's finally time to just unleash that bitch and get it out before my hairline recedes any further. *deep breath* Here goes...

I'm sorry hipsters, I just don't get it. I share my tour bus with 6 Dutch people. Now, I've covered their strange habits before. Their sense of superiority, their insistence on always taking the same seat. i can forgive that stuff. But this?

No matter where we are in the world, they all demand Corona. If we don't have it, or if it's warm, they stick out their lips and ostracise me for the night. They continue to peeve about it into the next day. Bear in mind, on a lot of tours you don't get free beer every night. You certainly don't get to choose what sort you would get. And if you did, I should hope you had the taste, nay, the common fucking sense, not to choose this enchanted water.

Back when I worked in a bar, we would mock the douchewanks who came in and asked for Corona, then got huffed and ordered something else if we had no limes (we would often run out, such was demand for this piss-yellow devil's excreta. In summer, we would get through thousands of bottles per week, and thousands of limes (which even in bulk are about 5 times more expensive than lemons, penny-pinchers).

Granted, I would also mock the smart-arses who would smugly say 'You know, in Mexico they put the lime in to keep flies out, it serves no other purpose' These people have obviously never tasted Corona. With lime, it tastes like, well, a lager shandy in a dirty glass, made with flat lemonade and a squeeze of lime-juice. Without, it tastes like, I don't know.. an angel-fart. Nix, nada, nothing.

THIS BEER HAS NO TASTE!

I've even started drinking Beck's Gold, for fuck's sake! I have even, in my lowest moments, drank an original Beck's or a fucking Brand to avoid another night drinking this chihuahua piss. I'm lobbying for a blockade on Mexican beer. Come on Obama, I demand change. Defend my rights to drink a Guinness or a Rivet Catcher, dammit!

Next time, I'm voting for this guy.

Here I go again, on my own

2009-02-01T04:52:00.000-08:00

I'm in Munich again. Tthird time, as previously featured here and here*. This must be my favourite venue, for the majesty of the architecture, the tragic history and the pretzels. Three years on the trot, and it's been different every time. The first was, undoubtedly, the best. It was a bit later in the year (Valentine's Day to be exact), spring was in the air and I had a dog to babysit. When my boss was still on tour he brought his puppy on the bus, and left him with me a lot. It was a bit demeaning, and I grumbled, but honestly, I was glad of the company. It was the first time I felt any attachment to a venue, the first one that had any character or history.

Last year when we came back it was grim. Cold, wet, a building-site in and out. Whole sections of the arena were off limits and there was cement-dust in the air. The disappointment only added to my general unhappiness.

This year they've at least finished workng inside, and the heaps of rubble outdoors are dusted with snow. It was -10 here last night. I assume that's celsius.

However, this time I have the best feeling; I've got a great girl and we're in love, in 3 months we'll have a son (unless that doctor guy doesn't know his nads from his tootsies), I'm in control of my more dangerous and damaging habits and I finally understand what the rest of the guys on my bus are talking about. it's still no more interesting, but at least I know they're not slagging me off.

So, on the first day of the second month of the ninth year of the second millennium (may require correction), I wish you all even a slice of the happiness I'm feeling right now.

Don't worry, I'll be back to moaning in a couple of days.

*Not real links. Sorry. Use the search doohickey if you're that interested. Please. The first one is actually pretty good.

Bless you, anonymous woman! And thank you, shitty laptop!

2009-01-30T04:28:00.000-08:00

OK. I've calmed down considerably since I tapped out that diatribe last night. I think I was in danger of catching eBay fever again. I had a bad belt-buckle habit for a while a few years back. If I'd won that romper suit, I would have started down a slippery slope resulting in my buying a diamond-encrusted dummy from Puff Daddy. (It helps him sleep, bless him.)

I hope the lady who won that item gets hours of joy cleaning vomit and excreta from it.

So yep, sorry you both had to witness me in the depths of a babyclothes binge. From now on I'm just taking it one day at a time, tryin' to live mah life right. I'd also like to apologise to the recyclable drinks container I brutally destroyed last night.

That said, I'm still pretty pissed off at the handyman who woke me up at 9.45 to change a lightbulb and then had a 15 minute telephone conversation in Dutch. I wish I'd pushed him off his fucking stepladder.

I'm just like a powder-keg aren't I? Humility one minute, white-hot, bottle-tearing rage the next.

But that's the way you like it baby...

Fuck you, anonymous woman! And fuck you, shitty laptop!

2009-01-29T11:27:00.001-08:00

My girlfriend is great on eBay. Like an eagle-owl or something. She watches her prey, for days if required. Swoops at the last split-second. Scoops up her bargain and goes back to her nest to devour it.

In bird-metaphor terms, I'm the dodo of eBay.

To illustrate that point, here's a monkey.

I was just outbid on a sleepsuit. For my baby, not me... Except I didn't get outbid. I got banjaxed by my shitty 9-year-old laptop.

I've been watching this particular piece of adorable babywear for 5 days now. 5 days of checking and fretting. I was actually beginning to treat it as a baby. I'm to blame really. I got sweaty palms as the clock ran down on my coveted item. Fearful of the laptop that time forgot and the temperamental wireless connection, I spunked too early and put my bid in with 20 seconds to spare.

Things were good; I was ahead. Then I had a panic attack and tried to put in another higher bid. Pushing the left click on my mousepad 3 times inside a minute is never agreeable to my computer. So the thing froze. And some bitch (I'd name her but I want to retain a modicum of decorum, so let's just call her Whorebag) outbid my original stake by 50 pence.

I've just torn a plastic water-bottle in half. IN HALF, people. I don't think even Geoff Capes can do that.

But, you can't win 'em all I suppose. I once placed a bid on a brown leather jacket because it was so similar to the one I already owned that I couldn't bear the thought of someone else owning it. Scoring my chicks. Looking all dealer-ish.

I won that but the guy's Paypal wasn't working and I became convinced he was trying to steal my identity. I've never paid for it. Then again, I've never worn it. It's languishing on my dad's coat=rack. And he's never worn it either. Weed was bad for me in many, many ways.

Public Service Announcement

2009-01-18T02:58:00.000-08:00

I started a long-winded post about this, but some things are best kept short....

Be very wary of medication given to you while in foreign countries.

I had bad stomach-ache yesterday. Last time I had intestinal pain this bad, I was hallucinating that there were rocks in my bed and my mam thought I was going to die. Really.

It's the degenerate chemical dustbin in me, but all I saw was '500mg' as the paramedic dropped two of these badboys into my clammy mitt.

In my broken German, I understood 'take one now, and the next one in an hour'. I ignored the stifled laughter as The Devil's Red Cross sloped off, presumably to give a kitten an enema.

So, I popped it out of the packaging, weighed up the waxy bullet in my hand (alarm bells should definitely have been ringing at this point), bit it in half and gulped it down with a swig of camomile tea.

Am I a hero or an idiot?

Is the nightmare over? Can I get up now?

2009-01-18T01:04:00.000-08:00

So, that guy who runs that country, you know... He made a big speech, said he'd be retiring to Texas with all that bailout cash his government gave "to the banks". He did the little quotation marks. Was gonna buy Marilyn Monroe's and Joe DiMaggio's corpses and make them do stuff. For his amusement, like.

But no-one paid any attention to that because there was a 'miracle' in New York. The miracle being, I suppose, that the stuff airline companies tell you to do in the safety booklet may actually save lives, rather than just reassure nervy passengers. I'm one of the many who've stopped looking, pretty certain that if we hit water, or terra firma, I'm going to fucking die.

Anyway, I don't want to pour water on the skills of the pilot or anything, and it's great that no-one was injured or killed. So well done, 'Sully'. Nope, what's pissing me off today is this...

WTF, people? If this was in The Onion, I'd be laughing. As it is, I'm just shaking my head. You could elect Jesus as president, and the rest of the world will still laugh at you. Behind your back, obviously. No laser-guided night-vision wedgies for us, please.

You in the back! yes, you, with the trilby and the hunched shoulders...

2009-01-16T07:34:00.000-08:00

So while I was spoaching about looking for cheap laughs at someone else's expense I learned that it's 'delurking week' or something. Well, I'm sorry. I wasn't aware so none of you are getting cards or presents or anything. I promise to make more effort next year. I was just so busy with the baby and Christmas and root canal surgery and my parasitic lodger (I call him 'Bitey').

Anyway. I did the right thing and I massaged someone's ego by congratulating him on making me crack a smile, urged on by the medium of shame. So please, feel free to do the same, all you war-freaks who come to look at that picture I posted of a dead German 15 months ago.

Top ten films I finally got around to watching on DVD or in-flight entertainment

2009-01-03T01:40:00.000-08:00

As you may have gathered, I don't get to the cinema much. So here for your glib amusement, my, well, read the title..

Iron Man
I didn’t see all of this as the pilot couldn’t shut his yap for more than 5 minutes consecutively but it had AC/DC, explosions and Robert Downey Jr with a nightlight in his chest so it was a winner.

In Bruges
I actually really loved this. I normally shy away from the Farrell-bag, but he’s great here; sulking around, dragging his feet like a petulant child. The mix of un-PC belly laughs and cruel sadness was just right. Let down only by the lightly sketched love interest. It was obviously necessary but smacked a bit of under-developed college writing. Of which I am an expert.

There Will be Milkshake.. I mean, blood
I’m a bit thick for films like this. Probably why Davey isn’t talking to me anymore because I slagged off No Country for Old Men. But I did enjoy it. Beautifully shot, a Shining-esque soundtrack, brilliant performances from old Daniel and that creepy preacher kid. I liked the ambiguity of the thing; unlike so many films the plot and writing didn’t lead you by the hand the whole way then give you a lolly for not nodding off.

School of Rock
I can take or leave Jack Black. But a harmless cookie-cutter movie that caused my lip to curl into a half-sneer once or twice.

50 First Dates
A weird mix of slapstick and shameless sentimentality, with a perverse undertone. And yet I still enjoyed it and blubbed at the end.

Pan’s Labyrinth
I stayed up late to watch this one night and I really enjoyed the contrast between whimsy and brutal reality.

The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe
Strangely reminiscent of the BBC serialisation way back in the late 80’s or possibly early 90s, I’m far too lazy to check. I also watched the more brutal Prince Caspian this Christmas. The joy of having kids in the house. Disney succeeded in not completely killing it with their own brand of idealism and I didn’t want to smack any of the kids with a snow-dappled fir-branch, so it goes down as a success.

The Golden Compass
Christ. With a lead actress who makes plywood gaze longingly at her performances and swoon ‘wow, she’s just.. so.. wooden’ and Ian Mckellen voicing an alcoholic polar bear, this was about 7 shades of shit.

OK, so it's not ten. But I slept on a tour-bus last night and I've got work to do so get off my back, alright?

Happy new year to both my readers, apologies for the distinct lack of posting in the past six weeks. I resolve to try harder this year so help my black ass.

Just by way of a recap... had the second scan and it's gonna be a boy, which I and my wonderful lady are overjoyed about.. did a 35-hour suicide-watch series of flights from Australia which resulted in an abcess and ongoing root-canal work... decided on a name which will remain secret, at least until he's born... had a lovely albeit far too brief Christmas break.. continued to obsess over Oasis (it's OK, I'm gonna be a dad now, so all worries about being cool are out of the window)... heard the lil' laddie's heartbeat... took 3 weeks off drinking (thank you aforementioned root canal surgery) and didn't struggle at all... and fell in love all over again.

And here I am, back in Germany in winter. Strap yourselves in folks, it's gonna be a long, whiny ride...

Aussiegate

2008-11-23T14:03:00.000-08:00

Here I come again , cap in sweaty hands, shuffling my feet in grovelling apology.

I'm sorry Australia. The post I wrote yesterday came from a very bad place. I was seeing the black dog. I couldn't believe that anyone could love or even care about a city, such is my general frustration and boredom with wandering around strange ones. I directed this feeling towards the cities I've most recently been in rather than creating a post about my desire to live in a moderately spacious cave subsisting on rabbits, seagulls and strangely nutritious rock-slime. But then last night it occurred to me how much I loved my own adopted city and it made me realise the error of my ways. I tend not to think about my actions or words until the damage is done, which is something I'm working on. Most importantly, to save my relationship with my girlfriend, the love of my life.

Until I hit publish I thought I'd been pretty even-handed and, apart from that obvious joke about racist rednecks with insular views, I tried to avoid bashing the Aussie people. I was pretty bitchy about the backpackers cluttering up the place and spreading their own brand of free love but well... they deserve it. But, live and let live is generally my motto. I just didn't get enough sunlight yesterday and I miss my gal something terrible.

So yeah, my apologies if I've hurt or offended anyone. It really wasn't my intention. Stay tuned for a post about why Santa hates us all and the castigation of the Easter bunny.

You just wouldn't, would you?

2008-11-22T19:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, it's low brow. But I'm worried about offending my Australian reader and I wanted to make up for it the only way I know how. With a low-brow casually-racist sightgag.

BYO what, I wonder? *Barumptiss* Thanks folks, I'm here all month, try the kangarooveal.

Talking to myself again/ This time I think I'm getting through.

2008-11-22T15:24:00.000-08:00

NOTE: I'm not having a pop at Australians in this post in any way whatsoever. You're all lovely racist fag-hating rednecks and I wholly respect your insular views. hohoho.

I've been wrestling with this post for a few days now, but everything I write comes across as bitter and depressing. Nothing new there, you say. Yeah, yeah, everyone's a critic.

So, as I don't want to come across as city-bashing, let's just say I feel we're being fed lies about Australia and we're eating them up. Welcome to little America, yo.*

See, to me, this isn't European architecture at all. Yes, it may be built by Europeans, but Melbourne is built on a grid like so many of the mix and match cities in North America that I've stumbled around in a haze. Walking around Fitzroy, I was reminded of struggling up Haight-Ashbury, with it's college-fund crusties clutching their sleeping bags and checking their Amex balance on their I-phones. I got the feeling the inhabitants of Melbourne are anti-tourist, in a way- they've seen what can happen and they don't want it there. They've developed their own scenes with their own uniforms and they don't want outsiders. Like New York or LA, none of the good bars have signs. They're all in basements or 2 storeys up.Fitzroy's no.1 murder-shack, as voted by Ted Bundy

Sadly, even though I was there for 2 weeks, I had no time to be any more than a tourist. Just take a snap of the thing you've seen a thousand pictures of already and get back on the bus. I don't have the time to scour the backstreets hunting for a shit-hot jazz bar. Or the inclination, now I think about it. Ugh, jazz.

I'm in Sydney now. Far more tourism-friendly. Or tolerant, or savvy or whatever. Far more tourists anyway. I took a pleasant and occasionally exhilarating ferry-trip into town from the Olympic Park, past the operahouse and a big version of the Tyne Bridge, which I looked at every day for 5 blurry years as a full-time booze hound, part-time bar manager.

