London - Day One

Three days ago I wasn’t sure we were going to make this trip. The rumours going around about Temples Fest were gaining momentum, it seemed like more and more friends who had previously played there were coming out and accusing the guy who runs the fest of being a rip-off merchant. Johan Walin had told me the week before that Martyrdöd had played the year before and it took them about six months to get paid and even then only half of the agreed fee arrived. I’d been worried about this situation, saying to the guys that we should get a written confirmation that we’d get paid in cash on the day of the show. Andy said he’d write to the organiser.. I was fully prepared to go Speedhorn on the guy and simply take musical equipment the festival had hired as payment if the guy pulled any crap. We’d paid out about a grand on flights that were going to be covered by the Temples Fest gig. As it turns out, the situation was way worse than we could have imagined. I was stood at work on the Monday, working some corporate champagne event for a bunch of stiffs, with some asshole event manager talking to me and my friend Fanny like we were a pair of twats, when I saw on the internet that Temples had been cancelled. Fucking cancelled. Three days before the festival was due to begin, one day after receiving an email telling us what time to be at the venue, thousands of ticket buyers up the spout and dozens of bands from all over the world shafted. I felt like lobbing the tray of champagne glasses I was poncing around with into the event managers smug coupon.

We were in quite the shitty situation. Out of pocket and trying to weigh up if we could risk losing even more by still going ahead with the weekend of shows. The personal loss was one thing, being a student/dad my budget is pretty fucking lame. But more than that there were other people, good people and dear friends, standing to lose a deal of money and time wasted if we cancelled. Kev had booked a show at DIY Space For London on the Friday for which he would have to pay the rent on the venue at this late notice no matter the outcome, plus he’d sold over a hundred tickets through the internet that he would lose a percentage on when paying everyone back. The guys from the 593 Collective in Nottingham had put effort and time into booking a great show for us with Skiplickers, Endless Grinning Skulls and Obstruct, a gig I didn’t want to fucking miss. And my old mate Gordon Speedhorn was booked to drive us in his van, meaning if we cancelled now then he’d be losing valuable business. Cancelling wasn’t an option for me. But without a decent replacement gig in place for Saturday I’d have a hard time convincing the other guys to go ahead and piss even more money away. I was very fucking doubtful that we’d ever see the money from that cunt running Temples…

I skipped the afternoon at school on the Tuesday to spend the afternoon mailing people and trying to fix the mess. The response was heartwarming. Gordon called and said that he’d blow off any rent for the Saturday if we didn’t get a gig for that day and that he’d cut the cost for the other days down. More than anything he was looking forward to hanging out, he assured me. I was in constant touch with about four other friends and acquaintances who offered help with gigs, some very kind offers, it turns out there were a lot of bands stranded with booked flights, looking for shows. The DIY community was in full stride, helping out everyone they could. As it is, Kev managed to sort out a show at the Bird’s Nest in Deptford which meant our costs would be practically nil for the Saturday and Andy from EGS messaged me saying he was making a special limited edition cover for their last seven inch that would only be sold on Sunday and all the proceeds he would give to us to help out with the money we’d lost. I was truly touched. From despair at some asshole playing Billy Big Balls and booking a big festival his ego couldn’t handle to being humbled by the coming together of the DIY community to help us out. I was extremely relieved when we decided to go ahead with the weekend. The guilt of putting my friends out of pocket for helping us out was weighing me down big fucking time. The knock on effect of this asshole and his festival was far reaching. When Andy mailed the guy he got a personalised “Out of Office” automatic reply stating that, “Due to the pain of cancelling the festival I need some time out to get my headspace sorted before I can start emailing people”. What a fucking cretin.

It had been a strange few days. The weekend saved, and with us now in with a chance of regaining some of the money we’d lost on flights, not to mention the fact we had three very fun shows booked, I found myself sat on the flight over to the island with mixed emotions. Not only was I missing my graduation party from school that day, having passed my A-levels second time of asking, and in my second language, but I was missing mine and Jen’s ten year wedding anniversary. All on the same day we were playing a punk show in London. I’m amazed sometimes that she puts up with me. We’d made a celebration of it a few weeks ago when we had a Polly free weekend in London ourselves, but I felt like a complete asshole now. Ten years? She deserves a medal.

