Antwerp

From Alvik to Antwerp, Victims is starting to get about again.  Last week we played a very last minute show in Stockholm at Sick Sound’s release party for their latest fanzine.  It was a bit of a strange one, a few bands had hopped off at the last minute for various reasons, ourselves jumping on due to the fact First Blood from the States had cancelled their tour, so the whole thing ended up being a bit flat.  In all honesty we did it for the money.  We wouldn’t usually play Stockholm twice in the space of four months but with studio time for the new album coming up we’re not in the position to knock back income.  And despite it being a low turn-out it was fun to play a new song, Errors, in the set.  Plus my dad was in town visiting and he came along which made it all the more fun.  The new Sicksound zine looks ace too, they really take fanzines to another level.

Today’s show in Antwerp had been planned a few months in advance however and I was really looking forward to it.  I went to bed worried that I was going to wake up in the night vomiting though, the dreaded stomach bug is going around Polly’s nursery and I lay there thinking how fucking typical it would be to start puking in the middle of the night and have to cancel the show, or even worse, get sick in Belgium.  That fucking bug can pounce at any given second, without warning.  I’ve been washing both mine and Polly’s hands hysterically this last week, she probably thinks I’ve lost the plot.  The alarm went off at six and thankfully we were all still in good shape, I’d even managed to sleep pretty well, something I normally have a hard time with the night before I travel.

Johan came for me just before seven.  He’d had the night to himself, Pia and Billy having headed off to Nyköping for the weekend.  We spoke about the luxury of having your apartment to yourself, how rare that is, and as much as you love your family, isolation now and then is good for the soul.  His night alone turned out just like all of mine do though, you have these plans to do this and that, listen to this record, watch this film or read that book or whatever and before you know it you’ve passed four hours without doing much or any of the above.  We picked up Jon and Andy and made our way across the still sleeping city of Stockholm to Bromma airport, which is the smaller airport that is actually within the city limits, just out by where we used to live.  A very easy start to our trip.

The flight was just over two hours, it was one of those planes with the wings on top and we were sat underneath them, just behind the engines so the noise on route was constant and gave me a headache. Probably didn’t help that I’d drunk nothing but coffee all morning either.  We get to Brussels airport and make our way to the train station from where we take a simple half hour journey to Antwerp.  The sun is shining and spring seems to have arrived in this part of the continent.  We’re all pretty chuffed as we stand there by the cab rank, feels like we’ve arrived on holiday.  I’m already regretting bringing my thicker jacket with me since it’s a pain in the ass to carry about.  Jon on the other hand is stood there in his trusty sheep skin 70’s football manager coat, Venom hoody pulled up over his Bolthrower beanie hat, scarf wrapped around him, puffing away on a fag with a pained look on his coupon.  I ask him if he’s not hot in his garb, “I’m always freezing”, he mutters, taking another drag.  Must be poor blood circulation I guess…

We take a cab over to the venue which is only a few minutes away and right by the harbor, where we meet Peter who runs the place.  He’s got one of those friendly faces I recognise from somewhere in the scene.  He tells us that he booked Victims way back in the days before I joined the band, fuck knows where I know him from.  I doubt very much that he booked Speedhorn… The venue is a squatted place, although they seem to have a good deal with the council, relatively hassle free.  The place used to be a warehouse or storage space for what I can’t remember.  The gig room is a simple square room with a bar in the corner and an open stage where the PA speakers hang from the roof as opposed to being towered on the side, really decent size.  The place resembles a bunker.  There is an outer room where we’ll sell the merch and besides that in the same building but separately run is a café.  Peter takes us here first and tells us to order some coffee which will be on the house.  I don’t know why, but the free cappuccino feels fills me with a feeling of joyous appreciation.  I was fucking gagging for some caffeine and having proper barrister treatment on the house was a hell of a bonus.  It’s the little things in life.

We sit around and talk about this point a little, that of the “little things”.  We don’t want or expect rock star treatment, we don’t expect five star hotels or bottles of fine wine on the rider, just something as simple as being greeted with a friendly smile and being made to feel welcome makes a huge difference.  We speak about how what a contrast England is for example, not on a punk level I have to add, but on that tour bus “next level” where you’re met with an attitude designed to make you believe you should be grateful to even be there, that the venue is doing you a favour.  Touring on the continental mainland, on all levels, has always been a far more pleasurable experience.  This free cappuccino just made my fucking day.  On top of that Peter hands us a tenner each for buyout.  Not sure if this is for the afternoon or whether it’s to cover dinner later, as stand up as Peter has been so far, he gave us cash back straight away for the train and cab, a buy out for lunch might just be pushing it.  There was a big kitchen upstairs though…

We sit and enjoy our coffee and ponder what to do with the afternoon.  My eye catches this really nice book of paintings that some artist has left for sale.  Full of skulls and weird abstract images, twenty Euros, I wish I could afford it.  We’ve got about five hours to do with what we please, total luxury.  We were here a few years ago when we played a show with Napalm Death in this bigger venue a little outside of the city centre.  We took a walk into town that day and the little we got to see of it looked promising.  Now we’re right in town, the sun is shining and we’ve got all afternoon to enjoy it.  After dumping our bags Peter shows us around the corner to the harbor and points along quay to the Museum Aan De Stroom, telling us that should be our first stop.  It’s this wacky glass building built on misaligned platforms of red brick.  Peter tells us you go can go to the top and stand on the panorama roof for free.  Sounds like a good plan, we make our way up.

From up there you can see the whole city with the cathedral protruding proudly above the surrounding rooftops, right in the middle of it all.  Peter told us that is where we’ll find everything else we’d need.  We hang out up there for a while taking pictures and enjoying the fresh air, enjoying the panoramic views.  The museum itself has what seems to be an exhibition on Antwerp during the First World War and there are some stunning pictures lining the walls of the escalators that take you from floor to floor.  Johan remarks that it would have been a great alternative had the weather not been so inviting.

We head over into the labyrinth of old cobble stone streets and alleys, which are broken up on a regular basis by numerous plazas.  It’s not the most beautiful city I’ve been in, although there are some stunning churches dotted about, there is an element of dirt about the place, but it certainly has its charm.  We walk around exploring the place for the best part of an hour before hunger starts to impinge upon us.  There are countless cafés and bars to choose from and we dither around from place to place in a fog of indecision.  I spot some place that is selling soup and fresh bread for five Euros which we look at for a bit but then carry on.  We keep saying to ourselves that we should stay away from the main square next to the Central Station since it’s bound to be swarming with tourists and tourist prices but nevertheless we end up there, as if sucked in by a tractor beam.  We head into a Tex Mex place called Chi Chi’s that may as well have had Shite Franchise written on the sign.  One look at their sorry looking buffet should’ve been enough to warn us off, but still we sit.