But most importantly I saw Russell Crowe's house! The Crowebar!! I was fucking buzzed. The buildings are much higher, the taxis louder, the crowds bigger and more aggressive. People actually look worried here as they're waiting to cross the street. Walking through The Rocks I got more of a sense of the 'old'- this was where all the whoring and fighting went on, the site of Sydney's (or Australia's?) oldest pub, the first fleet pub opened in 1828. None of the controlled, claustrophobic insanity of the city here. The harbours are fully fledged tourist meccas, the blueprint for my very own Quayside and countless other industrial cities who are losing one of their main sources of employment. Baltimore, I'm looking in your direction. For the 35 days I'll spend here in Australia, I reckon I've used up my 3 days off already, so I took the decision to see some indigenous animals any way I could. There's just no time for day-trips anywhere. I've had more than one soaking and seen a few thunderstorms. And I only brought my leather jacket and a trackie top. So much for summer.Don't get me wrong, I like the place. The people are really friendly and polite but not to the point of insincerity like some parts of the US. I feel I could tell someone to fuck off here and get a worse insult back, without it ending in tears or a gunfight. I reckon there is more animosity towards America here than in the UK, not because they are more different but because they're more similar. *ahem displacement of indigenous peoples cough cough*

Again, this post doesn't have a point really, so I'm going to sum up with something I didn't have in my head until 5 minutes ago. Ready?

Back in 2002 my girlfriend at the time came here for a year. She wanted me to come out but I had no desire to restart our relationship. She made her money in stripclubs and doing photoshoots for a less-classy version of Nuts. I know, I didn't think it possible either. Let's say, less polished. And with muff-shots. From what I can gather, the highlights of her trip were lacerating her friend's eye with a stiletto heel during an argument, and getting nailed by 3 guys at the same time. I believe it's called a fourgy. All Brits, I might add. Backpackers mostly stick to their own. I'm sure that story has appeared in the lads' mags over the last few years.

Anyway, what I'm getting at is that a lot of people come here looking for a dream. They come back with some photos, a swollen liver and very likely an STI.

1, check, 2, check 3, no thanks, I'll pass.

* It may be bigger. I may check. In which case, welcome to Big-Little America, yo.

New Developments

2008-11-03T21:50:00.000-08:00

The Thompsonator has news. I'm in Australia. It's not as warm as you'd think. I'm dodging the barbers for a while. I'm getting hairier in general.

However, all that is filler. I have real life-changing news.....

I've got Take That tickets!!

No, not really. Some would say it's a miracle it hasn't happened before now. I always thought it was due to the fact that I used to eat those bits of metal that rattled around in Tippex pens at school. That and all those naughty chemicals and toxins I used to dump inside myself. So I was pretty surprised when my girlfriend's tummypains revealed this...

So there you go, dear reader. I am standing on the edge of the cliff. The closer we get to the big day (April 20th; look it up, morbid fact-fans!) the more excited (and the less financially stable) I get. I never expected to get so involved in testing out which pram-frame can be folded with one hand whilst powdering a baby's bum with the other and looking cool in the process. Seriously, if you haven't looked at prams lately, you'll be surprised at the technological advancements. It was like Back to The Future. But with really helpful Mumsy shop-assistants.

I've kept a lid on it, so as to avoid spilling the beans to people I had a chance of seeing before they bumped into me and my lady, looking like we'd just stolen one of those fitness-balls from JD Sports.

Fucking good fun, they are.

So, yeah, time to grow up. A little bit. I may not act like it all the time, but I know this; I'm having kids with the right person and I only hope she can put up with me.

If this is what God does to baby ducks...

2008-10-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like rounding off a punishing 40-day tour schedule with a relaxing trip to the park, right? Back in Maastricht, my work completed, I wandered to the spot where my girlfriend and I took our first heavenly picnic to soak up some sunshine, some nature, some general good vibes. Germany and the lowlands had received a barrage of rain in the previous days, but today (that day, obviously; I'm mixing tenses to keep you on you toes/piss you off/I'm just fucking lazy and a sloppy writer, ok?) the sun was out, I had 5 weeks off with my girlfriend to look forward to, and I didn't feel like I was about to get fired.

So when this happy family paddled into view, I was pretty ecstatic. As ecstatic as a grown-ass man with a drink problem can be at the sight of a mama-duck and her clutch of fluffy-cute balls of chirpy happiness can be, anyway. I fumbled for my camera, exhausted the angles and leant back against my tree like a modern-day Donovan Leitch as the procession of adorableness moved back upriver, out of sight.

Then, in the corner of my eye, a flash of yellow-green at the lip of the weir. I scanned the edge for sign. My fears were soon confirmed when I saw a tiny duckling struggling to get back over the lip of what to him must have seemed like a waterfall. Trying with all his tiny might to be reunited with his family, who were slowly picking their way upriver from whence they'd come. The duckling continued in his efforts, but he was actually faster with his body out of the water, like a scrabbling Jesus, than trying to swim with his tiny webbed feet. I got a shot of his efforts and, my journalistic appetite whetted, sensed my first photo-story.
You'll have to enlarge this one...

I'm hamming this up unbelievably, aren't I? Well, tough. The stranded duckling changed tactics, switching sides of the river by actually dashing right across the weir to the more rocky, exposed bank. But to no avail. I tried to coax the mama-duck and her remaining herd back down river, hoping she would aid her little MIA charge. But it proved fruitless. I assumed she'd given up on him as soon as he'd drifted over the edge, and moved away to prevent any further losses. But the little duckling kept trying, for almost an hour. His family had long since meandered around the bend, and I knew they would not return.

The little fella switched sides again, taking rest-breaks beneath the overhanging bushes and picking at flotsam. I took heart in this; he was certainly capable of feeding himself, and knew the value of cover. He returned to his efforts but was frightened away from the lip by the arrival of an excited toddler. Panicked, he headed into the middle and the strong current carried him downstream towards other duck-families, treading water in the calmer shallows of the riverbanks.
By now this yellow duck alone on the river was attracting onlookers; the guilty toddler and her mother, an old couple, a woman and her teenaged daughter. The girl began to take pictures of her own on a mobile phone. The brown mother-ducks watched the intruder carefully, preventing their own young from going near him. I began to get a sick feeling as the mother ducks hissed softly at him, chasing him away when he drifted too close.

He attempted to swim back upstream to the weir, but the midflow current was too strong, the banks populated by hostile ducks blocking his path. He allowed himself to drift back downstream.

At this point I knew what was about to happen. So did the old man, who had walked on ahead of his wife. A little self-consciously, I switched my camera to multi-frame as a mother duck, having warned him off once, set out at him again. The teenage girl emitted a little squeal of shock, and my camera clicked away.
It was over in probably less than 10 seconds. The duck dumped the chick's lifeless body back into the brown water. Her chicks came to inspect, and I could not be sure if they were checking to see if the chick was alive, or if they wanted to take little nibbles of it. The mother shooed them away, and made sure the body drifted downstream away from her clutch.I explained to the old lady in Dutch that the departed's mother was up the river, past the bridge. 'Dat is natuur' I said, and she agreed with a resigned smile. The mother put her arm around her daughter, and I wandered off in slight shock, thinking today would be a good day to get back on drugs.

=======

So, there you go, kids. I've had this post sitting written without the photographs since I first arrived back, but due to my AIDS-riddled computer (and now, more than likely, external hard-drive) and my general laziness, it's taken me a while. The photos aren't as good as I had hoped, mainly because I got a bit self-conscious when the crowd started to build up. And even though I knew I should get shots of the distraught girl being comforted by her mother or the freaked-out kids, I felt like a bit of a scum-bag by that stage.

Papa Vader approves this message

2008-09-13T01:56:00.000-07:00

My job exposes me to a lot of foreign hotel-grade TV. So I've watched some terrible movies simply because they're in English with subtitles, and I've also rewatched some familiar movies in dubbed versions, with varying success; Enter The Dragon in French? Surprisingly entertaining: 'Une autre the, Monsieur Braithwaite?'. Casino in German? TV-movie. This week's been a mixed bag..

Some dreck starring trout-with-a-fwip-fauxhawk David Schwimmer and an embarassed-looking Jason Lee. Trying to sell David Schwimmer as a lothario is a bit like Julian Clary making a bid for UFC Champion. In fact; bad example. Because I'd want to watch that, and at least it wouldn't last 90 minutes.

Universal Soldier (as we're in Brussels, I'm assuming they show a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie every Friday night).

A mystery-thriller with Halle Berry and Bruce Willis. Except with no mystery and no thrills. had I watched the end of this, I sense it would have been tied with Jodie Foster-vehicle Flight Plan as the worst piece of shit I've ever slept through.

Harry Potter en Francais.

Actually, that list is a mixed bag of animal faeces, with some rusty razor-blades thrown in for giggles. But all that was redeemed last night. Nothing could, can ever, top The Empire Strikes Back in French. I've got to hand it to the dubbing guys; the French Darth Vader sounds gooood, yo. All syrupy-smooth evil echoing round in a shiny plastic bucket. And I was man-crushing on Monsieur Solo something terrible. I mean more than normal.

I couldn't find a clip on Youtube but then, I didn't try all that hard. I was picking up far too many nerd-vibes from galaxies far, far away, and I have a reputation to maintain. (Moaning, joyless alcoholic)

Also I'm getting addicted to the site-traffic kajigger I added to the page. My most popular post by a long chalk is a brief piece I did on Operation Market Garden and it gets shitloads of hits from Google Images. Don't know why. But I also get visits to a piece I did on the Munich Olympics debacle when anyone types in coca cola wayne rooney mask.

Now, I'm all for learning about the most important event of the 20th Century. But why the fuck would anyone go to the bother of searching for a Wayne Rooney mask on the internet? It's time to go outside, people. So just as an experiment, which has nothing to do with boosting my ego by way of tricking people into visiting my humble cul de sac, I shall be adding some daft shit to the labels on this post. I know you just can't wait to see the results

These go to 11...

2008-08-26T07:45:00.000-07:00

We're doing a show in Paris this weekend. I'm guessing you'll probably hear it.
I don't know if the masterplan is to brainwash the crowd into buying the new CD, or simply to explode their heads. Either way, I'll be there, camera at the ready.

We can rebuild him. We just don't want to...

2008-08-24T04:14:00.000-07:00

It may surprise some of you to learn that I can be a bit of a miserable, sarcastic bastard. No, really, it's true. I by-and-large managed to curtail this personality trait, but it still comes out in my writing. I can in fact, sometimes come across as bitter, callous, even downright nasty. So I'm sorry for that. Really sorry. I cry myself to sleep over what I've done to your feelings, then wake up and punch myself in the nads.

There I go again. Sorry. Sorry. Aaargh. Aaahh, better. Anyway, point is I'm going to make efforts to keep this to a minimum, or at least save it for appropriate occasions. I just find it difficult to admit that things are pretty good for me. I'm the little guy. The underachieving joker who always gets picked last, always drops his ice cream cone into burning dogshit. Well, no more. I've got a decent job, a gorgeous girlfriend who loves me unconditionally (proved beyond doubt this past two weeks, cad that I am), and I get paid in Euros. So even the weakening pound works in my favour. Ha! Screw you, credit crunch!

So yeah, things may change a bit round these parts. They may even get a little bit mushy on occasion. But for now, feast your eyes on the unmoulded hunk of sex-clay that is

Flaky Guevara

Flaky was actually born, somewhere in Latin America, with that beard. In it's short time with we mere mortals, The Beard of Flake has been home to a clutch of sparrows, several species of hitherto unknown weevil and, during his gap-year trip to Belize, a family of pygmies sheltering from Hurricane Alan. Now, in downtown Dublin, he aids the community by protecting old ladies. Not only do these chin-pubes turn water, but they can also be manipulated to turn any park bench into a gazebo. The US government are currently sampling fibres from Flaky's beard as defence from the Russian and Iranian missile program(s).

Yep, it's a cheap shot, and not even a strong one, but I'm trying to lighten the tone at the same time as not getting fired. If it's not enough, Nuts is only.. actually I have no idea. So that's another thing to be proud of.

Hooray for me.

I walk through walls/I float down the Liffey

2008-08-21T06:21:00.002-07:00

I went to Dublin for my 30th birthday. My girlfriend booked it as a surprise, which I managed to blow when I suggested we go there for a weekend while I was back for the summer. Nice place. We ate ttraditional Irish boxty; potato pancakes. Mine had a steak in it. I could have eaten there twice a day for the whole 3 days.

Drank a lot of Guinness. It does taste better there. Still tastes like you're rinsing out dry coffee granules with a sodden barcloth, but it was better. Went to a park, saw Oscar Wilde lounging on a rock, saw two huge rats.

We visited James Joyce's house. Or at least a house dedicated to Joyce, with an explanation of his opus Ulysses and such. He's looking a bit pale of late.

My girlfriend and I also had a row and quickly buried it. Which played it's part in a much bigger row which would unfold itself a few days later and is yet to be concluded. It's too early for a post mortem, too late for hindsight. I may come back to this or I may just sweep it under the covers and go back to moaning about my job.

So yeah, Dublin. I wouldn't recommend going on a weekend. We were leaving Friday evening and by 4pm it was a different city. Distinctly more cunts. But the biggest one was just about to leave... *

* It was me.

Oh, just fuck off and die so I can replace you

2008-08-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

My computer has a virus. In fact, it's had a long painful illness, and now to top it all, it snuck off to the wrong end of town (Woolworths is the demarcation line in North Shields), shacked up in a shooting gallery with some bad Macs, and caught the AIDS.

It's a wonder I'm even typing this, and my computer may spazz out and show me that blue screen at any moment. It doesn't help that the whole thing is in Dutch. And yes, I've tried changing the language; It doesn't work. Nor does the Norton antivirus which was present when I got it, or the new one I bought last week, which will definitely be charged to the company, converted to Euros and pissed into the Liffey on our birthday visit to Dublin later this week. But I will soldier on, to no end. I'm not big on computers. I've never owned one, * and I'd be quite happy if I never did. But now that I have a digital camera and an addiction to I has a Hotdog, it's a necessary evil. Oh, and this wonderful blog, of course, my raison d'etre.

Anyhoos, as an update, it seems I've curbed the nasty drinking dependence I've been working on for the past 7 years or so, with the help of my girlfriend, so I must thank her for that. I do believe I went almost a week without a drink at one point, and I would say I didn't even think about it more than twenty times a day. * I had a pint after my great-uncle's funeral, and a bottle of Stella at one of my one-year-old niece's two parties, but that was about it. We got a bit boozy last night, after a blissful day reading the sunday papers(tm) and rediscovering The Beatles (if you haven't * heard of them, you should really consider looking them up) but I feel as young Britons, it's our duty to get pissed on the weekend.

We went to see the new Batman the other night... I had expected to be disappointed with the whole thing, and cynical about the praise for Heath Ledger. But I've got to admit, I left the theatre giddy about the whole thing. Granted it was a little long, and Batman's scratchy voice was pretty annoying early on, but I'm * pretty hard-pushed to think of a better movie I've seen, that's been released in the past 10 years. I was even converted to the new-look Batmobile (and kick-ass bike). But a 12A? I have a 12 year-old nephew, and Im not sure I'd want him watching that. And we've sat together and watched 300 and We Were Soldiers, and he didn't bat an eyelid. That trick with the pencil in the desk? Snapping the pool cue in half? Dark, indeed. And that shit the Joker did with his tongue was just creepy. Roger Ebert talking-about-Hermione -Granger-creepy.