We arrived at Heathrow around two thirty Friday afternoon and made our way via the tube across London to Deptford. Kev was a bit stressed since Gordon hadn’t arrived yet and we had to be at the venue for five thirty. There was still no sign of him when we arrived in Deptford, starving, at four thirty. Gordon had said he was stuck in traffic. I was quietly relieved since I was aching for some grub from the Waiting Room. We sat there and tucked into some veggie burgers and Johan bought a round of beers in. You know when you drink that first beer and it just magically hits the spot? Well, that. Gordon could take another couple of hours and I could happily sit here whilst we waited. Poor Kev was pretty stressed though. Gordon turned up just after five, looking disgusted with London. We all cracked up at his face as he crawled past us on Deptford High Street looking like he was about to kill someone. We loaded the gear in from Overdrive Rehearsal Studio around the corner which Marv Varukers and John Conflict own. Marv was busy on his phone as we were loading gear but he pointed at an Ampeg bass cab and told me to take that, proclaiming it was, “Fucking brilliant!” It broke down after the second band...

The venue was only a ten minute drive away and Karl and Tobs had walked over earlier to meet Jamie and set up the drums so everything would move smoothly when we arrived. Their new band, I Piss In Your Mouth, along with Kev on bass, was playing tonight. They’d played their first show last night with Symsey’s band Crossfirefuckinghurricane at the Nest last night and now both were playing tonight. Kev told me that him, Karl and Jamie had been making some noise and after only a couple of practices they were playing their first show. I asked him who was singing. “Whoever gets up from the crowd and screams”, Kev replied, not an ounce of irony in his tone. Turns out it was Tobs, who hasn’t played a gig since Narwhal finished ten years ago. I was looking forward to seeing them.

Tobs was hungover to fuck and his voice had almost disappeared after last nights gig. Tobs is a real classic when pissed, some of the best steamboats stories I’ve ever have Tobs in the starring roll. He’s always got a cheeky look on his face, even when miserably hungover. Love the guy. Kev wasn’t even sure if they were going to play since we arrived late and they were on right after doors but things got worked out and they went on and played ten minutes of screaming noise, Kev with his back to the crowd trickling into the gig room, the numbers on the back of his bass and his lips gupping along to the songs like a goldfish devouring food capturing my attention for the best part of it. That and Tobs screaming along to the racket whilst wearing his wooly ski hat.. Good stuff.

The venue is pretty cool. Although by all accounts it has caused a bit of division in the punk scene in the UK. The fact they charge two quid membership fee seems enough to piss some people off. Fuck knows. I really can’t be bothered. I’ve played shows in London where there have been more punks sat outside drinking cans of beer than watching the bands inside where the beer costs a quid more than they do at the offy. Kev had mentioned that a few people in the scene had said they weren’t coming to the show because they don’t like this venue. Politics… Although ticket sales had been going slow it seems to have picked up in the last week and Kev tells me at the start of the night that he has thirty tickets left. By the time Cult Syndrome go on in second slot the tickets are pretty much gone. I hang out over by the door with Kev and Karl, as well as Miles who is back from Australia. Karl whips his beanie hat off after a while, embarrassedly revealing his newly shaved bonnet. He’s finally succumbed to the inevitable like my good self.

I spend the night flitting between the gig room which has a waist high stage and enough room for a hundred and sixty people, and the cafe area where the bar and record shop area situated. I find Johan and Jon sat at a bench drinking a can of IPA, sat amongst the buzz of the punks swarming around the place. Gordon points out the guy working in the record shop, says he recognises him. It takes a while but then I realise it’s this guy who used to hang out at with his mega rich American girlfriend at Speedhorn shows back in the day. Nikolaj I think was his name. Fucking blast from the past! They used to come to all the London shows. There was a bit of a weird vibe going on between her and the band which in turn made the vibe with Nikolaj equally weird. Fucking hell. There’s someone that I would never ever have thought about again had I not seen him here tonight. Funny how people enter and exit your life.