We leave the place about fifty minutes later and I’m filled with a mixed feeling of regret and anger.  Johan and I decided to share a plate of nachos and cheese quesadillas which despite the place being empty took around half hour to arrive and when they did caused a choke/laugh.  The plate of nachos was actually four nacho chips with a bit of melted cheese and a jalapeno on, a blob of cream and guacamole on the side.  The quesadilla was one pirogue cut into four measly sections.  They cost seven Euros each and then when we got the bill they’d charged us two fifty each for the tap water.  Felt like a complete kick in the balls.  Of course when the waitress came over to clear the table and asked us if our food was ok we mumbled that it was fine, yes, and then left the place cursing them in Swedish.  Really brave.

Feeling aggrieved from spunking the ten euro buy out on effectively nothing we felt the need to find a decent bar and rectify the anxiety with a nice draught glass of something Belgian.  We made our way past the main square where there were a load of people stood around watching what seemed to be a cow weighing competition.  Beyond them were two guys, maybe farther and son, playing bongos and singing We Will Rock You, Jon looked over at us, “If this is what tourists do then fuck going on holiday!”
We made our way from the square and back in to the smaller streets, trying not to look at the vast array of menus offering infinitely better food than what we’d gone for.  It’s important this food thing, it’s like when you go on holiday, food is one of the crucial factors and you’re gutted if you end up with something crap.
Anyway, we meander through the streets, looking in a record shop or two, which is never fun when you’re broke, before landing in one of the many smaller squares off the back of a church where there is a cosy little corner bar with some tables outside that are bathing in the sun.  The girl working in the bar speaks some Swedish and has a friendly demeanor.  Johan asks her what the best beer they have is, to which she bashfully replies that she doesn’t have much knowledge on the matter.  Two locals sat at the bar point to the tap of Le Chouffe.

The beer fully redeems Tex-Mexgate, I enjoy every drop of it as we sit there basking in the sun’s warmth, idly chatting away.  If only every day on tour was like this.  I could easily have sat there all evening drinking the Le Chouffe but it’s soon time to go and we pop into one of the many Frituur shops and pick up some chips and satay sauce, something that just has to be consumed when in this part of the world.  You tend to forget how far along Sweden is with eradicating cash from the system though, it’s easy to assume that you can pay for everything, everywhere with card, like at home, but when I try that here the guy tells me that the minimum transaction for card payment is twenty five Euros!  The chips cost three.  Thankfully Andy has cash.  Johan does too, he brought thirty quid with him from the band account, although what he thinks he going to do with that in Belgium I don’t know.

We arrive back at the venue around five-thirty, the rest of the guys from the other bands are there, sorting out soundcheck.  We’re playing with a bunch of old friends tonight.  The headlining band, who invited us over to play and sorted our flights is Blind to Faith, which has Stijn from Reproach on vocals as well as Vincent and Cedric from Rise and Fall on guitars.  The two other guys I don’t know but I immediately take to the bass player, this little, long haired heavy metal looking dude with a cheeky look on his face.  We’re in the back room where there are some beers, some regular pilsners and then a couple of local blondes, one at six percent and the other at nine.  The bass player, whose name is Loek, starts to tell me about the beers and asks me if I would like one, I take a sip of his six percenter.  It’s pretty nice but you can tell it has the capacity to blow your tits off.  I’m still feeling a little warm from the Le Chouffe.  Loek explains to me that you’re fine with a couple of these blondes before the show but after that you should move on to the regular beers, otherwise the show could get messy.  A couple he says?  A couple would put me to sleep.  He sips away, chuffed.

The first band on the bill are White Jazz, which is Bjorn and most of Rise and Fall, really looking forward to seeing them play, I’ve heard good things.  It’s nice to see Bjorn, always really friendly.  We soundcheck once Blind to Faith are done, always a good idea when you’re lending most of the gear.  And it’s just as well we do since a couple of minutes in and Jon’s guitar, his trusted friend Judas, packs in.  He stands there looking confused for a couple of seconds and then flips the guitar over to look at the back.  Much to Johan’s horror the protection plate that covers the wiring has been removed and one of the wires connecting the volume pot has come off.  When Johan asks Jon why he removed the plate in the first place, Jon answers sheepishly that it’s been like that for ages.  “That’s a really British answer” notes Andy.  Luckily enough the sound engineer is on top of his game and he’s got his soldering iron out and fixed it in a couple of minutes. That sorted, soundcheck commences and by the time we’re done and everyone is happy and it’s pretty much time to open doors.

The outer room where we have the merch set up starts filling straight away.  We catch up properly with the guys from the other bands for a while.  It seems like we’re getting no more food, making the Tex Mex disaster all the more miserable, so I head into the back room to looks for some crisps for me and Johan. We’re getting pretty fucking hungry again.  The room is full of people, seemingly most of the guys from the second band, Wrong Decision, and their brawny shell-suited friends, this one guy dressed in all white like he’s just came straight from Wimbledon, a little party going and the beer and food, crisps, is being devoured at a rapid rate.  I help myself to a can of the regular pilsner and fill up a plastic cup with some crisps for Johan, after scoffing about half a pack of Sweet Chili Doritos with Andy who has now turned up.  The Wrong Decision guys look like the typical gang of local tuffs you see hanging around the Esso garage up Abbey Way in Corby.  I get the feeling that the fridge is soon going to be emptied.  I head back to the merch and warn Jon of the situation in the backstage room, he tells me he’s already stuffed away a couple of those strong beers in his bag.  Thinking ahead as always.

White Jazz play first, although I miss the start of their set having not knowing it had commenced.  Peter wasn’t joking when he said the room with the stage was like a bunker.  There is a little tunnel going into the main room that acts like a vacuum, the noise all but disappearing by the time it’s got to the outer merch room.  Inside it’s packed and I can’t really see that much of the gig.  I notice the drummer from Link is here and I say hello.  The gig is really good though, a lot more angular and maybe arty than the Rise and Fall stuff, three of whose members are in White Jazz.  I catch the last half of the show anyway and I’m really impressed.  I look forward to the seven inch when it comes out.