And that's about it, people. Hopefully some sumptuous photos of Dublin next week. Til then, I'm off to make my neighbours' ears weep with a liddle bidda geetar practice.

* Every time you see one of these, my browser kicks me off and tries to trick me into downloading an XP antivirus, and I have to reopen the post as an edit. If this post ends abruptly, it's because I've thrown my disease-riddled, obsolete, piece-of-shit-fucking laptop into the courtyard for the seagulls to use as target practice.

Like Eating a Topic on Acid

2008-07-09T05:19:00.000-07:00

I’m tired. In fact I’m beyond tired. I’m so tired I can’t think of a word elaborate enough to describe the exhaustion I feel. Although exhaustion is pretty good. I flew into Amsterdam on June 19th. Started work the next day, my alarm set for 5.45. Yes, apparently there’s a 5.45 in the morning now. 20 days, 2 cities and hundreds of thousands of euros later, I’m still working.

One more week and I get 2 days off, cooped up in a shitty hotel in a provincial town.

Where last week I felt like a hamster in a cage, this week I feel like an inmate of Guantanamo Bay. Kept behind fences, randomly soaked or scorched, sonically bombarded by various sources at all hours of the day and night. If you get pissed off at your phone, try carrying two. Then add a 15-channel walkie-talkie and 100 or so people who want you for something which is either late or missing, all competing with a sound-system branded illegal in several countries.

Back when I was a bartender, I once worked 18 days in a row. I believe it was some sort of house record. By the last day I was a bit insane. I went out whenever the opportunity arose but I couldn’t get drunk. I’d passed the stage where everything was too much, passed the stage where everything was funny. I’d reached Dennis Nielsen.

For some reason, I don’t feel like that this time. Instead I feel I’ve been transported back in time to my first summer at highschool. It’s 1992, I’m almost 14, and I’m wanged off my tits on acid. I’m walking alongside someone, but we couldn’t possibly speak to each other, or to anyone else. I’m concentrating intensely on chewing and swallowing the first bite of a Topic. I’ve no idea why I bought it, I suppose I needed some familiarity, and back then I ate quite a few Topics.

Any sense of time is stolen from you on acid. You experience deja vu. You can convince yourself that time has stopped. You can lose 3 hours shamanically repeating your address just to keep a grip on who you are/were. All in the same night.

But this Topic is taking me fucking ages. That mix of nougat, hazelnut, caramel and class A narcotic is creating a party in my mouth, and no-one knows what time it starts or who anyone is. I dare not spit it out, and yet I can’t swallow it. I feel like the Boy David- there is no roof in my mouth, and the pointy, half-chewed nuts are jabbing directly into my brain. I could swallow my tongue before I finish this chocolate bar. I hear a car way off in the distance and sprint across the street to avoid it. I jump the chain-rope around the war memorial but my fellow fuckhead has chosen to step on his section and the chain snaps taught, catching my ankle.

Everything slows down, moreso, as my hands flail, clutching for the strips of light racing past my face, away from the inevitable; the sun-baked lawn. The Topic drifts from my hand, spinning off on it’s own axis. I’m suspended mid-air. The grass rises to meet me and suddenly I’m back on earth. I feel no pain, other than the caramel in my cavities and the nuts embedded in my brain tissue. Close by I hear laughter, and it’s coming from me.

Part of the awkwardness that came with frying my teenaged brain with LSD returned to me this week. I have difficulty maintaining eye-contact. I sat in company for hours yesterday without saying a word. Nothing I could offer has any meaning, any point, or any consequence. It’s just there, like a Topic in the grass.

Boy In The Bubble

2008-06-29T06:52:00.001-07:00

I've been in Amsterdam this week. Canals, pushbikes, whores, clogs, legal weed, cheese, thousands of poo-stringed, red-eyed short-breakers in camouflage gear and German parkas stumbling from one tourist trap to the next.

Sounds like hell. I however am protected from all this. I'm even protected from the sun. Being on the lower floor of a football stadium, facing East (I'll have to check that, but I trust Jack Aubrey has served me well), I can see the pleasant weather but it doesnt reach me. There are thousands of tons of concrete between us, and a moat prevents my escape. Only the wind can touch me. It doesnt so much touch me as dust-rape my eyeballs every time I step out of the cosy, pre-fab home. So I'm learning to avoid that.

Staging a concert where projection screens play such a large role in the same week as midsummers eve wasn't the best idea. But well-thought out decision-making is not our forte. The very fact I'm employed makes that obvious.

When I do choose to brave the element (not a spelling mistake) I check my phone for anything from Victoria. Left turn. Walk up the ramp. I adjust my eyes to the perma-darkness caused by the glorified curtain we paid a horrendous amount to cover the transparent roof. Take some snaps for my boss to check our progress. Make some idle chit-chat. Left turn. More pictures of the same thing from a different angle. Left turn. Squint into the distant sunlight.

Into the dark again. A hazy tunnel with water at the end. An assortment of treats to curtail my boredom. Left turn. Check phone. Reward myself with a chewy, sugary treat. Lions are my favourite, though at this moment I've settled for a Mars Bar.

Rinse, and repeat. Eventually, a blanket is drawn over the cage and I fall into an uneasy sleep.

Tomorrow we do it all again.

Show day. Hundreds of strange people arrive and tap on my protective plastic ball. Some spin me. Some kick me. Few greetings, many demands. Flashbulbs startle me. The laughter is not at me, but not for me either.

Then all is quiet. No evidence of the previous days' madness save for hundreds of crushed cans and water bottles, bundles of used tape, scraps of plastic, all colours of the rainbow. I sit back in my ball, nibble on my fun-size treat, wondering where the fun went.

I miss my girl.

Am I thick or all you all lying? (Or both?)

2008-06-20T07:40:00.000-07:00

I just watched a movie I'd been excited about. Some would say obsessing over.. My girlfriend bought me Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men after I drooled over someone else's in a pub while he went out for cigarettes. He had the same leather jacket as me, but that's by the by. I read it in a day, on planes, trains and in bed. I really loved it. The ending stang, but there was never any indication that it would end well. Much as you hoped Llewellyn Moss would get away with the cash, you knew, just as he did, that his life had just taken a sharp swerve into a dead-end. So I was drooling to see the movie. My schedule (by which I mean all the drinking) prevented us from seeing it at the cinema but I took the plunge and bought it a couple of days after release. I had talked up the book so my gal was pretty excited too.

Anyway, enough backstory. I didn't like it. I was a bit surprised when it came in at under 2 hours. Victoria fell asleep and only woke up at the car accident, so she didn't have too much to say about it, but I went to bed, not feeling sad for Moss and his wife, as I'd expected, but just a bit pissed off.

Yes, it looked beautiful. There weren't any cheap devices for suggesting the time-period. Josh Brolin was great as the smart-mouthed Moss. I liked the fact that there were no credits in the opening. I liked Woody Harrelson's small role as Wells; in fact all of the performances were expertly measured. I liked lots of things about it. But those things alone didn't make it a great movie. I'm surprised to say it, but Paul Thomas Anderson wuz robbed.

I'm going to come out and ask- who was that film about? It didn't cover Moss or Ed Tom enough for you to give a shit about either. I suppose it was about Chigurh. But what about Chigurh? You pretty much figure out precisely what kind of person he is in the first hour. You could even fool yourself into thinking he didn't kill Moss'wife at the end. It'd be a stretch, but Victoria managed it. I suppose the Cohens got carried away with Chigurh's character, and as a result undercut the others. Most of the dialogue was verbatim, and yet some small but significant scenes were missed out altogether. Instead of Tommy Lee Jones visiting Moss' dad on the porch, allowing us to mourn for Moss, we get that dream business and that's it. Balls, I say.

McCarthy set us up for the explosive final showdown which never came, and I'd be near the front of the queue to lambast the Brothers Coen if they'd changed the ending and actually given us all what we wanted, but this is like having your external hard-drive stolen, buying another one and then having that one stolen too. First time around it's heartbreaking, the second it's just fucking annoying. I'll say it again- balls.

So yeah; please, someone explain to me why you love this film so much. Because right now I'm of the opinion that the Academy thought 'hmm, criminally overlooked in the past, now on a downward slide following Zeta-Jones-Douglas dreck and bad remake of an Ealing Comedy with a fucking Wayans brother... better spunk all over this one before they make Dan Brown's Deception Point.'

But as for the rest of you, what's your excuse?

Cometh the Hour...

2008-06-06T09:56:00.000-07:00

So much has been written about D-Day, and it was such a huge operation, that it would be a fool's errand to attempt a historical post today. So I'll settle for an appreciative nod of recognition, thanks and awe. And some of my trademark griping.

It's got my hackles up somewhat that yet again, there is a criminally small amount of news coverage for this event. In fact, I'd even settle for some decent documentaries on the History Channel or The Longest Day on BBC1.

But no, we get... Fuck all, squared. I've watched several news channels today, flicked through all the major and Freeview channels and there's nothing. I've noticed the media now refer to WWII as a war against 'The Nazis' as opposed to a war fought against Germany and their allies. I can even allow that, in a way. We're nationalist and bigoted enough, thanks.

This post has no direction, really. It just hacks me off that there will have been veterans and their families, as well as vehicle restorers and, ugh, uniformed re-enactors standing on those bitter beaches at 6am this morning to pay their respects, and the media do nothing to even highlight the fact to the great unwashed.

Next year will be 65 years, of course. I was on Sword beach in 1989 for the 45th and again for the 50th when the Queen was in attendance, and there were, obviously, a fair share of reporters on hand. Next year no doubt it will be the role of William and/or Harry to highlight it instead, which no doubt they will, with grace and respect.

Meh, enough moaning, I'm off to dig out The World at War.

A Message for Washington Dulles' Baggage Handlers...

2008-06-01T01:05:00.000-07:00

So, I'm back from our tour of the States. I'd like to say it was fun, but it was just tiring really. Our only day off was on a parkway named Trumbull. Fortunately I stayed in bed with a hangover until 5pm then ate enough sushi to kill a rikishi. So yep, the drink problem continues.

I should add I managed to throw up in yet another airport and spent almost 2 hours prostrate in the departure lounge. So, a 9-hour flight and a 3-hour bus journey later, I was understandably pissed to discover that my external hard-drive had been misappropriated from my luggage.

All my photos from previous tours- Vegas, the Rockies, Denver Colorado, Chicago, Boston, the whole of Germany, France, Holland, Japan. Not to mention every photo taken of my girlfriend and our time together, my niece's christening, Christmas. To bring an end to the list, if you can remember any of the photos I've posted on this blog, it's now the only record of their existence. Deleted at the touch of a button and sold for a bonghit. Mother. Fucker.

Yes, I should have been more careful. But you can only carry so much as hand luggage, and my priority at check-in was not throwing up all over the floor. Again.

It could have been far worse, of course. I have been known to carry the tour cash in my suitcase. One idiot did carry personal cash in his case this time. Needless to say, it's gone. As we are a group of almost 100, it's probably not a surprise to say we get robbed everytime we travel.

But should it be this way? Is it not enough to be robbed by the airline at the ticket-purchase stage? Do we also have to be physically robbed by their employees?

So yeah; fuck you, Washington Dulles, and fuck you Lufthansa. Thanks for charging me for eighteen hours of my life and stealing countless memories from me into the 'bargain'. And that's not me; The Man in Black said that. I'm just passing on a message. And the message, in case you missed it, was

FUCK YOU

Welcome to New York. You remembered your wallet, right?

2008-05-24T08:08:00.000-07:00

Despite my dartboard memory, I have a high capacity for certain things. Favourite lines or passages of dialogue for example. I also never forget being stung. So my Skinflint Spidey-sense was tingling as I stepped off the tourbus into the Long Island sunshine. Walking into the venue, I remembered last year, when a friendly man conned me into installing not one but two telephone lines into the office, then charged us $550 for the privilege.

''Well, won't get fooled again" said I, and spiralled off into a 9-minute drum solo. Next thing I know there's a guy in my office.

"Hey buddy. I'm puttin 'ya phone line in, lemme show ya where.."

"Oh, that's ok, we never use the phone." I attempt humour; "We're from Europe- we don't have any friends here." This worked two days ago. No dice.

"Well, Im gonna put one in. Ya know, just in case." Right, in case my watch stops and I need to call the Speaking Clock? In case I just gotta call my BFF Jill?

"Seriously, man, I don't need a line. I don't want one."

"Well, you never know."

He left and I went to find something beautiful to destroy. If he can't get in, he can't install it. When I came back, the sneaky fuck had got in with a master key and installed a 'phone. A white one.

Welcome to Union Country. Where if you don't ask, you get it anyway, and they charge you for it. He'd switched the line on, so now we had to pay the prick. All day. Nice switch-flicking there, no-mark.

I had been warned that if the Teamsters didn't get breakfast, they could make the load-in and load-out very difficult, insisting only they could handle anything, but of course sticking strictly to their break schedule, so that basically 33% of the 'workforce' is always on donut-time. They have a minimum load-in time of 8 hours; it takes 4, maximum. They have a minimum load-out of 6 hours; it takes 2 if the local hands are really slow. Which, of course, they will be.

That's 14 hours' pay for a maximum 6-hours' work, and 2 free meals. From the outside looking in, the US Union is a lot like the British dole, only a little less honest. Rather than pretend to look for work, they pretend to do work. You can't blame them- they get paid more this way.

"You wanna standin' contest? I think I got time..."

This beautiful hunk of clay is a forklift driver. We pay him for 17 hours. He can face many directions, oh, yes. Not just South-West with his nose towards catering, sniffing the air like a starving polar bear.

So, my wondrously expensive phone installed, I wander over to the Teamster office. That's the semi-circle of chairs around a TV you see in every Union building. I ask the surly cigar-chugging scholar and gentleman how many staff he had working that day, so I can issue them with carte blanche to our catering hall.
"Well, you asked for none, I gave you my minimum." He had to slip that in. I die a little inside. "So that'd be eight."

God bless the Union.

Freedom exists. Now get back to work.

2008-05-21T10:33:00.000-07:00

Douchey personal plate aside, this seems to be the state motto for New Hampshire.
Considering virtually every number plate in the USA is made in prison, is this subconscious suggestion aimed at reducing overcrowding, or just plain cruel?

And why hasn't someone keyed this choadwank's car yet?

Back then, everything was simpler and more confused

2008-05-18T13:52:00.000-07:00

I haven’t blogged in a while. Well, months. I seem to have less free-time when I’m being paid to work. Cheeky bastards. I much preferred being paid to share my moans with my reader.
But I got sick of moaning after a year or so. The only thing left to moan about was, well, moaning all the time. So I’ve opted to whinge about moaning about moaning constantly. It’s going well so far, I reckon.

I managed to convince the powers that be that I was basically sitting on my hands in Maastricht, and they’ve let me work from home and claim back my flight expenses. Considering I was flying back or paying for the bulk of Victoria’s flights at least once month, I should be saving some shiny pennies. My bank balance hasn’t looked healthier since that period when I was living on a tourbus with standby power and eating a schnitzel every other day.

