The Sound of Blood

Cardiff, then. What a thugged out place! Following the gig, which was entirely rumbustious and enjoyable, and starred a crystal larynxed Bravecaptain, and a HARDCORE Zanbrinsky, alongside the ever-amazing Akira The Don and The Women, Jeres and I checked into our single room with a double bed, and decided we needed another drink. Picking our way between the bodies of the fallen, the trash of the drunk, the coppers, the ambulances, Jeres' incredible instinct lead us to a flight of stairs, that lead in turn up to a nicely decked out, thoroughly Lynchian dining place. It transpired one had to buy food if one wished to drink, but it was three thirty am, and we are not rich either. "Please!" pleaded Jeres of the lady behind the bar. "Have you been outside? You can't make us go back out there! All we want is a drink. Help us!"

The lady sold us a bottle of red wine for eleven pounds, and we drank it, over serious conversation.

I don't know if I mentioned that Jeres has found an amazing lady, but it appears he has, and I am over the moon for him. I don't remember seeing him so happy. But it was to be expected. When Jeres is with lady, I am not, and vice versa, is the rule, and now that the thing I think most awesome in all of Christendom has flown away in an aeroplane, it is only right that Jeres should be going for champagne picnics in the afternoons and sweetly giggling to himself like a child over happy memories of the night just past, or whatever. As it goes, this incredible woman that has filled the boy Jeres with such joy is to leave the country in three weeks, which is when I am supposed to be linking the PPF in New York. But maybe the PPF will tire of me, my unusual life and line of work, and find a nice Yankee barman, and the Jeres Joy Bringer will decide that New Zealand is no substitute for a merry drunken Cornshman, and decide to stay.

Maybe. But I think we both deserve happiness, so I would like this ugly rule vanish, like so much second hand smoke. Or maybe I deserve nothing but a slap about the chops and a big dose of lung cancer. We shall see.

Last night was an even crazier gig than Monday's. It was in fact the craziest gig ever. The line I talked about crossing was a perceived line in the minds of others, and related to the shocking way in which one is seen when one is stood on a load of wood making a noise, and many respond in kind. And I was still kind of weirded out from it this afternoon. It was awesome. Martin's last gig, for the now, and Jeres' happiest. JERES WAS SO HAPPY LAST NIGHT! And it filled my heart with joy to see.

But the after of a gig of that nature is a weird thing indeed. You go from it being all hot and bright and adrenaliney and people going RAH YOU RULE at you to being sat in a cab with a big keyboard and its stand and a bag of wires and a laptop and a wet vest, that you must lug up three flights of stairs into your mess of a one bedroom flat, and you fall onto your bed with a cacophonous ringing in your ears, and you wonder what films they're showing on airplanes these days.

Today I did a remix of a song by Madison, who has started rapping now, and is far too good at it. After that I made a song about standing on wood. Now I lie in the dark with a sick feeling in my belly waiting for the dawn to come, listening to the sound of blood, rushing about my head.