I also sit through the best part of the Wrong Decision set as I’m out by the merch chatting away to the Reproach guys about punk and being a parent, Frank from Reproach having also recently become a dad. Andy has bought a couple of records from the distro but right now that’s not on the agenda for me, my student budget already stretched to the limit.  After a while Johan goes in to check out the band and comes back almost immediately saying they sound as their appearance would lead you to expect.  I can’t help but let my curiosity get the better of me and go to check it out, although through the side door which takes you to the right side of the stage.  There I find Jon, still with many layers of clothing on despite the heat of the room. Jon is digging it big style, being that it sounds like old school NYC hardcore that doesn’t really surprise me. “I really like hardcore” he reasons as I smile over at him.  In all fairness it’s a pretty okay rendition of that style although there are some berks in the crowd throwing windmill moves around, Wimbledon amongst them, which is disappointing.  They play for quite a bit longer than the scheduled twenty minutes and I’m guessing they started late too, but they’re young kids though so it’s not that strange I guess.  I have to crack up though, when they finally finish the emotionally drained, bare-chested singer gives a big dramatic kiss to his girlfriend who is stood up front.  Looks fucking daft.

And so it’s time for us to play.  Or at least, I assume it is.  We’re all tuned up and ready to go, I’ve tuned Cedric’s guitar that he’s lent me as a spare, checked the settings on the JMP amp he’s also lent me, the others guys seem to have done the same, so I start to strum my guitar, quietly at first.  Thing is, only after I’ve started making considerably more noise do I notice Andy crawling around on all fours looking for something.  Turns out his hi-hat clutch is missing.  Andy isn’t ready, not by a long shot.  Thing is, now me and Jon have started making noise we can’t really quit, people have shuffled into the room and they’re now waiting.  I can see this is stressing Andy out considerably.  We stand there for around five minutes making noise whilst Andy readies himself.  I feel pretty bad for him, the glaring, open stage set up hardly helping matters either…

We finally get going and the long doom intro is soon forgotten.  It feels great on stage.  There is plenty of room, it’s a nice surface that doesn’t have you slipping about the place and although the sound isn’t great everywhere, I find it best over in front of Andy, I have a lot of energy.  It’s one of those gigs where you feel fit as fuck.  Some gigs you look down at the set list after five songs and wonder how you’re going to make it, others, like this, you feel like you could play all night.  The guys from Reproach are down front over by Jon, fist pumping away, shouting between songs.  I have to laugh, Tim their guitar player had said to me earlier that our album Killer is one of his favourite records of all time, that he’s listened to it at least once a week since it came out in 2008.  He said the same thing to Andy, Andy told him he needs to buy more records. Anyway, Tim and Bjorn, Stijn’s cousin who drives Reproach on tour are over there in the corner, shouting for the song The Burning Fire from that album, pretty much between every song, after a while they even start singing the intro bit.  I doubt the guys ever played that song live, even when it was fresh.  I toured a lot of the Killer period and that song never came up in discussion.  Horses for courses and all that I guess.

Anyway, the set flies by, and by the time we’re done I’m pretty spent.  It’s fair to say this is the most energy I’ve had on stage for a while.  We pack down and everyone seems happy with the show.  Once I’ve caught my breath I head to the back room and exactly as I expect I find an empty fridge.  Those fuckers have stripped the cunt clean.  Johan and Andy are stood there shaking heads, not amused.  As much as I would have liked to come in and help myself to a cold Belgian beer I can’t help but smirk to myself, thinking back to when Speedhorn were kids and we’d wipe out all the booze that came across our path.  Little bastards.
Bjorn Reproach is in the room too, leaning over the table sorting out lines.  He asks me if I’m interested, I’m not.  He gets on with it and then goes into turbo mode, he’s chatty enough at the best of times and the fucker is always laughing, but this takes him to a new level.  Bjorn Rise and Fall is also in the room and whilst Bjorn Reproach blasts on relentless, the rest of us talk kids, Bjorn RF having an eighteen month old at home.

Presumably having noticed the situation with the fridge, Peter sorts us out with some beer tokens for the bar, very appreciated.  Thirsty as fuck now.  I head to the bar just as Blind to Faith are starting.  I head to the side of the stage with a small plastic glassed, yet very tasty draught blonde beer and enjoy their set.  Bjorn is there, still buzzing, and I hang out with him enjoying his company.  When he sees I’m out of beer he asks me if I want another.  I gratefully accept his kind offer.  He comes back a few minutes later with a Triple Bos, and shouts something in my ear about it being from the forest, that Bos means forest, that the beer comes from around here.  All I know is that it’s the nine percent stuff.  I give it a clunk, it tastes every bit a nine percent beer.  Bjorn swigs away on his whilst I treat mine with a little more respect.  It’s like fucking drinking crack!  I’m only half way through but I start to feel weird, almost stoned from this beer.  Bjorn turns around to me again, “I hope you like it!”.  “Yeah, absolutely”, I assure him, not wanting to appear rude but knowing full well that I’m not going to be able to finish this beer.  How the fuck Loek reckoned you’re okay with two before a show is beyond me.  Satisfied with my response, Bjorn gives me a big smile and clinks my bottle with his and gets back to watching Blind to Faith.  He turns around again about a couple of minutes later, and asks if we can take a picture together, he’s obviously still buzzing his tits off.  Of course, we take a pic and Bjorn shows me it, complaining that his flash is crap.  A few moments later he turns to me again, “I’m gonna head off to find my girlfriend.  Is that okay?”  I just laugh at him and give him a hug before he scoots off into the crowd.  Feeling stoned from this evil beer I feel the need to get out of the room and into the significantly cooler, more open space where the merch is at, dreaming of coming back down to the normality of six percent beer.

I head out to find the other guys there, Blind to Faith finishing shortly afterwards.  Andy is having exactly the same experience as me, complaining about the mental beer.  Jon has obviously tanked his because he’s laughing extremely loudly at everything.  Johan seems to be the only one who’s avoided it.  He has a sup of mine and shakes his head.  I leave the remaining half of the bottle on the merch table and find a normal pilsner placed into my hand almost immediately.  Thank fuck for that.  Loek comes up to me after the show, same sly grin on his face that he’s had all night.  “You’re from the UK?”  I answer in the affirmative.  “Do you know Bloody Kev?”  It is indeed a small punk rock world we live in.

Turns out Loek, who plays bass in BTF, as well as the drummer Nabbe, played in the great Dutch band Insult.  They toured with Hard to Swallow years back and they’ve been friends ever since.  I can’t believe it. This gets me going straight away.  Nabbe comes over later on and the three of us talk about the HTS guys and Kev and all the other common friends we have.  This, more than anything is what I love about playing punk, that connection you make with people from all over. We spend a good half hour babbling away over another beer.