I miss most of Cult Syndrome’s set, which is a shame because I like the little I hear. The room is really fucking hot though and I need a breather. Symesy’s band Crossfirefuckinghurricane are on third. DB played with them in Prague last year but they’ve since changed singer. The new guy seems to fit the band a lot better. Marv’s bass cab and gone on the fritz just as they were warming up so just as the crowd filters into the room and Symsey is ready to go it goes silent. Dav, the bass player looks mildly amused/confused as Jamie and some of the venue crew wheel on a four by twelve cab. When they finally get going it’s loud as fuck. So loud it’s hard to pick out a lot of Symsey’s great guitar playing, which is a shame, but then the bass playing is also punishing so it’s pretty cool just listening to that anyway. The singer kind of reminds me of Milo from Descendents for some reason, and I smile as he sarcastically makes shout outs to Donald Trump in a heavy Czech accent between songs.

Agnosy are on before us but I skip it, I need a break from the volume before we play. Jamie was fretting a bit beforehand since after the delay we’re now running behind schedule, so he told them to make it a shorter one tonight. The singer announces to the crowd that they’re keeping it short and sweet tonight and then play a half hour set. Can only imagine what a normal set would clock in at. “German warning with these guys”, Jon comments, referring to the notorious local hero crust bands we’ve regularly encountered over the years whilst touring over there.

We have a pretty good show, the place is pretty packed and there are people flying around above the crowds heads, some others down the front screaming along to the songs. I’m pretty chuffed to see one guy chanting along to the chorus of Errors from the new record. The sound on stage is pretty hard work though, all I can hear is myself and Johan’s vocals. But it doesn’t make the gig any less enjoyable. Everyone seems pretty chuffed after the gig. Whilst packing up I look over to the corner of the room where Gordon is selling merch with a big smile on his face. Great to have him out with us. Feels very strange though, to be on tour with him but not playing together.

I enjoy a beer whilst taking over on the merch, seems like it’s going pretty well. Shifting a few copies of the new album. I ask Kev what the crack is, fancying a pint at the Nest afterwards, but he tells me they have to clean the venue after everyone has left. It doesn’t take long though. And somehow Kev seems to be pissed all of a sudden, shouting abuse at anyone within earshot as he takes to the floor with a mop, after Viv has kindly done the first round with a broom. As we load out I get talking to Dav who tells me that my energy on stage really inspires him. He says watching me play makes him very happy. I remember when we played with them last year and he stood there pounding my back through the entire set, totally chuffed. Very fun guy. He asks me if we can stay in touch and if me and Kev can mail him some tips for classic, noisy Swedish bands. I remember then that Symsey had said he was mainly into techno.

Once the van is packed Gordon drives over to Kev’s where we park the van and head around to the Nest. To my relief it is quiet and there are plenty of tables free to sit at. Just what I need. We have a couple of pints each, the Bird’s Nest IPA actually smells like puke. I can’t work out if it’s the plastic glass or the beer itself. It tastes fine, but it’s pretty disturbing that every time you lift the pint to your mouth it smells like you’re drinking it out of a nightclub urinal. Johan has clocked me suspiciously sniffing at my beer and concurs that his has the same issue.

Since we're doing a secret/last minute gig here tomorrow Kev decides to film a little promotional film advertising.  Karl films Kev with his phone whilst Kev rants pissed into the camera, sounding like a cross between Bruce Forsyth and Hulk Hogan.  He'd started to hand out flyers for it once the doors had opened earlier but now he was putting the campaign for the gig into full effect.  