So I took the plunge and got a place with the object of my affection. We trawled all over Whitley Bay, Tynemouth and North Shields and finally settled on a swanky fifth floor place overlooking (kind of, if you open the window and crick your neck) the Tyne. It was the only one we saw that met our (ha, Victoria's) requirements without being TOO far over our budget and is by far the nicest place I’ve ever lived. No offence, Davey, but Victoria looks way better in the nip.
Having a solid base for the first time in 4 years or so is a blessing and a curse. I go to sleep curled up with a beautiful woman every night. I get up at my leisure, but always by 9. I make a simple breakfast, usually poached eggs or the occasional crumpet combo. I revisit an album which has sat on the shelf in my parent’s house for the best part of 7 years and check my work e-mails, which usually takes all of 5 minutes. I study a recipe book, take a walk down to the river and buy some fish from the market, then up into town to the grocers for the day’s supplies. All this is done by midday. Sounds great, right? It is. But then comes the curse part…
By this stage I’ve walked past at least 8 pubs. There are probably some I’ve forgotten or not dared to look at. My tongue is flicking across my lips. My throat like a drying well. I’m anticipating that first mouthful of Deuchar’s, or some guest ale from a micro-brewery. It’s like revisiting old friends, or making a new one. But this is a nagging, persistent friend who demands attention.

Our first weekend in the flat, Victoria broached the subject of my drinking too much. I had to take it humbly. Being mildly drunk helped. Inside, I was a bit peeved about it; in the past she’d positively encouraged a tipple, and would always make sure there was enough booze of varying description for my visits back to this sceptered isle. I kind of felt she’d moved the goalposts.

But I can’t blame her. I do drink too much, and too often. I never get angry or violent, or end up pissing in the wardrobe (except that once). I don’t drink to get drunk, as such. It’s just a convenient side-effect. After that Saturday night bombshell, there was a new taste at the back of my throat. Not resentment. Just guilt. It spoiled the taste of the beer somewhat. Even the whiskey and ginger didn't have the same satisfying kick. But that was maybe the toothpaste.

But enough hunting for poetic ways to describe my problem. It’s time for the science bit. I've tried wallowing. I've tried bringing you interesting facts about the area surrounding the four walls within a basement beneath a dome structure in which Im usually cocooned 17 hours a day. So now I'm just going to list stuff. You brought it on yourselves by not heaping praise on me. Or at least humouring me.

I'm not going to subject you to what I ate or my bowel movements, just the amount of devil's water I throw down each day. I'll start with the off-days before this tour.
Montreal, day 1- 7-hour flight, 6hour time-fall. 2 cans on the plane, 10 pints in various boozers
Montreal day 2 – 2 restaurants, 3 bars. 2 beers, 6 pints
Montreal – 1 beer
Ottawa – 3 beers

I'll keep updating this. I know you just can't wait. Im sure I've documented my antics during the strip-club haze, the Dr Giggles debacle, the transient period. I've even touched on the jizz-wizard days. Factor out weed and the occasional foray into class-A-schizoid-house-breaking hell and it's really not that bad. Is it?

Help me out here, Midge...

What U looking at? I Kiel you...

2008-02-25T02:13:00.000-08:00

Another day off, another blistering hangover. It seems we always have a day off in Kiel, and there's never anything to do. So the prospect of a Sunday in said city was not being relished by your humble.. writer-guy. That said, a day off is a day when I don't have to work, and that is something to be cherished.

To avoid the usual moaning, I'd booked a central hotel with an early check-in. It was over 700 km from Stuttgart and I knew the crew would be tired, grumpy and hungover. Only moreso. Despite a few late-risers grumbling that they'd missed breakfast, check-in went fairly smoothly and I decided to ignore any problems until I was back at work the next day.

A few of the crew had mentioned visiting a U-boat on previous visits to Kiel so my mind was already made up- no drinking in the afternoon on this day off, oh no, siree. I met up with my Canadian buddy Marc and his Russian girlfriend and we set off through the deserted Sunday streets of Kiel in search of chow before enduring the 30 minute bus ride to the beach to see said U-boat. An American brunch and 2 glasses of champale later, we were on our way.

Being a harbour town, Kiel was virtually destroyed by the allies in the spiteful bombing campaign of '44-'45. Over 80% of buildings (residential, civic and industrial) were destroyed. The result is depressing to say the least. It's not ugly as such. It's not even ugly-beautiful. It's just... meh. No doubt the grey weather didn't help, and being this close to Denmark, it's still winter here, really, whereas in Maastricht and the surrounding area there's a definite feeling of spring. But Kiel has this air of depression about it, a town whose spirit has been wrung dry. There were wrecking balls on the river banks, tearing into old factories which reminded me of Soviet propaganda posters. The developers are closing in...

Despite imagining how cramped it must be, I was surprised it wasn't bigger. We entered at the back, into the engine room. Sitting idle, it's pretty unremarkable, but picturing the hulking brute running, with smoke and steam everywhere, the sense of desperation started to sink in a bit.

The majority of space, of course, was devoted to destruction. Right under the torpedoes, crew-beds are visible, so that the sub was always battle-ready.
I'm pretty snake-hipped (my 11-year-old nephew has a bigger waist that me), but I could barely get through the portholes that separated the engine room from the sleeping quarters and so forth. Maybe the tourbus isn't so bad after all...

Welcome to the Stud Garden. Don't touch anything...

2008-02-22T01:07:00.000-08:00

I was really struggling to come up with a title today (who am I kidding, I was struggling yesterday) until I realised some things just shouldn't be meddled with. Yup, I'm in Stuttgart, viualising the world's greatest gay bar/bistro. The name stems from Stutten Garten, literally stud garden, as the settlement was originally created as a horse-stable for the Cavalry. Ooh, men on horseback.. I'm going to have to stop this now. Someone might just read this, one day.

Stuttgart has been described as the cradle of the automotive industry- Porsche even adapted the city's coat of arms for it's world-famous logo of a rampant stallion. Yes, two paragraphs in, this is already the gayest post I've ever created. Mercedes-Benz and Maybach also have their homes here.

But the '70's saw Stuttgart in the world spotlight for different reasons; being the stronghold of the Baader-Meinhof Gang, or Red Army Faction as they preferred to be known. This terrorist/urban guerilla group was formed in the late 60's off the back of the student protest movement, kicking against the outlawing of the Communist party and the rise of capitalism. Despite the founders (Baader, Ensslin and Moller) spending the bulk of the decade on trial or in custody, the group survived and thrived, carrying out numerous bank robberies to fund attacks on US military bases, West German police stations and the press, who they perceived to be sponsored by the capitalist government. Maaan.

During the most controversial and tense trial in German history, Ulrike Meinhof, a sympathetic journalist later recruited as an active member, was found hanged in her cell, spurring the usual plethora of conspiracy theories. The remaining members were convicted of numerous crimes, but the death toll continued to rise with the violent kidnapping of former SS officer Hans Martin Schleyer, then head of the German Employer's Association.

Already under Police protection, his car was was forced to a halt when a pram was pushed into the road. His 3 guards were immediately dispatched and he disappeared without a trace. A list of demands was soon issued, primarily the release of the RAF's founders.

The situation was made worse with the hijacking of a passenger plane in Palma de Mallorca, with the hijackers issuing identical demands to those of Schleyer's captors. Five days and the 'execution by revolutionary trial' of the pilot later, the plane was stormed in Mogadishu, resulting in the deaths of all four hijackers. The same day, 43 days after Schleyer's ordeal began, it was abruptly ended in the boot of an Audi 100 on a French street.

That night, Baader was found dead in his cell, a gunshot wound to the back of his head. Ensslin was found hanged in her cell, and Moller survived several stab wounds in the chest to be released from prison in 1994. The authorities insisted on a suicide pact, claiming lawyers had smuggled in the weapons used.

I didn't know much about this 'political group' but they seem very similar to the Symbionese Liberation Army of San Fransisco, who kidnapped and 'reprogrammed' Patty Hearst- a bunch of bored, middle-class students frustrated into extreme action. Though true to stereotyping, the RAF were a lot more efficient, and longevitous. The organisation finally ceased hostilities in 1998. Still, the end result was the same- a lot of innocents suffered and they met a bloody end.

So what does all this have to do with me? Not a lot to be honest, but today's show takes place in the Schleyerhalle. And as you know, the more tenuous the link, the better. The hall was built in the early 80's in view of the bridge on which Dr Schleyer was snatched. And, wandering around in some dead-time, I came across this nicely rendered tribute. Peace out. Er... honkies.

Mann,heim gettin' pretty tired of this...

2008-02-21T03:56:00.000-08:00

Hmm, pretty tenuous, that one. So today we're in Mannheim- home of, er, Xavier Naidoo, a German of South African descent who's guested on some Rza albums, and probably some ambient junk that you get on pub music systems. Think Youssou N'Dour but with sillier hats.

I hit snooze today because there is, frankly, no point getting up as early as we do. It's a constant source of griping. For me at least.

Crewmembers who usually work other tours are surprised at how early we start- a lot of the building has to be done in stages, from rigging to stage to sound to video. Basically we could have at least one more hour in bed each morning and not cause the slightest inconvenience to ourselves or anyone else. But such are the joys of a self-contained unit.

That aside, today I have a rare treat- an office with a window.

OK, so that's not my view. It's more reminiscent of a motorway in Middlesbrough, but its a much needed peek at the world outside.

People are fragile things, you should know by now

2008-02-20T07:05:00.000-08:00

So, at the start of an 8-day stretch, I'm back in Munich at the Olympiahalle. If I were more technically able I'd put a link here to the piece I posted on Munich last year, it's probably one of my best. But I'm not, so I can't, so you'll just have to live with it.

This venue had an impact on me, not just because of the history of the place, but it also made me realise how lucky I am to be doing this job. Maximo Park played here last year at the MTV Europe Awards, the Cure play here in 4 days, and there's some sort of 4-night porno exhibition at the end of the month. Sadly work is underway on a new, smaller arena right next door, so the air is thick with what I now remember to be cement dust. One lady just told me "This is a very old building, 36 years!" So, that's old, is it? Fair enough. I suppose following allied bombing, that may be understandable. But I digress. Again.

Many of the better views are blocked by hoardings and the grass is chewed up to a brown pulp. Being February, the boating lake is frozen and it's generally nipster. If I had the luxury of a free afternoon like the rest of the crew, I would pay 4 euros to tour the buildings, maybe even the no-doubt extorionate fee for the BMW museum across the highway. As it is I'll just have to wander around inhaling dust and waiting for a toothless forklift driver (the driver, not the forklift) to pick up the case of merchandise I spent an hour sorting in below zero temperatures this morning.

I picked up some sort of virus or possibly food poisoning after the last run and spent Sunday night and most of monday feeling like crap on a crutch. Regardless of the true cause, I will no longer be eating leftover chicken in the dark under any circumstances. I don't have much weight to shed so a day and a half with the trots (spelling diahorroea is such a pain) has left me looking positively emaciated. My jeans are hanging somewhere around my ballbags.

Tune in tomorrow for my most difficult title yet...

It Means Nothing to Me...

2008-02-16T00:36:00.000-08:00

So today I'm in... Vienna. Home of the beautiful blue Danube, Empress Sisi of Sir Andrew Lloyd-Webber fame and the world's oldest zoo, which was originally used as a hunting ground for the Emperor and his toffee-nosed pals. Nothing like bagging a freezing, half-starved tiger to drape across the black and white marble tiles of one's second bathroom, duckie.

This is the third time I've been here now, the second time in the same hall. It's strange how the memory works- I remember the arguments we had last year with the locals about where we could park our buses, and that the German-language stage-version of Grease was playing across the street. Yet, stumbling off the tourbus this morning, I couldn't recall how to get into the venue and walked almost all the way around the building with freezing fingers and bleary eyes. That said, I did exactly the same thing last year.

We did an outdoor show for TV here last summer, and I took a free day after the break-down to look around, utilising a streetbike 'borrowed' from the local promoters. History stalks you at every turn. Men in powdered wigs attempt to coax you into constantly-looping mini orchestra recitals. Uncle Adolf made his famous Anschluss speech from a balcony just around the corner from our stage, and during the war years Vienna lost it's capital status to Berlin. After the war it was split into four zones for a spell, and became a hotbed for espionage between the Western and Eastern blocs. The opulence of the old empire is overwhelming, the architecture so decadent and pristine that the buildings begin to look fake, and you could fool yourself you'd stumbled onto HBO's backlot. Yes, that's Julie Delpy, sleeping on a mock-up of the Heldenplatz. Don't look at her.

This time around I won't see any of the architecture the city is famous for, save for Schonbrunn Palace, which we'll pass on the 14-hour drive home tonight. We have our own aluminium version of it now, which we will soon be erecting in a European city near you. Which is it's own nightmare (see my December thread for confirmation).

Going back to the tricks the mind plays, it seems I'm in trouble with my girlfriend. I don't remember our first date, at least not in the right order. I do recall, however, that I came back to England for little reason other than to go on it. I've mistaken the location of our first kiss (I move fast, people). I thought I even remembered which table it was on in a particular bar, and now it seems I was miles away. At least around the corner, anyway. As I try desperately to claw my way back into favour without blowing my cool, I've rationalized that I do remember our first date - the excitement, the possiblities, the stolen moments in crowded bars, or singing along together at a free gig - I just don't remember the facts. And who needs facts when you've got nice pictures?

Keep Off The Graz

2008-02-15T03:10:00.000-08:00

I'm trying to make my blog posts more regular, instead of just checking in for a monthly whinge. So, the first of my informative posts on my current location.

Today I'm in Graz, second largest city in Austria. It has some old buildings, some new buildings and is the hometown of everyone's favourite meatbag, The Governator. Technically he was raised in a little village on the outskirts named Thal, but no doubt this is where he came on a Saturday night to goose reporters, ride around on his BigTrak and order executions. It's a good 1100 km drive from Maastricht, and the first night back on the tourbus is always hell, so I didn't sleep too well and I seem to have the sneezies. But my mood is brightened by thoughts of my wonderful Gorgo, who sent me a blue Japanese monkey and a Mr Grumpy handwarmer for Valentine's. I hope yáll had a heartwarming day.

'Tis the season to list stuff

2008-01-25T04:41:00.000-08:00

All the British blogs I like (namely Davey and his cohorts) are putting up lists. Well, there'll be none of that here. Unless I was to list the movies from the previous year which I haven't seen, or the albums I never bought. Don't get me wrong- I want to see No Country for Old Men, 3.10 to Yuma and so forth. But the only film I've seen this year which appears on all of these lists is the Bourne Supremacy. To my shame I saw all 3 of the Bourne movies this year. I pretty much refused to watch anything with Matt Damon from Good Will Hunting onwards, with the exception of his appearances in Kevin Smith movies. The Bourne movies are fantastic, because of the mouthwatering locations, the flawless action sequences (I was a bit bored by the car chase at the end of Ultimatum, but never mind) but mainly the fact that Jason Bourne is, for want of a better description, hard as fuck. But It's not all about how good he looks in a sweaty T-shirt. Hell, I even raised my opinion of Clive Owen after his appearance in the first instalment. So now I just think he's a twat.