I take merch duties for a while which I always enjoy since it’s a great place to meet people and chat.  A lot of the punks here seem to be shocked by the cheap prices of our shirts.  Ten Euros?  Weird.  This one girl comes up to us later on and shows us this book she has with her, a project she’s worked on that is a collection of set-lists from all over.  It’s really nicely laid out.  Jon says to her, “That’s a really nice idea!” “It’s not an idea, it’s a product” she replies.  Touché.  Again, I wish I could have afforded.  Could have done some really nice shopping on this trip…

The night draws to a close about half hour after Blind to Faith finish.  The mental buzz from the Triple Bos now have subsided I find myself in the mood for a beer at some chilled out bar.  Ideally somewhere nearby to where we’re staying, just one or two before bed time.  The place empties pretty quick and we say goodbye to everyone.  Peter tells us he’ll call a cab but we decide to head off and get some food first.  We find a kebab place after ten minutes or so, almost everywhere else is closed.  A bit stuck for choice, we order a veggie wrap.  It takes ages and turns out to be pretty crap, it’s essentially diced red peppar and onions in a tortilla bread with some sauce they call samurai which is sickly sweet.  The guy who runs the place is a chirpy little guy though, who it turns out, used to live in Malmö and merrily goes about impressing us with his Swedish.  Jon engages.  The conversation bumbles along whilst our stomachs rumbled in anticipation.  It wasn’t worth the wait.  The samurai sauce they seem to love is not my bag…

We head back to the venue, the city by now well and truly wrapped up in bed and asleep.  It feels like the chances of us finding a cosy bar to enjoy a beer in are minimal.  And if I’m honest, I’m starting to feel pretty tired myself, it is past two after all… By the time the cab arrives my eye lids are heavy and the bar idea is well and truly canned.  If it wasn’t for the cab driver slamming his foot on the gas as soon as we sat down I would have fallen asleep in the cab.  “I love the driver,” Jon says as the engine revs all the louder.  We drive about five minutes and arrive at our destination.  They have a band flat above some practice rooms, although it seems to be in the process of being built.  We’re met by a friendly woman who shows us in, Andy looking back in horror at me as the first room we enter resembles a building site.  But after climbing a very steep and narrow spiral staircase we come to the flat, where there a numerous beds, a couple of showers and kitchen that contains breakfast for us in the morning.  This will do just fine!  A quick wash and into bed it is, I lie there and read Primo Levi for all of thirty seconds before my eyes give in.

The next day we awake early(ish) and find another glorious spring day awaits.  I put the coffee on, make a couple of sarnies and afterwards I embrace the shower.  A cab is coming at two to take us to the airport for our flight at five.  With a few hours to kill Andy, Johan and I head into town for a walk, Jon opts to sleep until we leave.  We spend an hour or so walking about before taking a seat at a café back in the area where the flat is and enjoy some cappuccino and some sunshine.  Fucking perfect.  If only every gig on tour was as luxurious as this one has been.

I’ll soon be back out on the road with Diagnosis? Bastard! for a ten date trip around Europe.  I very much doubt I’ll come home feeling quite so refreshed after that trip.

       
   
 
   

Make Punk Not War

I’ve been playing in Victims since early 2009.  In that time I’ve got to travel to some really interesting places and I’ve played some amazing shows.  In a lot of ways, I’ve realised many of the dreams I harboured during my days with Speedhorn.  Not just the travelling so much, we did plenty of that with Speedhorn, but more the type of shows we’ve played.  Sure, we played some monumentally big festivals with Speedhorn, before a sea of people that rippled off into the surreal.  But the thing is, my dream when I was a kid was not playing those kinds of shows, it was playing on a floor in a tiny room full of likeminded people, all going nuts.  I can genuinely say that my favourite show with Speedhorn wasn’t Ozfest, it was a house show in Bradford.

I’ve played a lot of those kinds of shows with Victims this last six years, house shows in the States, punk squats in Europe, as well as some great DIY Fests, but one dream of mine has still not been realised; Russia and the Baltic states.  Everyone who knows me knows I have a bit of a thing for Russia and the old Soviet, I suspect that it stems from my childhood obsession with football and teams with exotic sounding names from Eastern Europe like Spartak Moscow, Dynamo Kiev and Skonto Riga, for whatever reason I find the territories behind the former Iron Curtain fascinating and it’s always been a dream of mine to go and play there one day.

We’re very privileged in Victims in so much that we have a regular flow of emails coming in offering us shows.  The situation this last few years, namely that three quarters of us have become fathers, and add to that the fact that we’ve just so happened to relay our paternity leave, has meant that we’ve had to politely decline the majority of shows that come our way.  It’s not just the time away that is the reason behind us knocking back shows either, it’s the fact that the added responsibility of having kids means that we can no longer just fuck off and play shows and come home with nothing to show for it, or at least, we can no longer afford to come back with debt for the sake of playing shows.  We’ve been offered tours a couple of times this last year in South East Asia for instance, which of course would be incredible, but the fact is it would cost us a lot of money to travel there and play because their isn’t the economy in that part of the world to make it possible for us to at least cover our costs.  Victims going to Asia on tour would be an amazing experience albeit a very costly one and right now, with young kids at home, we can’t afford it.  Maybe by the time our kids leave home and we’re in our late fifties we’ll be able to take that gig...

Russia though, well that’s something different.  I think we’ve had at least four offers this last two or three years to go there and play and if it was up to me we’d have been every time, or at least, we’d have gone once.  It seems that the scene in Russia carries with it a bit of a stigma though.  The other guys in the band simply aren’t interested and I’ve often had my enthusiasm for the offers knocked down with, “Gaz, if you want to go to Russia you’re gonna have to go there as a tourist”.  I think Andy was there with an old band in the Nineties, although he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it so much.  He just shakes his head and grumbles a no at me.  The worry is that apart from the country being a little well, you know, corrupt, there is a strong Nazi presence in the punk scene.  This is nothing I can vouch for either way since I’ve never been there.  I’ve heard it a few times from reliable sources although the understanding is that it’s gotten better over the years.

That’s not to say it’s not there.  My friend Ove went there filling in on drums with Massgrav a few years back and he told me all about it one day over the counter at Sound Pollution.  Ove told me that the shows they did went really well, all soundly organised and well attended, the crowds were really into it and they got paid.  I was delighted with the report, thinking immediately how I would use it as a source of encouragement next time we got an offer.  But in the midst of my delight, Ove added a postscript:

“Everything went fine until the last show, which was some place in the middle of nowhere a couple of hours drive from Moscow... We’d played the gig and it was good, a load of kids bouncing around to the set.  Then afterwards whilst waiting to get paid, the guy who had booked the shows and travelled with us came up to us and said that we’d have to wait at the venue for a while because a bunch of Nazi’s had turned up and were hanging around outside waiting for the punk kids to leave.  We asked him what were we gonna do and he just said, totally unmoved, “Ah it’s ok, pretty normal, they can’t get in so we’ll just have a disco and get drunk and sooner or later they’ll get bored and fuck off””.  And it seems that indeed they did.  Sooner or later...