Andy seems to be enjoying himself anyway, the pints are flowing and he has that look in his eye. That look is normally there on the first night away, just as it is long gone by the last night. Karl suggest we head over to another place when the Nest closes at one. We head up Deptford High Street to a place called Meistros, some weird little restaurant on New Cross Road where we’re the only people there who obviously aren’t part of the owner’s inner circle. In fact, there is barely anyone there at all and it’s sleepily quiet until around ten of us walk in and sit ourselves down. Apparently this place is Mucky Marcus’ favourite haunt. Karl tells us that Mucky has a tab here. Can just imagine him sat here gabbing along with the bar staff. After two of the most pointless Heineken’s I’ve ever drunk we decide to call it a night. Kev has already fallen asleep at the table. It’s nice chatting away with everyone but I’m goosed too, only barely managing to keep myself going the same way as Kev. Those two beers pushed me into fuzzy pissed aswell. Time to go home.

We pile into a LFC, London Fried Chicken, the options are fucking dire at this time, and mass order chips and cheese. When in the UK… They’re disgustingly good and instantly regrettable. We get back to Kev’s place and make room about the living room. Normally I’d crash beside Kev in his bed but his girlfriend is already there so I make myself a little den of blankets in the corner of the floor next to Andy. The effects of those two Heineken’s suddenly have a new appeal. A floor has never felt so welcoming.

Prague

It’s fucking freezing in this room, and the pillow I’m sharing with Kev is as hard as a rock.  If indeed it is a pillow... Fuck knows.  I get up and walk down the dusty wooden staircase to the middle floor for an acute piss.  I’ve been lying for at least an hour with my bladder at the point of exploding, too tired, too fucked to get up and do anything about it.

I feel better for the piss release though, sort of.  When I get back to the room the rest of the guys are stirring to life.  Rappy smiles at me, tells me that me and Kev were involved in some really sweet pillow talk last night.  Fucked if I remember what we were talking about.  The guy who lives in the squat, who brought us here last night, appears and tells us that he’s making us some coffee.  In all honesty I’d rather just get out of here, I’m in need of a shite and I don’t want to do it in the bog here, it’s one of those shelf jobs that leaves you sitting on your own turd.  Can’t deal with that right now.  Kev looks as knackered as I feel, “My mouth tastes like an old man’s arse.  It’s like my arse and mouth have swapped places, like there’s teeth in my arsehole and piles in my mouth.”

We take the bags down to the van and stand around in the sun for a while.  Luc asks what the plan is and someone says we’re heading back inside.  Luc wonders why.  “We mistakenly ordered some coffee”, explains Sticky.  The host is a really nice guy though, turns out he’s originally from Barcelona and used to be in the band Cop of Fire and knows a bunch of people we know.  We sip on some coffee and share a few slices of bread, my eye on the big bathtub in the corner of the kitchen, wishing I could just sit in the fucker and clean myself.  Kev gets sorted out with a load of throat pills from the guy, he’s got a whole box load of goodies that he’s happy to bestow on Kev.

We head off around lunch time, the sun shining, a new day on tour.  I feel a little bit sick.  We take the first stop on the motorway to grab some breakfast.  Coffee and grilled sandwiches.  The old lady serving us looks severely unimpressed with us, each ordering separately, one after the other, the exact same order and paying with different cards.

Sticky and Dan Arne are sat up front besides Ronnie at the wheel, which means they’re sat at the bar.  It’s not long until the bottles start clinking up there and Kev is being passed the bottle of Toilet Duck.  “I fucking hate these cunts” he groans as he puts the bottle to his lips.  Sticky and Dan Arne enthusiastically make their way through each of the bottles, I lost count of the times I hear them say, “A little sip of this and then we’ll take a pause” only to hear the sound of another bottle opening shortly afterwards.  Dan takes a big sip of Fernet.  How anyone can drink that horror is beyond me.  When lets out a satisfied “Aaah” after pulling the bottle away, “It tastes of herbs and freedom” he declares.  Another pause is announced shortly before they find a small pack of Underberg, Ronnie pissing himself laughing at the two of them.  “Small little bastards these bottles”, Dan contemplates, not too impressed with it.  By the time they close the bar Sticky’s face is an interesting shade of red.

