Just Checking In

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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.