This unfortunately confirms some of the fears over on this end.  For me though, despite this, I still really want to go.  I’ve come across Nazi’s before and I’ve been fucked over by promoters before and I get that it’s a risk, but I figure the likelihood of being killed in Russia if we went to play there is pretty fucking minimal and whatever shit happens would simply provide great writing material.  Sometimes it’s the crazy, scary stuff that makes the best stories.  The other guys don’t necessarily agree.  Although Andy has been making noises of late that he’s heard it has gotten better and maybe he’d be willing to give it a go, if it was through a referenced, reliable source.

This year I got as close as I’ve ever come.  We received an email inviting us to headline a punk festival in Ukraine, offering to pay flights and accommodation.  To my surprise it wasn’t kicked into touch directly, the guys all said it sounded interesting.  There was just that little thing called The War that was going on but Andy mailed the guy and asked him about the dangers of going there and received an email back assuring us that where the festival was being held was a long way away from the conflict.  Ukraine is a big fucking country after all.  After a lot of uming and ahing we went ahead and accepted the offer, the promoter even throwing in five hundred Euros extra.

There were a lot of bands from the Baltic states and Russia playing the bill, with only us and our mates Reproach from Belgium coming in from the West.  As much as the worrying shadow of the war was looming I was still really chuffed that we were going to Ukraine, finally I was going to play a gig in this part of the world.  A fucking dream coming true.  The nearest I’d been previously was a two hour stop over at Kiev airport with Jen on the way to Thailand, which was pretty cool in itself.  Totally old school place where the line for the customs took almost the entire time allotted for the stop over due to the fact there was just one old, worn out lady who looked like she despised the lot of us working and the system they were using was from an era many moons before the digital age.  It’s just this kind of thing I love.

As the weeks went by the tensions in both the country and the Victims camp steadily rose and I noticed that I received the same slightly worried reaction every time I told friends or family that we were off to Ukraine in May.  With the situation intensifying all the more on the Ukrainian-Russian border Andy mailed the Swedish embassy in Kiev asking for advice.  They wrote back saying that they weren’t warning people to stay away from the region we were travelling to right now but they couldn’t guarantee how it would look in a couple of months time.  That was enough for everyone, for me too.  As Johan put it, “I’ve got a family to think of and as much as it would be an amazing experience to go to a place like Ukraine and play I have a lot of respect for war and don’t want to die”.  Johan’s words hit home to say the least.  As much as I love playing punk and travelling to places you’d never hit up on “holiday”, I have a beautiful little girl to think of and putting myself into a risky situation just to play some songs is grossly negligent.  Last time I checked Reproach’s web page they had a list of upcoming gigs for the year up, the Ukraine festival conspicuous in its absence.    

I guess if I ever do end up going to that part of the world then it will indeed have to be as a tourist.  Maybe not when there’s a war going on though.

Eindhoven

“Have you  checked in yet?”  asks Lucas.

We're stood at the check-in desk for Brussels Airlines at Bromma Airport and being that it's the “check-in desk” I'd assumed that this is where we'd be fucking checking in.  Obviously I've made some sort of howling mistake.  The friendly looking woman attending us is sat behind her desk and is on the phone, and amidst the confusing conversation  I've now embarked on with Luk and Viktor I hear her saying something about "standby list" and "overbooked".  And for a moment I have that sinking feeling in my stomach.  We’re flying down to Holland via Brussels to play Bloodshed Fest in Eindhoven tomorrow and I do not want to miss this fucking flight!  There are a lot of friends bands playing this evening, so for a start that’s going to be a good crack, but first and foremost we’ve paid for these flights ourselves and my student budget won’t stretch to flights being tossed in the can.  And then there’s Kev, who has already been on the go since cack o’ clock this morning and is probably already in Eindhoven and we can’t just leave him there.  Like your life flashing by you in the space of a few seconds as you face the final curtain so are these thoughts whizzing about my head, and then I’m pulled back from the brink by the friendly looking woman, “Okay, we’re upgrading you guys to business class”.  Dancer.

Chuffed, we make our way through security and head to the bar whilst we await our flight.  Stix is on the beer but I’ll be fucked if I’m paying sixty odd kronor for a pint of Carlsberg, so opt for a ridiculously expensive mug of filtered coffee instead.  Airports seem to have an inflation rate all of their own.  Of course, once on board we take full advantage of the complimentary service, laughing our asses off at the thought of Kev crawling out of bed at three in the morning to catch that soul destroying Ryanair flight out of Stansted Airport as we sit there swigging free drink and eating our pasta pesto.  I’m sure our fellow business class passengers have clocked that we’re not supposed to be here.  “Just because you’re in business class does not mean that you are business class” quips Lucas.

We land in Brussels, which is a huge airport and walk for what takes about twenty minutes to the baggage hall.  So nice not to be carrying anything, we’re lending all our gear from the Hårda Tider and Night Fever guys.  I have no idea who is picking us up but before we even have time to look around our lift has spotted us.  We walk about one huge car park followed by another until we find our van, our driver for the day, Koen, can’t remember where he left it, such is the magnitude of this place.  We eventually locate the splitter though and we slowly make our way for the exit, the van roof scraping along the low concrete ceiling as we go.  “It’s only rented” Koen assures us.

The drive to Eindhoven takes an hour and a half and it’s around four pm by the time we arrive.  Kev has already texted us, telling us he’s found the hotel and he’s gone to bed for a bit.  The poor fucker had put on a Dry Heaves gig at the Nest last night so has probably only slept a couple of hours.  That he can be arsed continually inspires me.

The venue isn't the usual punk house you'd find on the DB tour circuit. It's more a complex than a venue, with several floors, one of which houses the production offices alone.  There are two stage rooms, one in the basement where we're playing and then the big one, which has a big high stage and looks like a school assembly hall.  The lobby is where all the merch tables are set up, as a well as the kitchen and a bar.  Whilst waiting for our passes and fee, which luxuriously enough we're picking up before we even play, I make a right cunt out of myself.  One of the big outer walls is made entirely of glass and the sun is blasting mercilessly through it, heating the entire lobby area up with it's rays.  I spot who I think is my mate Stijn from the band Reproach stood by a merch table in front of this glass facade but with the insane amount of backlight it's a little hard to decipher whether it's him or not.  I look over a couple of times, and then, despite the fact he seems to have grown a grey beard, I decide it is indeed Stijn and slowly make my way over, squinting in the light, hoping that before I get to him his face will be revealed.  The venue is not open yet and there aren't many other people around so me shuffling slowly across to him is hardly inconspicuous.  When I finally reach him I put my hand on his shoulder and with a big smile greet him, "Hey man, how are you doing?" I've clocked that it's not Stijn before I even ask the question but can't seem to stop myself.  Grey Beard, very confused, shrugs his shoulders, "Yeah, I'm good".  I offer a pathetic, "Sorry, I thought you were a friend of mine".. he nods, obviously getting that fact, and I shame walk away.  Luk is right behind me, "That was a bit embarrassing".  Yep, thanks for pointing that out buddy.