300 replaced Gladiator as my guilty pleasure, and Ive even forgiven Mr Butler for P.S. I Love You'. I downright cackled at Hot Fuzz but it was Christmas and I may have been overcompensating. Another film I saw and was greatly impressed by was The Departed. Damo's performance may have even been the cause of my finally relinquishing and watching the Bourne Identity. I also enjoyed the Joe Strummer biopic and *gulp* I am Legend. When I move back to England, I promise to watch more movies.

As far as music goes, I've lifted a few albums from the Canadians I work with- from soundscapey stuff like Apparat, to obvious gear like MIA or Bedouin Soundclash, even Tori Amos-lite like Dresden Dolls - and bought the obvious stuff- QOTSA, Super Furry Animals. I like Era Vulgaris, but then I wasn't as hard on Lullabies to Paralyze (sic) as some. The SFA album is still slowly growing on me, despite the hideous artwork and lack of invention. But mostly Ive been listening to Maximo Park. Their first album, full of angry tales of spurned love/lust and a desire to escape their (I should really be saying 'his') surroundings drew me in, and their second album did not disappoint. I get the feeling I shouldn't like them, and many of my friends continue to tell me so, but there's something about the bargain-basement Baudelaire that keeps me interested, even with that painfully obvious video for Books From Boxes, which I will not be showing below. Plus I spotted Meester Smith in a pub in town and approached him about working for Warp while he was watching the Sunderland game, and found him to be a very nice fella.

Shock of the year for me would be Babyshambles. Despite seeing the Libertines live I never really fell for them until it was all over and Mr Doherty was made the nation's favourite pariah. Like the Libertines, Babyshambles have a very hands-off approach to production, with The Clash's Mick Jones overseeing both Libs' efforts and Babyshambles' debut. Basically they do ten takes and choose the best one- a far cry from the likes of Razorlight or the Kaiser Chiefs, with their loops and synths and general shiteness. There are songs on the debut and on Shotter's Nation which I think will remain favourites for me for years to come, and there are also songs which just remind me of Steptoe & Son. Which is a good thing. I truly hope he can keep his head above water long enough to blow a B-movie actress' face off in his California mansion for touching his favourite bongo.

Surprisingly, I've been reading a lot of books. In my bar manager era, it might take me a year to finish a book, if indeed I bothered at all; I will never finish Mr Nice, even after the boring old get turns up his toes. But now, with all the air and rail travel and sleepless, sober nights, I find myself acquiring another book before I've finished the last. Im dipping into various forms; Russell Brand's autobiography was a welcome Christmas present. Haruki Murakami had been a source of intrigue; a lot of girls seem to read his books, and I wanted to know why, bringing me inches closer to their undie elastic. And of course there are the historical texts on World War 2 which Im constantly swiping from my brother in law, as well his wide range of travelogues and Americana.

So, yeah. Reading is fun, kids. I suppose this blog is far easier to read- and indeed to write- than the usual shoegazing, soul-searching whingebaggery. But don't worry, there'll be more of that next time.

Happy New Bleargh

2008-01-02T10:25:00.000-08:00

New year, new ways to complain about the same stuff. I am at something of a crossroads- to quit or not to quit? Following the Biggest Show in the World ™, I’m not relishing the prospect of the year ahead. I’m just a lazy bastard, no doubt about it. However there are several other factors to consider, which I will outline, in no particular order.

It’s the 2nd of January as I write this, from Cologne, Koln or Keulen, depending on which language I’m speaking. This is ENGLISH, for the uninitiated. We are one show down, another is soon to follow and then we have no shows until the 25th. I’m on a salary though, so rather than whoring myself out freelance or just taking an ill-deserved holiday, I have to hang around the office, looking at cute kittens or douchebags and their latest photographic conquest. I don’t even have to look busy as such, I just have to be there. On the rare occasion I have to ask my superior in the next room anything, I find it’s usually easier by e-mail.

In the past year I have acquired a lovely, gorgeous, expensive, loving girlfriend. In England. She puts up with the fact that I’m somewhat underdeveloped regarding emotions and feelings and communication and other gay stuff. I’ve hatched a fantasy scenario whereby I continue to work for this company for a while, without having to hang around in the dead-time, this way I can get an apartment on the coast with my lovely lady, without the pants-shitting fear of coming back to England with no job. To my addled brain, it makes perfect sense, but my boss may think otherwise…

I’ve never been sure exactly what my job entails, as the contract is all in Dutch. But I do know it changed significantly 3 months in, and I gained a lot more responsibility, due to my boss’ attention being diverted to the aforementioned Big Show. I have a mental list of stuff I definitely have to do on each show-day, and the rest of my time is taken up dealing with whatever situations arise unforeseen. Most problems can be solved with money. I don’t even have to spend it myself; I have a runner to do the dirty work. As long as the figures balance at the end of the day, I don’t have to worry. Now that I have an Excel file worked out, I don’t even bother checking if I balance at the end; I just hand over the receipts and whatever cash I have- there’s no point looking for anymore because I remain honest and it is what it is.

On a recent trip to the offices to hand in paperwork and get more pocket-money, the human resources lady asked me to sign my contract- for the year I’d just worked, not the year to come. I held off on signing a new one, but I’m pretty sure there was no change in job-title and no pay-rise. It’s not the done thing to ask for such a thing, mostly I think because we’re all aware of how replaceable we are. Let’s face it, I was a glorified bartender before I did this, and the other guys on the payroll (hourly, I might add, the lucky bastards) were previously an ice cream man, a baggage handler at the local airport and a cucumber salesman. Considering we now go to the US four times a year and have Japan and Australia on the horizon, it’s little wonder they choose not to rock the boat.

While the company pays 100-plus Euro’s per night on hotel rooms for a dozen Canadian cameramen and sound-techs, I’m paying 500 euro (currently about 370 quid) a month to live in a cellar with no vacuum cleaner and mould in the roof.

OK, I think you get the point; I’m sick of my job and refuse to see the good points. This is a very long-winded way to say it, though. Maybe I should just do the Family Fortunes Test…
So, you can’t decide whether to quit your job? Let’s see…
Are you making a lot of money? Eh-Ehhh!!
Are the prospects good? Eh-Ehhh!!
Oh dear. So you must be having fun, right? Eh-Ehhh!!

I think I just answered the question that costs me what precious sleep I can get while living in an airless room with bars on the windows below a roundabout. Sorry to have taken up your time.

Just Checking In

2007-12-18T07:03:00.000-08:00

What a month. Or rather, a non-month. Flew out of Frankfurt on November 29th, had a pleasant if lonely day in San Francisco. Worked like a Japanese beaver with 6 straight show- days and had a day off in Vegas. i didnt gamble a cent, but visited some of the old casinos, like the MGM Grand, where Elvis made his prolonged comeback. It was awash with Brits there for the Hatton fight, queueing up to buy T-shirts and autographed gloves, then wandering into the street, beer in hand. Shudder. Then another 6 days straight to increasingly shrinking audiences, ending up in Albuquerque playing to 2000 people. We should be thankful, Blue Man Group only managed 1200. For those who dont know (and I certainl didnt) Albuquerque is in New Mexico, and is actually over a mile above sea-level. Denver appears to have grabbed the name 'The Mile High City' and run away with it, much to the chagrin of the locals. Then, Denver is actually a city, rather than a mountain outpost in the middle of nowhere. Ouch.

Our Belgian bus driver didnt have a permit to drive there and so he was arrested at the border checkpoint (apparently there is a border checkpoint) so the Orchestra only made it to the venue 45 minutes before showtime. But the show must go on, and so it did. I didnt have time to catch a nap, unlike everyone else, and we spent another night on the bus before heading to the airport for a flight to Toronto, transferring in Chicago.

Hence, the stage was set for my boss' crowning glory, officially The Biggest Show on Earth(tm).
A year of work, 80 sea containers, 700 tons of steel, 20,000 balloons, 1000 moving lights, 2 ice rinks, 2 fountains, 6 specially-imported Lipizzaner stallions pulling a golden coach, 3 Guinness World Records and no sleep.

But does anyone care?

Post Mortem

2007-11-13T05:19:00.000-08:00

It's been a while... Perhaps this post was spurred on by recent submissions from Davey and Monsterwork. Perhaps Im avoiding work. There must be some to do somewhere...

I was in England last week. I arrived two days after my dad's birthday and left on my sister's birthday. She was out of town anyway, but I left her a couple of presents from my recent trip to Japan.

Im babbling, but I did do some things worthy of posting while there. Er...

I went to the Baltic. There was an exhibit by a South African guy. It was mostly statues of Jesus and Astroboy with wax cocks stuck on.

I went to Blackpool. Yes, Blackpool. In November. The weather of course was terrible and we were the youngest people in the Phoenix Nights hotel, but we had a great time. We checked in just too late to join in the bingo. My lovely girlfriend and I went to see the 'triumphant return' of The Verve. I swear, when I made my first post about the Verve, I had no idea they were reforming. You don't care anyway? Meh. Ive learned not to expect too much from Ashcroft and pals. The first time I saw them was fantastic, marred only by the National Express headache and the fact that we were seated on the balcony and standing was most definitely not tolerated. The next time, at a festival, was pretty painful. They were clearly burned out and probably hated one another. Again.

Ashcroft's solo efforts have never failed to disappoint. I've seen him 3 times, on the principle that I knew it'd be shite, but Id kick myself for not going. On his last tour he'd incorporated his collaborations with UNKLE. There were a lot of pot-bellied builders and weekend millionaires with terrible haircuts, stripey tops and scarves to hide their jowls. But when The Verve reunited as a four-piece, I had to witness it. And at the historic Empress Ballroom, no less. Listing the bands who've played their would be pointless- suffice to say if I like them or youve heard of them, they've played there.

They didnt reinvent the wheel, but they at least gave me what I hoped for, rather than what I expected. Ashcroft loped out in a home-made T-shirt and cardigan. Flanked by his bassist and lead guitarist, it was like peeling pack ten years. Ashcroft had very little banter with the crowd, but at his solo efforts it's been more to justify a song or album which was slated by the critics. Which would be most of them. But his voice spoke for itself. And they even surprised me by playing Man Called Sun. Very few people seemed to have heard it before, making me all the more smug.

If they manage an album I doubt I'll like it too much- I didnt like Urban Hymns too much either. But they did their legacy, and their fans, proud.

What else? I saw my wee 4 month-old niece for the first time since she was about a week old. That was nice. I finally watched Eternal Sunshine... I thought it was great. I also watched 300. I was initially disappointed but have enjoyed it much more on return trips. i may even buy the graphic novel, or read the poem by Homer or Virgil or Doherty. Ahaha. I saw my old flatmate Nibbles and bumped into my exgirlfriend, whom I mistook for her far more likeable twin sister. I bought the new Babyshambles album and the new Super Furry Animals album. Davey and co will not believe which one I like. A lot. I managed to do my job as well at home as I'm doing here in Maastricht. Which isnt saying much, except I had a sound excuse for dodging paperwork. I re-watched band of Brothers. And I puked in my girlfriend's toilet and got bitten by her dog in the park. Sooner him than the rottweiler he was tussling with.

Call of the Scrote

2007-10-26T02:58:00.000-07:00

So, Im back in Maastricht after our little tour of the North-American North-West. We started in tax-haven Portland and finished in nose-bleed inducing Salt Lake City, via Canada. What did I do there, you ask? Well, the same things I always do- stress, drink heavily and eat a lorra lorra beef. I also spent an obscene amount of money on a camera, so at least I have something resembling a photo-document of this trip. I had hoped to do a little photo-journal of each city but I was far too busy, so for now you'll just have to settle for this...

http://s212.photobucket.com/albums/cc195/danclick/?action=view&current=rockies075copy.jpg

Tuning in Tokyo

2007-10-01T05:08:00.000-07:00

Further proof, if needed, that I'm a lucky get. I'm the jail-bait on the left.

I got back from what can only be described as a mini-tour in Tokyo last night. It was 3 shows in the same theatre, so no sleeping on tourbuses or 17 hour days. Basically it was for the benefit of the TV crew which now follows us constantly, and so we could call this a World Tour. Next year we add Australia to the list, which is proving a bitter carrot, as I'd planned to leave by then. But, you know, Australia...

The first night there we got dinner in the 40th-floor tower restaurant, after which I took the metro to Shibuya station. I was fairly underwhelmed by the whole thing, to be honest. Similarly, I've been desperate to get out of Times Square and London's West End when I've visited those places.

So I just took a couple of perfunctory snaps and headed back to get an early-ish night, hoping to get a fresh start in the morning and hook up with a couple of the Canadian crew, who are far better company in new cities.
This is the view I had as I took a leisurely breakfast next morning while waiting to meet up with JF and Phil. We took the metro along the Ginza line to the tourist markets and to look at a big shrine district. It was great, but anything you could buy there, you'd have no trouble picking up in Chinatown, Newcastle. Apart from the sword shop we visited. Shuriken star anyone? You could buy a samurai sword for eight pounds. Eight! or of course, you could spend five grand, your choice.

The highlight was a conveyor sushi-bar we went to for lunch. I've tried the Yo! Sushi thing and it was OK, but effing expensive. At this place, the cheapest plates were 150 yen, which works out as about 60 pence. If I'd never tried it before, I tried it there- tuna head, squid-feet, roe-eggs. We stopped on the way back to wander through the Imperial Gardens.

The Emperor was not at home to visitors.That evening we had an outstanding teppanyaki meal in the garden restaurant and rounded off the night in the cocktail lounge with warm sake. Cue the freakiest nightmares I can remember since those anxiety dreams I used to have at Christmas where my whole world disappeared and I was floating through space on a carpet with only Helen Daniels for company. These dreams were episodic (I woke up a few times with a hot, bubbling stomach) and varied from pratfall comedy to out and out horror. One minute I'm explaining to a hotel guest how we managed to bounce a beer keg onto the bonnet of his Mercedes, the next I'm at a table with three transvestites singing at me. I was afraid to even get up to go to the bathroom for an hour, and didn't go back to sleep after 3.30...

For all the moaning, and my dodging work, when I think that a year ago I was unemployed and hiding out in the countryside at my parents' house, trying to quit drugs and massively reduce my drinking, I can't complain about my current lot. People have said to me before that they always knew I'd end up doing something special, and I'd feel kind of guilty that I was deceiving them. I've always been happy on the path of least resistance. But is this it? Is this that something special? And if it is, why am I trying to sabotage it?

The language barrier is definitely a major factor- in Arnhem, I relied heavily on our catering runner to arrange the things we needed for Production. That guy should basically be doing my job. I had to hide him from my boss. The other thing is the cultural gap, and my murky past/present. For years I've hidden parts of my character from my family, friends, colleagues and girlfriends. Granted, Davey knows me pretty well, as do a few others, but meeting new people, I always have to hide certain aspects of myself. Then again, who doesn't? I've grown too comfortable being on my own, I fear. I find myself avoiding large groups of my colleagues because I just don't feel comfortable with them.

I don't want to wallow. I've posted before about this numbness I feel- was it always here, is it getting worse? I don't know, maybe I've just been reading too much Murakami lately, but I feel my senses and my personality have dulled in the past few years. My music tastes have stagnated, I have no idea about movies in the pipeline. I'm not sure what the last gig I went to was, but it wasn't this year, with the exception of a free festival in Newcastle back in May. Even in Tokyo, I got the feeling that I should be more impressed/excited than I was. I just take things in my stride, then it's over and I post the photographs.