When we cross the Czech border we drive into a blizzard, the sky having turned black.  The GPS seems to lose its way in it and we end up on a narrow road beside the motorway.  We’re now on the scenic route to Prague, about eighty kilometers to go.  We drive through this grim little industrial town that Dan proclaims has raped Mother Nature with its presence before following the river through the countryside which is noticeably more picturesque.  I wish I could enjoy it more but I’m sat in the back writing and feeling a little travel sick.  We stop at a garage and top up on chips and chocolate which makes me feel better, Rappy and Crappy exploring pondering over which will be tonight’s energy drink.  They opt for something called Smarty which costs about four Swedish kronors.

I take the front seat next to Ronnie for the remainder of the journey, feeling considerably better for the sugar and the fresh air, even though the air was filled with wet snow.  We arrive in Prague around four, and as is usually the case in the city, it takes a while to find the venue, even with the help of the GPS.  Turns out the venue is this little café in a park on the outskirts of the city center.  We have to drive down a path that leads to it and when we’re backing up beside it we feel a bump and a loud bang.  The two Dans get out to check what it was, turns out we backed over a large stone in the ground, “Some memorials stuff,” according to Dan Arne.  Seems like the van is ok, and the guys place the sign back on the stone.

Cool little place this.  I notice stickers of friend’s bands like Agent Attitude and Damaged Head and the likes, fun to know they’ve been here too.  We have a couple of hours to kill so we take some coffee and chill out in the café.  I’ve been saying to Stix all day that I’m taking it easy tonight, which he finds hilarious since I was banging on about Prague being the party night at the start of the tour.  He asks what happened to that, “I peaked in Leipzig it seems, overshot it.”

After a while Luc and I decide to stretch our legs and have a walk around the park.  Even though the sun is shining the wind is viciously cold so it’s not the most pleasant stroll, but we have a nice conversation about life and our families and a load of other stuff.  Nice to get away for a bit.  As we’re walking around we see this wasted guy staggering about with a plastic bag shouting to himself or anyone else that will listen, looks like 28 Days Later.  Off his fucking tits.  When we arrive back at the café I’m wondering what’s happened to him but then I hear more shouting and see he’s now found his way to the other side of the park.  We head back in.

I’m looking forward to tonight because we have a couple of mates coming down.  First off my friend Alec from Scotland, who now lives in Ostrava and then Paul Symes, who played guitar in Dead Inside with Kev and now lives here, is playing with his new band Crossfire Fuckin Hurricane, first on the bill.  I’ve been speaking to him a lot via the internet about this show and other stuff and it will be fun to finally meet him after all the correspondence.  He turns up around six thirty, Kev heads out, “Symsey!”  It’s fun to see them back together again.  It’s really nice to meet him and his band.  The singer is this big Irish guy who’s old band apparently played with Speedhorn back in the day, In don’t really recognize him though, which is strange because he’s a big bugger covered in tats, so you’d think I’d remember.  Seems like a nice guy anyway, he’s straight there helping out with carrying the gear in.

Turns out they forgot to bring Paul’s guitar though so they have a dash back to their space to pick it up.  In the meantime Alec turns up.  It’s really great to see him.  Alec played in Ninth Circle which was the first band Speedhorn ever toured with and we’ve been friends since.  Alec is such a friendly guy, that soft Scottish accent of his making him very approachable.  We sit down and catch up, mostly on what’s going on with our lives.  I’m really interested in how he’s doing in Ostrava.  He tells me that he’s been a bit sauced up over the weekend, that they celebrate Easter here in the Czech Republic in a very special way which involves everyone getting steamboats.  Apparently the tradition is that the men in the city make these whips out of willow branches and the crack is that they go around all the houses, don’t have to know the occupants, walk in and smack the women on the arse with the whips, upon which they’re given a shot of Czech booze.  And this starts around four am!  Fucking mental.  Alec says it freaked him out a bit and he was fucked by ten am. Bonkers.