The whole debacle reminded me of another disastrous episode when I was a kid and I thought I'd spotted my cousin Ian up the town centre.  I was walking about fifty yards behind this guy with long hair who I was certain was Ian even though my best mate Neil assured me it wasn't.  I ran up behind him and playfully kicked him up the ass only to recoil in horror when this total stranger turned around with a look on his face that suggested he was about to destroy me.  Fuck knows how I got out of that one unscathed...

I’m so fucking glad we decided to book a hotel, anyway.  We got a mail from the festival production manager a few days back informing us that the accommodation provided this year would consist of a wooden floor in the gym hall on the third floor of the venue, and it would be a good idea to bring an inflatable mattress.  Obviously haven flown in with only hand luggage allowance this wasn’t an option, as neither was a sleeping bag, so we were faced with a couple of very rough night’s sleep that I’m not sure I could still handle.  For some reason it would have felt more manageable, both physically and psychologically if we’d been on tour since when you’re on tour you’re pretty fucked up anyway,  but just coming down for the weekend, taking a couple of days out of my regular life of early mornings and sleepless nights with Polly, I just couldn’t handle the thought of coming back an utter wreck on Sunday night, because obviously, if I’m going to crash on a wooden gym floor with no sleeping bag then I’d have to be completely fucking boats to do so...

“There was a bit of a mix up with the booking so we’re upgrading you to a deluxe room”, the friendly looking woman at the hotel desk informs us.  This seems to be our day!   We head up to the rooms, one of which Kev is sleeping in. Luk and Vik think they're being a pair of wise cunts by telling me I'm staying with Kev and claiming the upgrade room for themselves but when I follow them along the corridor it turns out their room is exactly the same as the other one and that both our rooms must be the deluxe upgrade.  "Fuck me, I can't imagine what the normal rooms are like then" laughs Kev from underneath his quilt when I update him on the crack.  Indeed, the deluxe room's "added extras" seem to consist of a fat back tv with one barely decipherable channel on it and a kettle.  Still, better than that fucking gym floor any day of the week.

After a quick shower we decide to head into town and get some grub.  We'd been talking about buying a couple of cans from a shop and hanging out in the hotel room for a while, instead of hitting a bar, budget limitations again coming into play, but decide against that plan almost immediately.  It's a nice, sunny evening, way warmer than back home and this counts as holiday for me, I'll be fucked if I'm spending it sat in a hotel room drinking cans like a fucking alchy.  I've been banging onto the guys about the legendary chips and peanut butter sauce since we left this morning, and I'm starting to get on their tits with it.  I do tend do go on a bit if I'm excited about something though, especially food. We hit one of the many chippies along the way and I delve into the heavenly snack.  The other guys look at me like I'm a fucking wanker.

The street we're on, which is a pedestrianised stretch of alley between our hotel and the venue is lined with mostly horrible looking bars, even worse looking clubs and fast food joints.  It's relatively quiet now but you can tell it's not going to stay that way.   We do find this one little place though that seems to be pretty quiet and has a load of decent beers on sale, a little bit more expensive maybe than the other places but that's probably a good thing.  We sit there for an hour or so enjoying a couple of select picks from the bar. Kev as usual hasn't got a fucking clue and just follows Viktor's lead.  Vik likes his strong Belgian beers and jumps at some blonde 8,3 percenter.  You can see the look of disgust on Kev's coupon as soon as he sips on it, "Tastes like fucking paint stripper".  Vik ends up polishing Kev's off and Kev opts for an Amstel or something similarly uncouth.  A little warm from the beer, we head along to the venue where we meet up with some of the Deptford crew, Jamie, Viv and Wayne.  They've made the trip in Jamie's car.  Kev could've just as well have made the trip with them.  Jamie's brought a box of our merch for us too, great lad.

I don't really catch that many bands during the evening, we spend most of the time hanging out upstairs in the merch room with the guys from Hårda Tider, Night Fever and Dogmatist, as well as our friend Jos from the legendary bands Lärm and Seein' Red, who's taken the train down after work to hang out.  The tiny little beers you get to buy for your beer tokens here fly down the neck at a steady rate but they have little effect being that it's pretty weak lager.  Probably just as well, I don't really feel like getting too fucked up, I don't want to waste a good nights sleep in a hotel bed.

The first band I watch is Systematic Death from Japan.  Our friend Ronald is driving them around, who also have the Citizen's Patrol guys on tour with them.  Lucas told me that he'd spotted them earlier when they arrived in the van and they literally jumped out the back of the van and began taking photos of everything, totally chuffed.  I love the Japanese, wonderful people.  And fuck me, can these old guys still play.  I hope I can perform at that level in twenty years time.  The drummer is like a fucking machine, hits the shit out of his snare drum at full speed.  They were absolutely great, loved watching every second of them, and by now the beer was just starting to work it's magic, just a little.

Night Fever played after them on the main stage by which point I was really starting to zone into party mood.  Night Fever are the perfect band for that.  Solomon flying about the stage with his fingerless, leather gloves on, mixing up his hardcore ranting with the old Danzig style warbling.  Sounds like a horrible mix I know but somehow Solomon makes it work.  This is party hardcore.  They work the big stage really well too.  I have to say that I'm a little surprised there aren't more watching them, although there is still a good crowd in, but maybe the festival in general feels a little calmer than last time I was here with Victims.  I'm stood near the front with Viv and Viktor, enjoying the show drinking one of the little beers when some kid comes running across the stage and dives right into the section of crowd I'm in.  I have to laugh as I and a few others around me immediately scuttle off to the side, beers held above our heads and away from the danger of being spilled as the diver hurtles towards the ground.  Old cunts.

Talking of old cunts, Varukers play last on the main stage.  Fuck me.  I clocked Biff earlier on in the evening, sat behind their merch table, his eyes and mouth rattling about all over the place.  Apparently they'd driven all the way from the UK just to play the one show here tonight, no doubt off their tits the entire journey.  They can still play but "can" and "why" are two very different sides of the coin.  I just don't get it.  There will always be the hardcore fanbase down front loving every second of it but I can only stomach a couple of songs.