So, another long, meandering post comes to a close. Nice photos though, eh?

It was 63 years ago today...

2007-09-17T07:32:00.000-07:00

Today sees the anniversary of the launch of Operation Market Garden, made famous by Dickie Attenborough and a huge list of celebrities in what Davey coined "A Bridge Too Far... An Hour Too Long". Dodgy accents (Gene Hackman, I'm looking in your direction) aside, it's a faithful account of the single biggest military blunder of World War II. Had the mission gone as planned, it would have opened up the route into Germany and the war would have been over by Christmas, but the Allies were blighted by a shortage of gliders and drop-planes, fog, flooded roads, misplaced supply drops and poor communications (the wrong crystals were packed for the radios, rendering them useless).

I was in Arnhem for a show this week so that added to my regular history obsession. If anyone's offended by the photo.. well... tough. It's the only one I could find with the genuine bridge in it that was a decent size, and the cover art for the film has MGM Classic stamped over it so deal with it.

As you were...

Uneducated Guess

2007-09-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

Aah, the publicity machine. Sometimes you get caught up, sometimes it just rolls right on by. There are certain people and events that slip completely under my radar. I have no time to prepare myself or decide that I hate the person and/or thing before they're right up in my face, screaming for my attention.
So I've decided to post a regular feature on this, my little-viewed blog. I may or may not post this feature every Wednesday. I haven't decided yet. But I'm going to call it, yep, you guessed it, 'Uneducated Guess'.
This week; Sarah Silverman.

Here she is, looking quite sexy and attempting to shove a tin of soup into her sweat pants.
On the strength of the information I've so far gathered (she has a TV show and has done a lot of expensive photoshoots), I'm going to take an uneducated guess and say that she's

East-coast
Jewish
Uber-cool (see above)
Stand-up comic
A lesbian

So, please, fill me in. That is to say, give me information.

Tank You Very Much

2007-08-28T05:22:00.000-07:00

I had a dilemma this weekend. As previously mentioned, my dad was coming across, but not specifically to visit me; rather to attend Tanks in Town, a weekend event to commemorate the liberation of Mons, Belgium in 1944. My wonderful (she might be reading this) girlfriend also suggested coming over that weekend, as it was a Bank Holiday in England. As The Beard would be staying two nights of the four, the good lady and I decided it wouldn't be quite the same. It's not as if I can send Daddy dearest to the West Wing and make sure the butler takes extra-special care of him.

Nevertheless I tidied up (why does the current trend for laminate flooring automatically mean that landlords need not supply a vacuum cleaner? I'm not a great fan of repeatedly pushing a cloud of dead skin and the previous tenants' hair from corner to corner) and prepared for my dad's imminent arrival. Much as I love the military excursions, I've grown to dread them at the same time. The main reason for this being a complete lack of day-to-day planning.

As usual, we've reached that point where I need to inject some back-story. I'll try to keep it brief. As a kid I went to all of the shows with my dad. We even went to Czechoslovakia (it was still called that then) in that 37 mph beast you can see in the previous post. That truck, an AEC Matador, is basically my dad's mistress. In fact it's more like his wife and lifelong friend. At about 13 my interest waned; I got into drugs and avoided my dad as best I could for years. When I had my mid-twenties crisis last year and quit my job, I had a lot more spare time and a renewed interest in WWII history, so I tagged along to the UK's biggest military vehicle gathering in Beltring, Kent. You may have seen it on last night's Panorama, under the innocuous tagline 'Kent: a hotbed for Neo-Nazism?'

It's virtually a family holiday, as last year the members in attendance were my dad, my 10 year-old nephew, his mother and her new husband, my other sister and her fiance and lil'old me. My sister is a tourism manager of some sort. She organises things with a tyrannical precision. Now I'm a man of simple pleasures. But if I'm not fed with alarming regularity, I get tired, ill and irritable. This wasn't a problem, as my sister had cool-boxes, booze up the ying-yang (they went to Calais for the day), even fresh basil hanging from the tail-board of the truck. Having not taken a holiday for about 3 years, it was absolute bliss.

So it was a given that I'd be attending the Arnhem commemoration in mid-September. This of course proved to be a very different affair. We had no plan or itinerary, and my dad had decided to shun the supermarket, as he had picked up some ration packs in Kent. So we basically ate dog-food every night and stopped wherever we could. Don't get me wrong, it was still good fun, and dipping off the motorway to sleep in the heart of a German trench complex was better than paying for a campsite with a bunch of A Bridge Too Far-disciples in replica Para smocks. But the comforts were gone, replaced by a kind of Littlest Hobo bonhomie.

So I was a little edgy about this weekend- at least with the Matador, we definitely have somewhere to sleep- this event was tracked vehicles only, so we would be travelling with a low-loader. Accommodation had not yet been arranged, and was being handled by those masters of organisation, the Dutch Army. I had visions of spending two days half-starved and exhausted, having slept in a rose-bush with a cupful of cabbage and ham turning into an acid-ball in my gut. But, not wishing to put my dad out, I went along.

We unloaded the tanks and headed into Mons, where we would be staying at the Auberge de Jeunesse. Sounds great in French, eh? It means Youth Hostel. However, it was clean, spacious and well-designed and I breathed a sigh of relief. We headed into town for a late dinner (yay!) to be greeted by this...

Yep, I'm a lucky fuck. We had an unnecessary early start the next day but I stocked up at the buffet breakfast and we made our way to the offroad site in the woods where the Saturday event was to take place. It was well-attended and I've never seen so many different tanks out of a museum setting. Of course, the Auberge was fully booked for that night but there were rumblings of accommodation at a sports hall somewhere in the area. For some reason I wasn't holding my breath. As for the food situation; there were two choices- a burger-trailer or a pita-bread trailer. No doubt if anyone has made it this far, they'll be wondering what's going on at Hot Chicks with Douchbags about now so I'll suffice to say that I ate 2 cones of chips and a hot-dog and my dad and I slept on the bare floor of a Dutch Army van. Somewhere in the distance a hobo whistled for his trusty companion. Maybe tomorrow would bring better tidings...
And, I've gotta say, it did. The organisers had planned a 13km route, some on country roads through towns, some through woodland and stubble fields, culminating in a line-up in the square in Mons, shown above. After a taxing woodland section ("Let's Offroad!") we stopped for a hearty roast-pig lunch followed by a 'charge' across the field. As the tank we were travelling in is Dutch Army, the gun is still active and so we led this charge with a blank shot. It was terribly 'Boy's Own' but I have to say I enjoyed it. If I had more knowledge I'd but some video footage here, but you'll have to settle for a photo.

Europeans have a far greater sense of the history of WWII. Every town bears the scars of the conflict in their area. And so they're far more active when it comes the time to commemorate events.However, the event has been irrevocably affected by what I'm coining as Band of Brothers Syndrome. Whilst being a great show, and succeeding in highlighting a part of history which the education system simply skirts around, Band of Brothers has forever changed the face of vintage vehicle gatherings. It's no longer about restoration of vehicles. When I went as a kid, there were always a few fellas who liked to show off their uniform collection, but they carried a degree of knowledge about the different regiments, their badges, flashes and so forth. There were very few young people at the events- young kids like myself mostly, and only a smattering of lads in their late teens or their twenties.

Post Band of Brothers, however, the demographic has changed somewhat. Demand for replica uniforms has grown astronomically. Specifically, of course, 82nd and 101st Airborne uniform. So now, as soon as you pull the handbrake on your vehicle, there is a swarm of uniformed ''G.I's" reaching into their webbing for their digital cameras to take snaps of each other in the driving seat. Every piece of kit, every swatch is now available in repro. You can have an Airborne Officer's dress-uniform tailored in two weeks for about 300 quid, complete with insignia (I dont have a pound sign, sorry). Of course, some people prefer the more elegant German gear. No problem; an SS officer's uniform won't cost you any more.

This is where the main problem arises, I think. Put someone in uniform, and it's not long before they start to believe they belong in it. Yanks hang out by the camp-fire, chewing gum and listening to 'Rum and Coca-Cola' But German re-enactors set up check-points to make sure you have the correct wristband and go on drill practice.This guy even carries a satchel with 'Gen G S Patton' written on it, in case someone hasn't figured it out. Im curious to know what people think about the whole dressing-up thing. I can see the advantages, but at the same time it's a weird concept to me. At an event last year, I saw one guy change into at least 4 different German uniforms. He even had the same dog as Rommel had. The same prick turned up at the Eindhoven torchlight parade with a Union Jack draped around his 1950's sand-coloured VW Beetle. He was in a US Military Police uniform that time, of course. So really the argument that they're bringing history to life is not valid; you could be forgiven for thinking that the 82nd Airborne won the war, given their ubiquitous presence at events.

And if you were on the way to the local shops on a Sunday morning, hungover to hell and keen to get back to watch the Grand Prix, how would you react to this little fella? I reckon I'd accelerate...

The Quiet Man

2007-08-21T03:30:00.001-07:00

This man is coming to visit me in a few days. No doubt he'll turn my bathroom into some kind of tannery.

In a world of mid-life crises and weekend motorcyclists, my dad remains a true man of the woods. Just as the sun will rise in the early maudley, so my dad would turn up filthy at 5 oclock every night and eat his tea whilst watching Neighbours. I used to believe him when he'd come back with a bag full of fish on autumn nights, saying he'd opened the back doors of the van by the riverbank and the fish just jumped in.
I regret the fuzzy contempt I held for him when I was 19 or so (ten freakin years ago!) and working with him as a lumberjack. In my defense I was a terrible pothead- waking up at 5am to drive to Scotland and drag a steel rope up a muddy hill was never going to be easy. Tree-murder is a pretty dangerous job. Nature will bite back at any given opportunity. Despite a catalogue of injuries, he still finds time to get on the European history trail with this, his 1938 Matador, lovingly restored from scrap.
Now aged 67, he's still out there making his own living, and a last year he and his lifelong friend 'Dangerous' Ken built my sister's house. And a damn fine job they did, too.

Easily as hard and as resourceful as Jason Bourne, I'd say. Obviously this is a bit of a mushy post, but I feel my dad deserves some credit, even as I continually let him down. And if you don't like it, I'll set The Beard on you.

I Don't Like Mondays

2007-08-13T03:03:00.000-07:00

I think I'm turning into Garfield. Last week I was wrenched from my holidays in England to oversee the packing of our equipment for the Japan shows next month. After a bit of a lie-in and a fuck-up with the buses, I made it into work at 3pm on Friday, just in time to help my boss unload his hobby WW2 trucks. Then he wished me a nice weekend and pissed off on holiday (to England no less!). I stayed in bed until 2 pm yesterday and didnt even venture outside, opting instead to tidy my flat, which has been left empty for nigh-on six weeks and had been turned into some sort of nerve-center for plotting spiders. Thankfully, they've kept the flies down. It was military weekend on Discovery, so I was as happy as the proverbial pig in poo.

Thing is, I vowed to be more motivated this time. Last time I had a week here I made it into work in the afternoon two days out of five. I swore that this time I wouldn't allow myself to slip into the funk. And yet, here we are again. If I had something definite to do, I would get up for it, but this being here simply for the sake of it is really starting to get on my tits. I actually can't wait to get back on tour, so that I HAVE to get up at 7.30 each day after a maximum of 6 hours' sleep.

The boss is still giving vague orders from his luxury Bournemouth hotel and I actually managed to get here today at 9am. So I was only 2 and a half hours late for the load-out. Nice distribution of information there, chieferoonie. It's no biggie, of course, because the core staff don't need me here anyway; any help I can offer only serves to take hours away from them. Lucky wage-monkeys. And so another day of looking busy, doing nothing.

All Farewells Should Be Sudden

2007-06-27T07:50:00.000-07:00

That's right folks, only a week after my obituary on The Verve, they announce they're getting back together in their original line-up to record a new album. I have mixed feelings about this, obviously.

Of course, I'm relishing the opportunity to see them again, at the Roundhouse this time. And of course, I'll buy the new album.

However, I have fears...

Ashcroft gigs are awash with dad-rock fans- the type who clog the bathrooms at Oasis and Paul Weller gigs
Given 'Mad Richard's self-confessed ego-tripping, there is the strong possibility that the album will come out sounding not unlike one of his solo efforts, only with added mooching guitars courtesy of McCabe. (He is the only member not to appear on Ashcroft's previous solo efforts.)
Most likely they'll try with a couple of producers, maybe Owen Morris and Flood, possibly even someone like James Lavelle, before sacking everyone and producing it themselves, creating a soupy, whining mass.
There is no denying this band find it difficult to work together. No doubt they'll honour the gigs they've already advertised, but if they're already experiencing difficulties and burn-out, the gigs will be a heartbreaking whimper. We're talking a letdown of Stone Roses at Reading proportions. The chances of them staying together past Christmas are slimmer than Ashcroft himself.

So, there you go. They're coming back and that's that. They don't have a record label yet, but that doesn't seem to matter. No doubt the bidding war is currently under way, as it's a guaranteed cash-cow, and the royalties should keep Richard in black jeans and V-neck T-shirts for a good few years to come. Just don't go swiping any obscure Rolling Stones instrumental spin-offs this time, eh lads?

Life Is Not a Rehearsal

2007-06-15T06:25:00.000-07:00

I've read a few blogs where the author is despairing at his (always male, for some reason) indifference to music. Not just new music, as this goes without saying. But also the lack of impact a favourite album has. In our adolescent minds we build the album's creators into God-like figures, and the album becomes an indispensable item. It travels with us on long, hopefully memorable journeys. It wakes us up in the morning, or helps us sleep at night. We convince ourselves that no matter what happens, we'll always love this album; it'll always be there for us.

The album I'm currently mourning is this one

Released in July 1995 amid rumours of serious drug problems fragmenting the band, the album opens with an epic swagger, blasting away the shoegazing elements of their first album, A Storm in Heaven. Title presumably swiped from a pained poet. With A New Decade and This is Music, the band stamp a more muscular, psychedelic sound on their calling card.

This is Music was chosen as the first single in May, with gorgeous artwork by Brian Cannon, also working with everyone's "hmm, sorry, just never got it" pariahs, Oasis. They followed a theme, mainly Ashcroft looking wasted in black and white in front of some crumbling piece of architecture, sometimes holding a sandwich board with slogans such as 'life is not a rehearsal' and 'all farewells should be sudden' .

On Your Own was also chosen as a single, but it's link with So it Goes is so strong that it's difficult to imagine one without the other. With lyrics like "all I want is someone who can fill the hole in the life I know" they offer an insight into the isolation which was clearly helping to destroy the band. The rot clearly set in during the mammoth US tour on which Cannon accompanied them, his lens milking the misery to capture some iconic images...

This feeling of hopelessness is confirmed with the lyrics of Northern Soul 'This is the tale of a Northern soul, looking to find his way back home'....'I wanna see if you know me, I was born in a rented room, my mother didn't get no flowers, Dad didn't approve of me, do you?' It goes on like this.

