Good morning fam. Today I am deeply disturbed - I was woken at 11 by my merry tour manager Dan amidst a quite awful nightmare. A lot happened, but I suppose the main bit was when, idling at the side of a London street waiting for a friend, I was quite suddenly and violently accosted by a stinking, puss-seeping bum, who on closer inspection turned out to be Paul Simmenon from The Clash. Dude got right up in my face, hissing about some wrong I'd done him... Then he stabbed me. Just like that - snikt! A long, thin blade sunk into my side, easy as the knife through butter. And lo, it did seem that I would die. I fell to the ground, a thick, waxy, yellow-tinged blood forming about the wound. But somebody came to my rescue. You know who? Druze, my old friend and Crack Village bandmate.
Jeres says I got the Excorsist room.
Last night then: we were put on about 40 minutes before the place closed. There were no monitors. The soundman was lovely but the sound was awful. But we were pritty dope! And it was ace to meet lots of you lot, although I must appologise for the brevity of some of the encounters. And we sold 4 T shirts! Rah!
Anyway. That was then. We have left our strange old hotel, with its fine showers and terrible lifts and haunted excorsist room, and so too Glasgow. We are crossing country, somewhwre in the Lake District. Middlesbrough awaits!