The first night of the Fest done, I'm really in the mood to go and grab a nice quiet beer somewhere and just chill out for a while before heading to bed.  There is talk of an after party where there are some bands playing, one of whom are friends with Kev, and for a minute it sounds like it could be fun.  The place is in some tiny squat, it costs five Euros to get in and then it's a free bar after that.  But then Kev says, "Twenty minute walk" and any thoughts I had of going are immediately extinguished.  Kev and the Deptford guys head off whilst me, Vik and Luk head back to that small bar we were in earlier, via another chippy.

The street is now absolute chaos.  Hundreds and hundreds of people on the piss, it feels more like Ibiza than Eindhoven.  We make our way to the seclusion of our little bar but even in there it's pretty packed, although with a substantially older and calmer clientel.  Luk soon succumbs to tiredness and heads back to the hotel through the masses in the alley whilst Vik and I stick around for another couple.  Vik is talking a lot and doing it enthusiastically and I can tell he's pretty drunk, not surprising considering he's back on the paint stripper Pale Ale.  We eventually decide to call it a night, although not before we grab some more food, this time a falafel joint being the preference.  The falafel is dog shit.  No sauce, no salad.  When I ask for some accompaniment the guy squirts some garlic mayo into the bread and hands me a small pot of sweet chilli sauce.  That'll teach me to stray from the old pommes frites whilst in the Netherlands... We sit at the falafel place for almost another hour, Vik banging on about this and that, the volume increasing steadily.  It's past four by the time I get to the hotel room. Kev's bed is empty.

I wake with the slightest of headache's.  Nothing major, just enough of it in the background to annoy you.  My phone buzzes, it's Lucas asking if Kev and I are ready to go get some breakfast.  I look over my shoulder at Kev's bed.  It's still empty.  I lie in bed watching Amy Schuler standup on the fuzzy tv channel for a half hour, before rustling up the energy for a shower.  Kev rolls in about half hour later, bright as a button, although he claims his head is a little sore.  He says he ended up sleeping at the hotel the Deptford crew were in, although he didn't get there until six am.  According to him the after party was an absolute blast, this really small little squat and it was indeed free booze after the initial five euro entry fee.  His mate's band, Terror Defence were awesome by all accounts, and the crowd, which was full littered with Scando pissheads kicked off big time.  I kind of wished I'd had the energy to go along but I was knackered, and I can only imagine the hangover I'd have now if I had.  Fuck knows how Kev is in such a relatively healthy state!  "I was fucked when I got to the hotel, but I've slept for five hours now so I'm okay".  Wanker.

We meet the guys outside the hotel reception and head down to a breakfast place Kev had found the day before.  It's another glorious day.  Summer has stuck around late here in Eindhoven.  The breakfast place has good coffee and their freshly baked bread hits the bullseye.  Good start to the day.  We head along to the venue around mid day, the chaos street sleeping once again.  When we get to the venue we find Hasse who plays guitar in Night Fever and drums in Dogmatist slumbered on the pavement, hood up over his head, cradling a kebab in his hands.  He looks like he's been sat there all night.  Vik is delighted to see him. "Heeeey Hasse!  How's it going?"  Hasse looks up, eyes swollen red, "Naij!  Fucking shit!"  We burst into laughter.  He looks absolutely fucked!  It turns out he's only slept an hour and he doesn't really know where he is right now.  Poor fucker, Dogmatist are first on, in about an hour and half.

We head in and set up the merch that Jamie has brought with him from the hotel.  We hang around there for a while, looking forward to the day ahead.  We're on after Dogmatist so it's an early start.  Kind of nice in way, get the show over and done with, but I do wonder if there's going to be anyone in the building by that time.  Kev tells me he met a lot of people at the party last night that had said at five am that they really "hoped" to come check us out but couldn't promise anything.  I'd be amazed if anyone from there made it to see us at three-fifteen this afternoon. As we're sat there chatting with Jakob Adult Crash, who is out driving Night Fever, shaking his head recalling last night's partying, we hear Hasse somewhere off in the distance, "Naaaaij!".  Five minutes later he's got a beer in his hand.  I think that might actually be his only way out of this.  Nikolaj, their bass player, looks on unconvinced... Luk isn't doing too well either, he's been complaining about a headache all morning, insisting it's nothing to do with the booze.  He's got a couple of asprins from somewhere anyway and headed to the bar to ask for some water when suddenly the room is drowned in insanely loud grindcore, some wise cunt obviously hasn't checked the volume when putting the stereo system on.  Luk turns around, his shoulders hunched up to his ears and his eyes squinting in pain, as if he's just had a sharp rod inserted up his rhana.  This amuses me no end.

Dogmatist play just after two pm.  Hasse is smiling his ass off before the start, there's a hint of shock and resignation in his smile though.  It starts off okay but it doesn't take long before the cracks start to appear.  A dropped fill here, a missed snare there, Hasse huffing and puffing, shaking his head but all the while grinning to himself.  Apparently they drop a few of the faster songs in the set to accommodate the situation.  At one point Hasse drops a stick and for a split second it seems like he's going to keep the beat going whilst he recovers a pin but then he just stops playing, unable to manage two things at once.  Brilliant.  They're a great band though and you can't help but enjoy the show, this is punk rock after all, not fucking Deep Purple.  And Hasse had warned of the dangers of them playing first after Night Fever's show the night before.. Still, their last lp is one of my favourites of the last six months and it's great to see them play.  Lucas is going about how much he loves the singer's high screeching style, Luc calls him The Witch and imagines him flying onto the stage on a broomstick that turns into a guitar and then flying off again when he's done.  Luc then does a little re-enactment of how he sees this scene in his head.

We're up next on the stage, although there's something else going on the main stage whilst we set up.  Peter from Hårda Tider has literally lent me everything, even his guitar.  He's such a nice guy, I can't thank him enough, although he continually assures me it's no problem.  I lent this very same Gibson SG a few years back when Hårda Tider played with Victims in Potsdam and I liked the particular model so much I bought one.  Anyway, our show goes pretty much to plan.  For once we're playing a stage with an actual monitor set up and you can actually hear everything pretty clear.  Sometimes that has the opposite effect to that you're after, since our set is based on it being a little chaotic but if the truth's told, it's nice to be able to hear everything now and again.  There are maybe fifty, sixty people in the small room, enough to make it feel pretty good at least.  Funny thing is, my legs are tense as steel rods for the first couple of songs and it makes it hard to get into the gig, but after taking a swig of beer after the first block of songs I start to relax and enjoy myself.  Feels like we get a pretty good reaction and we play pretty tight.  When we go into the final section of I'm Still Drowning, the slow section, I notice Linus HT starting to get a stomp on.  He loves that stuff.  He's right up to us afterwards beaming about the show.  The stage is hot as fuck with all the lights and I'm drenched by the time we're done.  I stand there chatting with Jos for a while afterwards, before packing down.  He's telling me about his spoken word thing he did here at Slowend Fest a while back and about his book that he's bringing out in the near future.  I'm really looking forward to reading that.