'Drive You Home' is an achingly mournful comedown-song, with lead guitarist Nick McCabe switching seamlessly from the swirling riffs of 'Soul' to the smacked-out reverb on 'Home'.

'History' follows, with it's heavy strings and extrapolated (let's just say swiped) lyrics from Blake's 'London'- 'I wander lonely streets, beside where the old Thames does flow, and in every face I meet, reminds me of what I've run from'. The rest of the album continues in this way, each song linked to the last in the same way that to hear a track from 'BloodSugarSexMagick' in a compilation or on shuffle is... just not right. 'No Knock on my Door' tells the tale of lost virginity and devotion, and Ashcroft sounds as if he's drunkenly singing through bitter tears until he's drowned by McCabe's heavy guitar. The remaining tracks are like the calm period after sex, or sunrise after a heavy night, reminiscent of their earlier stoned grooves but with a new-found power driving the melody and the incantatory lyrics.

By the time 'History' was released as a single in September, it was all over. On August 5th, at T in the Park, Ashcroft announced that the band would not be playing together again. The even-handed reporter at the Strathclyde Telegraph had this to say- "Hands up who likes The Verve? What's that, three, maybe five. To be honest, The Verve are the most overrated thing since Christianity. Both are based on men with long straggly hair and both will never come back"

Fair-do's Jocko. But I wont burn my bible just yet, as The Verve were resurrected, with the rapturously received Urban Hymns.

June 1997 saw the release of Bittersweet Symphony, a video which probably helped to get me laid, and still continues to do so. It was kept off the number one spot in Britain by... I forget. In the coming months they rode a wave of critical acclaim, and actually looked happy to be together. Ironically, former Stones manager Allen Klein took ALL royalties as they had lifted a loop from an instrumental version of 'The Last Time' by the Stones, reworked by Andrew Loog Oldham. He then sold the rights to Nike, further enraging Ashcroft. Any profits they took from this deal were donated to charity. Still, the lads got their cereal bills covered when The Drugs Don't Work went straight to number one. By now Urban Hymns had sold 1.5 million copies- one in 30 Brits owned it.

In February '98, my sister entered me into a Big Issue competition for a benefit gig and I went to Brixton Academy on the National Express. Across London, the rest of the music scene powdered it's nose at the Brit Awards. It still stands as the greatest gig Ive ever been to. From the moment Ashcroft walked onstage and shimmied on his little Persian rug, the audience was rapt. The band powered through the set, clearly relishing the opportunity to play their much practised, never unleashed Northern Soul material. 'Come On' was turned into a glorious, almost Nazi-esque stomp.

6 months later, at the V festival, the old rot was back in attendance. Ashcroft was still jubilant, but the sincerity had gone. Before long, the inevitable came. Rumours about Mccabe's mental health were played down by Ashcroft, citing a new-born daughter. McCabe was more honest about the break-up of the band. "It's my fault. I have mental problems".

This blog hasn't ended up as I envisaged it, but what's new? I was lamenting the loss of a treasured memory in my life, but by writing this I realise how much I still love the album, and at the moment I want nothing more than to go home, listen to it and have a good cry. OK, maybe not the crying bit.

I've persisted in seeing Ashcroft live, but resisted buying the albums, except the latest, Keys to the World. Try as I might, I can't convince even myself that it's better than average, so I won't push it on you. He may be a total narcissist, but when the imagery is this good, sometimes you just have to go with it...

It shouldn't happen to a production manager

2007-06-12T06:57:00.000-07:00

I've been on a downer lately. The worst thing is not being able to put your finger on why exactly. But June is turning out to be alright. It started pretty badly; I had planned a trip to Norway with my dad and my nephew to geek out about World War II bunkers, German submarine pens, and generally take in some breathtaking, never-before-seen sights. But my boss put the ky-bosh on that by insisting I was back in Holland. Fair play, I suppose, as we have a number of outdoor shows to plan, and they're all squeezed into a ridiculously short amount of time so that the kids, sorry... the orchestra, can enjoy their six-week summer holiday. I was also facing the prospect of finding an apartment and paying a small fortune for the privilege.

Amazingly I managed to do so on my first day back from a ridiculously short trip home where I saw no-one. My family weren't even there, they were mostly in Norway eating disgusting pickled fish and looking at 'Kraut-crete' bunkers. My apartment has it's drawbacks, of course, but after months on the road, broken up by days off spent on the tourbus, it's great to be able to cook myself a meal, watch a subtitled episode of South Park and sleep in an unmade bed, safe in the knowledge I wont be awoken by a border-hopping trolley-pusher. Do they throw out my socks or are they stealing them? I can't figure it out.

However, this new found comfort did not solve the problem that I thought was giving me most trouble; avoiding work. Before even leaving the States I was seething about being forced to move to a foreign country when I could just as easily do my job from my sister's home office. With a fantastic view of the Simonside hills and Yop in the fridge to boot.

But, as Im on salary, I suppose I have to be here. The first few days I really struggled to get out of bed before noon. As if to prove a point I only ventured to the studio or the admin offices every other day, mainly to start and then abandon a blog or check my soul-sapping myspace account.

I began to wonder what the cause of this lethargy could be. I was basically willing my boss to fire me. In my defence, I've been to the US twice in two months, which entails suicide-watch long-haul flight, working 6 17-hour days back to back, one day off holed up in a hotel trying to find replacement bus-drivers who know how to lie to border-guards, another 6 days on, followed by a murderous longhaul flight.

I worried I'd developed ME, or narcolepsy or similar and was destined to feel drained and frumpy for the rest of my days. Then like, trudging down the pavement in a thunderstorm and spotting a 50-pound note in a puddle, something presented itself that changed my outlook.

This is Chewie. No, I'm not in love with a pygmy goat. But she, and her unborn kid, possibly owe me their lives. I was walking back through the park when I saw this adorable specimen sneezing frantically in her enclosure. Being a bit of a soft get I poked my fingers through the fence to tickle her nose. She was struggling to swallow something yellow, and it was making a noise similar to rubbing two pool-balls together. Most unnerving. Try as she might, she couldn't sneeze out the offending item. Nearby children were getting upset. Or reaching for their mobile phones to film the death of a goat. Not wanting to see this through to its grim conclusion I grabbed her little horns so she couldn't pull away and hooked a finger into her mouth to pull out the offending item. She tried to escape and bite my fingers but she was no match for me. With a sloosh of goat-saliva, out popped the implement of death; a wedge of yellow-skinned apple. I released my grip on her horns and, unperturbed, she bent down and picked up the wedge of apple again, this time chewing it a bit more slowly. Young mothers obviously took me for some kind of goat-torturer.

But, I know I did the right thing. Now everytime I walk through the park I take some fruit, veg or bread with me, all torn into manageable pygmy-sized chunks. I have a purpose, and it's to make sure Chewie doesn't choke.

Next week; more middling antics as I find a fallow deer trapped in a cattle-grid.

Housebound

2007-06-04T07:04:00.000-07:00

A change has come about. Don't get excited, I'm still whining about stuff no-one cares about. But I have made a decisive step. Before I started this job I had just taken 3 months off to 'find myself', for want of a better expression. I had quit a job of 4 years where I'd managed to go up the social ladder and down the pay-scale. The transition from light-fingered bartender to nattily-dressed manager on a salary is not an easy one. But it makes you infinitely more attractive to the waitresses. So if you're reading this and your girlfriend ever worked at my bar, I've probably rubbed your rhubarb. wha-wha.

Anyhoo, when I left that job, a paranoid, tired mess, I became a bar-slag; flitting from poncey cocktail bar to drug-dive with ease. But I was never happy at any of them. Posh hotels, strip-clubs, 'the place to be (on coke)', none of them held my interest. So I quit, left the city, bummed around. It was great. I even hired myself and my motorbike to a film crew and got a dodgy Hitler-do.

Then just as my money ran out I fell into this touring job. I didn't see the point in renting an apartment, as looking at my schedule I would only be there 20 days out of the next 90 or so, and then I'd be going to America. Rather than pay for a hotel I opted to stay on one of the tourbuses during the days off, showering in the storage shed. I could go to the supermarket for a few micro-meals and drink the gallons of beer and wine left on the bus from the previous tour. Perfect, no? Well, obviously not. As a result my days off were miserable, lonely affairs. I trudged the streets for hours, trying to resist the coffeeshops. It didnt last long. What to do when you're on your own in a foreign country with a fridge-full of beer and 200 movies stored on the bus hard-drive?

As the tour schedule eased off, I started rushing back to England and working from there. Almost all communication in this company is done by email- literally across the same office sometimes. At the moment we have very little to do- a TV special and two outdoor shows, then nothing until we go to Japan in September. So I envisaged a long, easy summer.

Alas, Im on a salary, so my boss insists I'm here. I cancelled a trip to Norway last week so I could make it back for the TV-special. I was there to help throw out leftover food and load the truck at the end of the night, that's all.

So Ive been forced to rent an apartment here for the summer. Bye-bye lazy 10-week holiday; bye-bye expensive camera; hello dingy basement apartment; hello spiralling weed habit. It's nice to have a place of my own though, even if it has virtually cleared me out of everything Ive been hoarding Silas Marner-style for the past 4 months. Ive always shared until now, whereas this is entirely my own place.

Scenes From a Mall

2007-05-19T07:07:00.000-07:00

I had a day off in Pittsburgh the other day. I had the usual stresses of being woken up far too early to make sure all my little children got safely into their rooms and got their breakfast. The guy on the front desk didnt have keys for two of the orchestra girls, and so flatly lied to my face saying he'd already issued them. I replied; "They're alseep on my bus, dude, I just saw them." Their room wasn't ready, wouldn't be for another 6 hours. I don't want to go on another rant, so suffice to say hotels in America are a nightmare. They have so many staff that it's impossible to ensure your request will be processed. You literally have to call them every day for a week before you arrive. And they still fuck it up. This was no exception, but THIS IS NOT A RANT. So I'll stop now. Wankers.

There. I usually feel really bad about ruining everyone's day off because of aforementioned shambolic hotel system, so I often sneak out and spend the day on my own, taking in the sights and getting photographs. At some point in the evening the Wolfman takes over and I somehow manage to pull. God Bless America. And girls who drink way too much Guinness.

This day off was different. I agreed to go to the mall with Lars, one of the chefs. Yes, I've been critical of malls in the past. Repeatedly. But this is no ordinary mall.

For those who don't know (I didn't) this is the mall where George A Romero filmed Dawn of the Dead. In 1978, possibly while I was being born, they were making this seminal movie in the middle of the night. The store-owners would just hand over the keys to Romero and some guy named Taso and let them do what they wanted, provided they paid for any damages. Which, considering the mess they made, accounted for most of the $1.5 million budget.

I'm not a huge horror fan. At 13 I stayed at a friend's and watched Nightmare on Elm St 3 and it shit me up big-style. I actually started saying prayers again for a few months until it became a chore and I decided to take my chances. After that I was afraid to watch horrors at all for for years. The next one I watched was Scream, and I remember being terrified at the beginning, just from knowing it was also made by Wes Craven.

Zombie movies freaked me out as a kid- all the groaning and dead eyes (a bit like that Bowie bird from Brighton Beach, eh Davey? hoho) so If I hadnt been a fan of Spaced, I doubt I would have ever even watched Shaun of the Dead. But a zombie movie isnt really a horror is it? More of a gruesome action movie.

Hmm, I'm rambling, so I'll wrap up. Comedy cured me of my fear of horror films. A horror film cured me of my fear of malls... If this cycle continues, what can the mall cure me of I wonder? I was trying to look like a lothario-zombie here. instead I look like Ed Norton in The Score. OK, bye-bye.

Wake up, Brain. Final warning...

2007-05-15T09:58:00.000-07:00

I'm struggling to come up with anything to put in this space at the moment. I started something, looked for pictures, everything (not unlike Davey, but I figured rather than leave him a comment I could post it here- the photo above is from an abandoned piece I had started about the decline of Ashcroft). But looking back at it, it's just a futile rant. Something I'm trying to move away from as a waste of energy and an unattractive trait. Emphasis on the latter, obviously, as I'm a total narcissist.

I've been trying to rationalise this brainfreeze. I've noticed in the past couple of years a distinct lack of joy in doing anything. I lost interest in my job, then all jobs. I even lost interest in meaningless night-time encounters and, most alarmingly, drinking and recreational drugs. They did make work marginally more interesting for a while, though. Quite a while, in fact.

I'm not depressed, just a bit... muted. Unless I'm really drunk - like, Davey drunk - you can't tell I'm over the edge, even if I feel twatted. And I looked a bit stoned for about seven years, so I suppose it's hard to tell what's going on behind the veneer. I'm not drunk, high, happy, sad. I'm just Dan. The bitter cynic who never has a bad word for anyone. Im not looking for sympathy; I think everyone feels like this. Which is probably the worst thing about it.

Plus of course, I'm pretty new to my job, and the only Englishman here. The French-Canadians have their 'tabernac' and the Dutch have, er, moaning about everything. That would be a sweeping generalisation, but I mean the Dutch crew not the entire race. They have a 'been there, done that, where's the shopping mall?' approach to being on tour and having everything paid for. At least for the Canadians, it's mostly new. They walk around, do the tourist thing. Drink, have fun, don't worry about buying a round of drinks...

The crew like me, I'm pretty sure, but they know nothing about me. I'm not big on anecdotes and I have to avoid the politics of work. The moment I take a side, I'll find myself alone; ratted out and deserted. And all the time, my English phone is less and less active, if increasingly expensive. My old friends are edging away from me. I don't know them anymore. And my new friends are dicks.

Still, i keep telling myself it's a means to an end. If anyone can point me towards the finish line, I'll be on my way.

I don't like to end on a down-note, so here's some of my trademark self-deprecating wit, stolen from someone else.

Pulling in America

2007-03-21T09:44:00.000-07:00

I'm going back to America soon. I hope to provide some tips for other visitors. We'll start with meeting the opposite sex.

The most basic method is as follows:

1: Go to a bar

2: Look British

3: Eat some nose

Woe, woe, woe, Sweet Child o’Mine

2007-03-21T09:36:00.000-07:00

I’m in Rouen today. It’s near Normandy. So Im obsessing over D-Day, as has been par for the course in the last 6 months. I curse the day I borrowed that Band Of Brothers box-set.

I’m also in the shallow depths of a kind of … apathy. It’s not depression. Or misery. Just a kind of “OK, I’m bored of this now, I want to go back to England and drink brandy and ginger with my lunch again.’’

I shouldn’t complain. I’m very lucky to be in employment at all. This is, for some people, a dream-job. But a dream-job should be unattainable. If it’s attainable it’s just a job. That’s why rock-stars are so miserable and difficult. Apart from Dave Grohl of course, he seems lovely.

Maybe I’ve just got a cob-on because I should have had a day off in Lille the other day, but I ended up in Maastricht huffing cases around in a fucking sleet-storm, sleeping on a bus. My only respite was being called from crowded bars in Lille by various crew-members who wanted me to change their departure time in the morning.

The driver’s right fucking there next to you, chatting up a fifteen-year-old in a gold alice-band. You ask him.

