the tourthe tour

The Tour The Tour Day Thirteen: Glasgow, The Gods Are Angry

The gods were angry today. One of those Icelandic volcanoes was shitting out a great big fuck off ash cloud all over the next geographical stop on our mighty tour, and as we bombed up the motorway to Glasgow a gale so mighty was blowing that it had picked up a caravan and dropped it over the other side of the road. Rain slashed at the windscreen like Kruger hands.  Shit was ominous out there. Power lines were out. Planes were grounded.

It took us all day to drive to Glasgow through the gods’ tantrum, so we didn’t get time to do any sightseeing.  We drive around a wet town center looking for the venue, loaded in, soundchecked, and at 7:15 we were rushed onstage to do our thing in front of the handful of people that had braved the apocalyptic madness going on outside. And the thing we did. It was pretty weird up there – the room was 7 times as wide as it was long, and the nature of the lights meant one couldn’t actually see anything out there in audience-land, and there was a weird little rail separating the stage and the floor. But we did our thing. We are pros. We sparked our energy off a safe longhair called Colin who came and stood at the front, and built from there. That’s all you need when you’re a psychic vampire.

Ha. Psychic vampire. That would be true if we kept all the energy for ourselves. But we do not. We give it all back, along with our own. We are generous. You’re welcome.

I was kind of bummed by the end of the night though, for the first time of the tour. Mainly because we didn’t do very well on the merch. The problem with tying up commerce with art is you start judging your art’s worth by how much cash it generates, and I fell into that trap tonight, and felt rather worthless. Which was dumb, as the people that were there enjoyed it and lots of them came over and got me to write on things and take pictures with them. But at the end of the night we were way under the amount we need to do daily to break even, so I was bummed. I grumped about in the rain outside like an asshole and didn’t help pack the van, which I’m usually very enthusiastic about. Tim tried to cheer me up with a battered Mars Bar. It was pretty good.

Tim dropped Jack and I off at our Travelodge, and swept off into the night to his sister Hells’ place. She’d suffered a tragic harddrive death that day. The thing had a vast percentage of her uni coursework on it. The gods’ rage knew no bounds on that dark day.

The Travelodge was packed with refugees. But what a Travelodge it was! IT DIDN’T LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME AS ALL THE OTHERS! We couldn’t believe it. The bathroom had colours other than white in it. The bed had handsome wooden headboard. There was a wood framed mirror on the wall. There was a Rudyard Kipling poem on the wall. Little thing like that can change your whole outlook on life. Suddenly I felt great. We watched bit of Sky News to make a change from Russia Today (which is just like Brass Eye, possibly even sillier), smoked a spliff and I stayed up till 2:30 working.

Meanwhile, the Americans drove around Perth looking for new lodgings. The Gods had ripped the roof off of their Travelodge. Those buggers were incensed.