Just as we’re contemplating ringing the promoter to find out where he is, worrying a little about the fact it’s seven fifteen and Symsey’s band is on at eight, we’re all Hank Marvin too, he turns up.  This big tall skinny guy with long black hair and glasses.  He sorts us out with some veggie goulash immediately.  It does the job if nothing else.  At least we’re not as stuffed as we were yesterday, I couldn’t handle another gig like that.  Symsey’s band go on at eight and the place is pretty full, it’s only small so it doesn’t take much, but it feels good.  I’m now on my second beer, Stix laughs, saying that he thought I was having an easy night, “Not at these prices” I tell him.  This country is still ridiculously cheap, at least for beer, funnily enough the bottled water costs more than the ale.  It tastes fucking wonderful though, Pilsner Urquell on tap for about nine kronors, you can’t complain  Dan Arne has gone for some wheat beer that is garnished with a slice of orange, looks chuffed.

Anyway, me and Kev stand at the front and watch the band.  It’s great seeing Symes play guitar, I’ve never had the pleasure before.  He’s a hell of a guitarist, puts shit loads into the gig as well.  The drummer and the bass player are solid as fuck too, its fun to watch them.  I’d like to hear the record so I can pick out the songs a bit better though, it’s pretty chaotic hardcore punk that is a bit lost in the sound of the room, I can pick out the odd little bit of guitar genius from Symsey here and there, would be fun to hear it on record.  Kev smiles, noticing that a few of the songs are remakes of stuff they had together in the band Shut The Fuck Up that was based in Barcelona, that never really went anywhere.

Even though the singer announces that Pyramido are up next, in fact it does state on the flyer that we’re top of the bill, I make sure we’re in the middle.  The Pyramido guys are more than happy to play next but I tell them I don’t want to look silly going on after them, our fifteen minute set would sound daft after their epic whirlwind, “We’d sound like a fucking Benny Hill band going after you guys” I explain.
Just as I’m setting up the gear I see notice that the input socket on my amp has fallen inside the casing.  Fucking typical.  Luckily Crappy is a very kind man and is happy to lend me his JCM 800, which sounds immense.  I don’t need to change anything, just plug in and go.  This turns out to be my favourite gig of the tour so far.  Despite feeling ropey all day the energy comes back for the show.  The room is full and we’re stood on the tiled floor, lights on, kinds weird but it works.  It feels tight tonight.  At one point I’m a little further out in the crowd, much to the bass player from Symsey’s band who is slapping me on the back, loving it.  I can tell the rest of the guys in the band are all feeling it tonight too, just as last night I could tell they were struggling a bit.  It’s a good feeling when it clicks.  It’s still chaos, but it’s controlled chaos.
The sweat is pissing out of me after show so I head outside into the cold.  Weirdly enough there are a couple of older punks stood out there with distros set up on the veranda.  They’ve been stood there all night, fucking freezing out.  Fuck that.  I head back in and find Mira, the promoter, walking around with a box for donations for the band.  Doesn’t exactly fill one with hope.  I grab a beer and when I head over to the merch Luc is counting the money with a slightly worried look on his face.  We had been expecting this tonight to be fair, Mira hadn’t promised us anything.  And the gig was great, as long as don’t too many like this we’ll be okay.  We don’t sell much merch though, we really need to sort some lp’s out.  We’re planning on putting out all the releases and four new songs on an lp ourselves later in the year..Still, we shift a couple of sevens and a shirt.  Better than a kick in the balls I suppose.

Pyramido seem to have a harder time on stage tonight, something weird going on with the tuning in one of the songs that seems to have them baffled.  Strangely enough, I had the exact same thing when we started Join The Queue, sounded a half note out but when I checked where I was playing I was on, and the rest of the song was in.  Really strange.  Maybe it’s something to do with sound bouncing around.  It seems to throw the guys a bit although I enjoy watching their set as always.

We’re in a bit of a conundrum after the show. It’s an early finish, by the time the P Beats are done it’s only ten.  I know Symsey is keen on us all staying at his place, he says he’s got a big flat near some cool bars, and Kev is keen to hang out obviously.  The thing is Mira has a flat where we can stay that as well as floor also has mattresses, something Symsey doesn’t.  There is an option of splitting up but nobody is really up for that.  We decide we’ll stay at Mira’s but me, Kev and Stix will head into the city for a couple of beers with Symes.  The rest of the guys feel like an easier night.  To be fair I feel pretty knackered myself but I’d feel bad for not socialising.  Alec has to head off to catch the last train back to Ostrava.  It’s been great seeing him.