There’s also the lurking feeling that I could get fired at any moment. I narrowly avoided it after the Blackout in Berlintm and it seems I’m getting closer by the day. The last guy’s only crime was lasting so long he required a permanent contract. Eep. That said, he could have been on the rob. I’ll never know.

Perhaps I deserve it of course. I’ve spent most of this morning trying to download a picture of Moomintroll. For a currently unknown purpose.

Still, if I got the boot, I know I’d be, for want of a better word that isn’t ‘devastated’, gutted. I’d probably cry a little bit. Then I’d be back in England, wondering what I could possibly do that I won’t be bored of in a month. The obvious answer is, of course, nothing. Work is for chumps. I read a bit of Monsterwork’s stellar blog where he said he was broody. I’m sure I’ll change my mind tomorrow but it occurred to me earlier that men want kids so that they have something to force them to work full-time. Otherwise you’d just shit on the boss’s laptop, kick the shit out of the snack-machine and go home to play Halo ’til the pub opened.

Sigh… Sorry, I shall endeavour to have a more upbeat entry next time. Or at least one with some purpose and a nice photograph.

I go to the States in two weeks. The work is the same of course, but it’s just so much easier to pull.

No, it's still not ringing any bells

2007-03-09T02:42:00.000-08:00

I was so wasted the other night I don't even remember mugging Jesus and nicking his bird. I think he got Papa Shango up there to put a voodoo hex on me.

Hitler's Playground

2007-03-05T05:14:00.000-08:00

After the Berlin fiasco, we went on to Nuremberg. I dread off-days, as the crew come up to me at least two days before demanding to know where the hotel is and what time we can check in. They are invariably dissatisfied. That coupled with my fragile state and near-sacking had been weighing heavily on my mind so I wasnt too happy when I rolled out of the bus to see it was 7.22 am and the check-in for 9 was not guaranteed. But it was already looking like a sunny day and I spotted my hotel-key in the bus lounge. Miracles do happen, kinder.
I skipped breakfast in favour of more sleep and forced myself up at 11 after a bit of TV. There's nothing like Al Jazeera to get you up and about.
Armed with my camera and PLO scarf I headed into the old town. It is such a joy just to be out in the sunshine after spending 16hours a day in ice-hockey arenas almost every day since Christmas. The old-town is a walled mini-city with a river running through it and a bank leading up to a castle dating from the 1200s or so. A bit like Durham but every other person isn't wearing a pashmeena and Ugg boots.

Hitler's Collosseum effort is clearly visible from the castle and so I headed back into town to get the tram there.

I spent the next two hours with what looked like a giant lollipop stuck to the side of my head, basically rehashing GCSE history, but with crowd effects and bigger photos. A lot of the plans were abandoned when it occurred to old Adolf that the rest of the world was getting a bit ratty about his persecution/slave labour/invasion of neighbouring countries. It's not like a museum in France or Holland where they stil have relics, as virtually all evidence was obviously cleared away, or hidden behind new brick-work on old SS-men's chimney-stacks. The comparisons between Hitler's Germany and Bush's America are a little disconcerting. The Reichstag fire, anyone?

Speer's architecture was pretty impressive. We went to the Zeppelin Field where they famously opened the Olympics and held the drive-past rallies. We marked the occasion with beers and cheesy photos.

The weird thing is, the US Army held their victory parade on the same ground, and as the closer, exploded the swastika on top of the building. I could picture the music - dan dah-dah-dah-dun-dah, KABOOM!!

Blackout in Berlin

2007-03-05T04:47:00.000-08:00

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Probably. We did two sell-out shows in Berlin. And they sensibly put a party in between the two shows, rather than after the second. I was already shattered and starting to succumb to the orchestra-AIDS which is ripping through the group but I didn't want to look anti-social. Plus Laura the Chilean soloist had earmarked me as her dancing partner.
We'd finish at around 11.30, a half-hour drive to the hotel, ten minutes to check in then a half-hour drive back. The club is an old Burlesque place called the Winterhalle so I was looking forward to Liza Minelli-alikes sashaying up and down the bar hitting people with a cane.
I didnt relish the prospect of commencing libations at 12.30 so I hit upon a masterstroke- drink as much beer on the bus as possible, therefore being tipsy when i got there, dancing and flirting for two hours then going back to my suite (the only perk of booking the rooms) to "close the curtains'' (see previous blog) and awake early to explore the old East Germany before work at 12.30.
I also had some free drinks tickets for the hotel and surmised it would be wrong not to wring as much out of them as possible.
So I was pretty trashed when I arrived, black shirt half unbuttoned, and was quickly accosted by said Chilean for some salsa dancing. She gave me her badly-made Caiprinha which had the texture of broken glass. This happened four or five times.
Then I had a bitof a boogie with Dawn from the Gospels, another reason for me to be nervous. We've been on dates in Maastricht but she broke the news to me that, although rocky, she has a boyfriend in New York. Presumably who weighs 18-stone and wouldn't think twice about poppin a cap in a honky's ass.
So I babbled some incoherent 'I'm not avoiding you, I just feel a little nervous because I really like you and I wish something could happen between and I'd like to wear your ass as a hat for all eternity' She looked suitably bemused.
Then I opted to stick with my pal Tim, who told Laura that I'd slept with one of the other Gospels on a previous bender. It was better that sleeping on the bus anyway so I figured what the hell?
Then someone put a wreath of flowers on my head and the rest, as they say, is black.
I woke butt naked up in my suite at 11am with no recollection of leaving the club or anything afterwards. I was actually afraid to turn over inc ase there was a burly hell's angel there. Amazingly I had my camera and everything else with me, and no visible signs of vomitus.
It was check-out time so I retreated to the bus and tried to sleep, but just lay there for 3 hours, my mouth watering.
My boss doesn't drink. Never has. Not even coffee. He was hella pissed at me.
So as well as that awful feeling of not knowing what I'd done and to whom, there was the very real possibility of being fired. The boss would barely look me in the eye.
Every crew-member I passed would smirk upon sight and make the usual standard wisecracks so I felt it necessary to apologise to every female orchestra-member I may have come into contact with.
At the end of the night Pierre announced he'd be gone for a week and I was in charge in his absence. Which I guess is why I wasn't fired on the spot.
So now I have a week to straighten up, fly right and hope nothing bad happens so I can worm my way back into favour.
On the plus-side though, it's probably made me closer to the other crew-members. Apparently I was 'funny-drunk', not swearing or smashing things. Richard the light-guy had seen me in the lobby at about 7am, trying to get another drink with the aforementioned wreath of flowers still on my head.
I think Dawn, a non-drinker, was a bit shocked at my state though. So that's probably the end of that one. Now I have to convince Laura that I didn't sleep with the other Gospelleria if I'm ever to get into that bodice.
Sigh...

City of Broken Dreams

2007-02-14T03:48:00.000-08:00

Corn-ball title, I know. But it's Valentine's Day and i can be as schmaltzy as i want. Fear not, this isn't a rant from a dateless wonder. Well, it is, but it's not about Love Day.
Im in Munich today, and we're in the Olympia Halle. I was impressed with the architecture as soon as I stumbled off the bus into the somewhat milder chill of the morning, but it didn't really sink in as to where I was for a while. Usually I see the same posters at every venue we play - we were one day ahead of Shakira for a while, Roger Whittaker is never far behind us, and so forth. But I noticed some different ones today- Wrestlemania, Meatloaf, Manowar, Beyonce, even Snoop and P Diddy. Or Grandmaster Chocopop or whatever he's calling himself this week. Then light dawned on Marble Head. Olympic Park. This is where it all 'went down' in 1972.

If you've seen One Day In September you can skip this paragraph.
Brief, probably highly inaccurate history lesson; Germany getting the '72 Olympics was a big deal. After the Jesse Owen thing, and all the bad press the Germans had, they were looking to make some much needed revenue to restabilise their economy and also to change their image as fascist bastards.
So they got into the Olympics in a big way. Using a man-made hill (rubble from Bomber Harris' visit in the war), they created a beautiful, ultra-modern Olympic Village. They kept security at a minimum to boost the friendly image they were hankering for.

Then of course, it all went tits when a Palestinian group calling themselves Black September invaded the village, killing two Israeli competitors and holding 11 others hostage. Thus began the world's first televised terrorist crisis, which unfolded as athletes just outside the Israeli buildings did push-ups and chatted up fans.

So unfolded a real-life drama with a bizarre character in a Panama hat at the centre, and one of the stupidest moves by Security Forces since Mussolini's bodyguard said"It's OK Duce, they seem a bit pissed off but Im sure if you go out there and talk to them in that arrogant style of yours, you'll win them over again"
They attempted an SAS-style embassy siege but forgot to tell the TV crews to switch off their cameras, and the Terror-types watched as they approached and duly repelled them. Then there was a bizarre race to the airport where German police shot each other in a crossfire. The hostages were bundled onto a helicopter which was promptly blown up. Some American Newscaster wrapped it up with "They're all gone"...He may then have said "drink Coca Cola for a happy Olympics."

Walking around the Olympic Park, as joggers and school-kids passed by, I had a real sense of sadness. It's still well-maintained and in use, but the majestic architecture and beautiful landscaping can't mask the ugliness of what happened here. The Germans had their dream hijacked for a political cause most of them probably had little idea about.

Now, I'm a cynical bastard. I'd be happier if England didn't qualify for the European or World Cup. I cringe every time they scrape a win against a side they should, by rights, walk all over. You won't catch me wearing a cut-out Wayne Rooney mask from the Scum or flying the "Im a casual racist" flag from my car window. It's not that I'm unpatriotic as such, but a pessimist is never disappointed. Even I get emotional when they trot out that slo-mo montage to a piece of classical music, or Embrace or fucking whatever. Only last time they didn't even have any highlights to show us. Just Owen falling over and Wayne-y looking all frustrated. Oh, and Lampard missing everything.

I've gotten off the point somewhat here, but I wasn't happy when 'we' got the Olympics either. It seems to me to be a huge waste of tax-payers' money, and the only sectors of the economy to benefit are global brands, chain-hotels and airline companies. At least there's no fervent patriotism involved though. If Great Britain get a medal it's a bonus, and maybe a rower can get a book-deal out of it. Big whoop. Is Seb Coe going to be knocking on doors explaining to people why they have to leave the home they've lived in for 40 years to make way for a bike-track?

Im straying off the point again. I haven't seen Munich. I watched Minority Report and thought, "oh-oh, Spielberg's going through his Jewish menopause and continuing to force it upon us. Nice cast but it's a thank-you, no.' Meanwhile everyone who saw Eric Bana in Hulk rushed to see it and came out going, "That was fucking pointless and depressing. Isn't the world an awful place." Which, I assume, was the point.

The point. How elusive. What was it, you're asking. I dunno anymore, but I wanted to write something down about being here. I can't help but wonder what lessons the powers that be will take regarding security at the London Olympics. But suffice to say it'll be a nightmare. I live nowhere near it and it's 5 years away. But I'm worrying already. I hope Seb Coe has a good supply of Grecian 2012.

A funny thing happened on the way to Oberhausen

2007-02-13T08:15:00.000-08:00

Potentially fatal situations are always hirarious if no-one is seriously hurt. Right?
We just did 7 straight shows in a row. Our driver is a crotchety get at the best of times but my boss has just banned smoking on the bus, so this fucker is driving extra fast to make up for the time lost while he takes smoke-breaks or the dog stops to do his curly business. It's like trying to sleep in a rock-tumbler.
The hall in Munster was too small for our production so we were late getting out and the next show was a 6pm start so we had to get up extra early.
So i only skulled one beer instead of the usual 2 beers/2 toasties and went to bed, relishing my five hours of sleep. I passed out pretty much straight away but I was awoken by screaming.

When you're tired as hell on a pitch-black tourbus, on the top bunk, the fight-or-flight theory doesn't really come into play.
My immediate though was 'shit! gypsies!' but I was too tired to peep out of my curtains so I just turned up my i-pod and waited for the yelling to stop. If it was pre-ordained that I die at the hands of some Romanian skull-fucker who sold his sister to a Japanese businessman, then so be it.

Obviously though, I'm still here. Turns out one of the bunk-beds had inexplicably collapsed onto our security guy in the bunk below. Of the 8 passengers on the bus, 3 slept through it, including the girl in the offending bed. If it had been the other way around, and the guard had been above the wardrobe girl, this would be less a blog, more an epitaph.

Instead it's a barely amusing anecdote which stands out as memorable solely because the rest of the work is SO DULL.

Don't bother Davey, you know this story...

2007-02-13T04:49:00.000-08:00

Ah, good old Davey, he's talked me up some so now I have to make an effort. Which involves me swiping one of my old posts to make my life look more interesting. You see not much happens on tour. We run out of things, we encounter problems, but first and foremost, people just moan because that's what people do. Especially where hotels are involved. So when my room phone woke me from a fitful slumber, I wasn’t surprised. Maybe someone’s yolk was too runny or they couldn’t switch on the TV or something.

But no, I was asked by the nervous German receptionist to come downstairs right away as the Polizei wanted to speak to me about a report made by members of the public…

10 blurry minutes later Im shaking hands with 2 leather-clad dykey Polizei, attempting to decipher what’s ‘gone down’.

Turns out one of our Canadian guys had checked in, stripped naked and treated 30 or so elderly ladies working in the call centre opposite his window to a rendition of ‘If I was a rich man’ on the pink oboe.

We all shared a bit of nervous laughter about it, but jacking off in front of a bunch of old ladies is not cool. We had to do some Pink Panther-style investigation, me in a knee-length coat and the dykes banging on the potential flasher’s door and shouting ‘Open ze door, Polizei!’ This of course brought several other semi-naked crew members and civilians into the corridor for a look-see.

It was then confirmed by the aforementioned old ladies, as I’d suspected, that we had the wrong room. I tripped over the suitcase, Clouseau style and we went to interrogate the real suspect.

Being a French-Canadian, this led to many comical misunderstandings and wild gesticulation. But he’d done enough of that already and he was carted away by the swine. They kept him at the station for about 6 hours then when he returned I handed him his tickets for Dortmund-Frankfurt, Frankfurt-Zurich and Zurich-Montreal. Then I went to wash my hands.

I thought I’d seen everything, but watching on as two German dykes stand over a terrified, topless Quebecan and ask ‘did you or did you not stroke your pennis (sic) to the window?” was a new one to me.

So, not every day is the same.

Up yours, myspice, you smell and I'm moving out

2007-02-08T05:02:00.001-08:00

So begins a new chapter in history. Personal history of course. I tried to do this a couple of weeks ago but it was all in German and I'm limited to asking for new electrical tape in a loud voice.
I had a go at blogging on Myspace but no fucker reads it, presumably because it's not a questionnaire crafted by a social retard in Crested Butte, Ohio who wants to find out if you're into cornholing. Or potholing, I wasn't paying attention.
So hopefully vicariously Davey's intelligent new pals will read my forthcoming blogs and say (to themselves, obviously) "between the trite rants and the defeatist attitude, this guy's alright. I suppose." Plus maybe I can put pictures onto it. I really don't have the computer-smarts to make this sort of thing eye-catching.
hrumph. Still, I'm in Bremen today and the video-shop didn't lie to me; it's full of muppets.