We walk off in search of a cab with some friend of Symsey.  He’s struggling a bit with the English but from what I can make out seems like a nice guy.  He’s not coming out with us, just helping with the cab situation.  It takes a while, and its fucking cold.  When we do manage to flag a cab down the driver is this middle aged lady who doesn’t seem too keen on picking up four lads so fucks off without us.  We end up taking a bus for free into town.  Nobody seems concerned about paying.

We get into town and take a cab from there to this bar in Zizkov that Paul knows well.  The old guy driving flying about the cobbled streets at a ridiculous speed.  The bar is just what I required.  There are only a few people and they’re playing 82 punk at a low volume.  Perfect.  We sit around a table at the back of the room.  There is this girl sat across from us at the table beside us.  She looks pretty wasted.  She starts talking to me in Czech, and when I ask her if she speaks English she looks at me all intense and tells me that she knows me.  I tell her that I think she’s mistaken.  “Are you an actor?” she asks me.  She’s making me a little uneasy. She wants a cig for her joint anyway but nobody can help.  She shuffles off after hanging around in silence for a couple of minutes.  In her place arrives this pissed up old Rastafarian.  He asks us if we’ve heard of the Bad Brains.  We tell him that yes of course we have. He can’t believe it, says they had a bet on at the bar that we wouldn’t have heard of them.  He then starts going on about some Swedish band with electronic drums but we can’t work out what the fuck he’s going on about.

When he fucks off the girl comes back and sits at our table, still looking at me intensely but saying nothing.  Symes is in full flow and doesn’t even notice her whilst he bombards us with questions about the UK and punk rock.  It’s really nice chatting to him but the girl is freaking me out a little bit.  When Symes heads back to the bar she starts talking again.  She starts saying about how she’s had a rough night and that she was expecting to meet some friends and she needs some money blah blah blah.  Symes lends her the two hundred kronors she’s asking for, tells her she can leave it with the bar tender tomorrow.  She asks his name but Symes says the bartender doesn’t know his name, he’s just known as the English Guy.  He has a slate going on behind the bar and he insists on paying for our beers too.

The girl finally leaves and I go for a piss.  When I come back to my utter amazement there is now another girl sat at the table in silence.  What the fuck is going on here?  I head back to the table and we carry on chatting and the girl heads off.  I’m really starting to get tired by this point, I’m starting to ache for bed.  I can sense that we all are.  We decide to have one more beer for the road before heading off to find a cab.  I don’t know if it’s just the tiredness but the cold is now unbearable, the tension is actually causing me a lot of pain in the chest, like a fucking hot knife piercing my heart.  Thankfully it doesn’t take long to pick up a cab.  It was really nice to meet Symes.              

When we get back to the place we’re staying a moment of horror hits us when the phone number we’re given isn’t getting through, as either is Lucas’ phone.  Stix tries again though and Mira answers.  I couldn’t have dealt with being locked out in this part of town that is totally dead right now.  Mira comes down and lets us in, shows us into the room where the rest of the guys are sleeping.  It’s tight as fuck in the room.  There are mattresses spread across the floor but there is only one single size mattress available.  Mira is sleeping in the kitchen on a double bed but some other guy seems to be sleeping beside him.  The three of us have no choice but to snuggle up, Kev in the middle with his feet at our end.  We’re doing our best to be quiet as to not wake the other guys but the silliness of the situation makes it hard.  I turn to Stix, “Love touring” I say and the two of us burst into stifled laughter.  I’m laughing so hard that I have to stuff my face into the mattress to smother it, almost crying.  I wish I had a pillow to stuff my face in to but it’s dark and I can’t find where it might be.  I manage to find my sleeping bag but I’m too tired to look any further.