Afterwards, when all is sorted, we head out in search of a bar selling quality beer, needing a break from the little cups of foam you get from the bar at the venue.  The Deptford crew and Jos join us.  It's Saturday afternoon and of course, Chaos Alley is brimming with footy fans going to the PSV game.  We steer clear and end up in some modern looking bar, loads of space and a long table, kind of has that new hipster bar feel to it that a lot of the places have these days.  It's just the ticket though, sitting there with friends and a couple of quality ales,
recounting stories old and new.  Can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon.  Of course, quality beer usually means higher alcohol percentage, and after a couple of IPA's I'm already feeling that warm glow inside.  It's only five pm, it's going to be a long day.

Viv and Wayne are telling me about the party last night and how crazy the gig was at the squat.  Viv says she knew it was time to leave though when it got to around six am and a large section of the males in attendance started taking their tops off and chest slamming into each other.  Wayne adds that it was sweaty as hell in the small room, of course, he had kept his leather jacket on the whole time...  

We head back in time to watch Hårda Tider down in the basement.  There's a fairly decent crowd but I'd imagined that the pace would be packed since there is a bit of buzz about the guys right now.  Luc was telling me last night though that the Fest was a little calmer this year than it had been in previous years. Still.. The HT guys seem to enjoy the gig anyway.  It's not totally my thing but what they do they do really well and Erik the singer is always fun to watch, he never stops moving, between songs he gets into these little rants and just paces back and forth across the stage like a kid who has got their hands on a lot of the old E numbers.

After the gig we head back upstairs and I bump into the guys from Reproach who had arrived right after we'd played.  Typical.  Great to see them all the same, really nice guys.  And I realise that Stijn really does look nothing like Grey Beard.  Iron Lamb have arrived too, strange hanging out with Johan here when we normally meet at the play park or at nursery with our kids.  The Night Fever guys are all looking pretty sauced, the drummer is spread out on the merch table, half asleep, Solomon has an intense vibe going on, apparently he hasn't slept at all since they came back from the squat last night, and Hasse has apparently just gone back to pissed up again.  He doesn't even remember meeting us this morning outside the venue.  Those Danes sure know how to party.

We head back downstairs to watch Cardiac Arrest.  They're fucking great, proper good American hardcore.  Wayne is in his element, down the front the whole show, leather jacket sitting proudly on his torso, finger resolutely pointing at the singer, every now again he's on the mic chanting along.  Great seeing Wayne bouncing about with these taller hardcore guys, impervious to everything except the Cardiac Arrest vocalist.  Viv prods me now and again, nodding in Wayne's direction like a proud mum.  Vik gets chatting to their singer afterwards, they know each other from when Nitad played with them over in the States, seems like a good guy.  They're playing out in the suburbs in Stockholm next weekend but I already have tickets for the Shellac show.  Would have been a fun gig to try and get on otherwise.

There's not really much else I'm want to see today except Voorhees so we start talking about heading out to another bar again.  Good to take a break from this place.  Solomon is still going strong, well, he's still standing anyway but he is starting to look a little tired, not surprising since he's been up since yesterday.  He's up for going to another bar with us and duly leads Vik, Luk and I to the closest bar to the venue, just across the street.  The area is starting to buzz again and Chaos Alley is already brimming with people.  Solomon marches straight into this bar, which I think in actual fact is more of a restaurant, a pretty chilled out one at that, and orders four vodkas.  Straight.  No ice.  Who can argue with that?  The girl behind the bar, who turns out to be the proprietor, looks a little taken aback by Solomon's abrupt style.  Vik offers to pay for the round and we all line up to collect our drinks, I motion quietly to the barmaid that I would very much appreciate a little ice in my drink.  We take a table outside and Vik asks if we can sort him out with money for the drinks.  I had a feeling he'd jumped the gun a little.  We sit there sipping from our glasses, Luc looking a little tortured as he does so, I actually quite like vodka on the rocks, whilst Solomon knocks his back.  Some guy, a friend of the owners, approaches us and starts with some small talk.  I can tell he's checking us out to see if we're going to be any trouble, it's pretty obvious.  Solomon loses interest immediately and leaves whilst we three engage him and end up having a pretty good talk.  We chat for a while and when he's satisfied that we're normal guys he makes his excuses and leaves us to it.

Once the voddy is polished off, I finish Luc's for him, we head for yet more chips and sauce.  Viv and a couple of the others tag along.  We meet Hasse there who is by now well into    party mode once again.  He's a little intrigued by my peanut butter sauce so I offer him some.  At first he seems to like it but then his face changes, "It's pretty dry... It's really fucking dry!  Isn't sauce supposed to make the foot wetter?"  Seems like I'm on my own.

We get back in time for the Voorhees show.  Me and Jos get chatting again for a while, just general stuff about life, family, work and so on before he heads off to catch his train home.  It's always great to see him, a genuine gent of the scene.  I then catch up with Acko from Voorhees, he's still spouting the Charlie Manson look, he pulls it off though.  He's another one it's always fun to catch up with.  We follow them down to the basement and now, with a good amount of beer and some voddy in me, I'm ready to get down to business.  Again there isn't a huge amount of people in the room but enough to create an atmosphere and when they kick into the first song I'm beyond caring anyway, me and Kev are straight into the pit.  We're followed shortly thereafter by Vik and Luc, the whole of DB moshing to Voorhees.  Brilliant.  Wayne is right there with us too.  In all honesty it's more fun for the nostalgia aspect than anything else.  I mean, it's pretty good but not great by any means.  But I really don't care, it's eleven pm, I've been drinking since two pm and it's Voorhees.  Fucking worse ways to spend an evening.

Stijn and the Reproach guys are doing their best to entice me to another after party at the squat again but I'm not even close to being tempted this time, far too knackered.  I know fine well I'd get there and crash out straight away.  Better to do that in a bar nearer the hotel.  Of course, we end up back at our favourite place.  We're all pretty fucking sauced by this point.  The bar is pretty busy too.  The Deptfords come along for a bit but one by one they drop off.  Kev says he's taking the merch bag back to the hotel room but doesn't return, Vik is just pure boats and fucks off, leaving just me and Luc.  More chips.  The last I really remember is being stood outside amongst the chaos of that fucking street, eating chips and banging on to Luc about how I'm willing to go for another beer with him, that it's something I'm prepared to do for him.  We end up lurching back to the hotel, just a vague memory of thrashing my tooth brush around my gob before collapsing into bed.

I wake up a few hours later with the feeling in my stomach that tells me I'm going to vom.  But it never arrives, just lurks around in the background the whole fucking day, plaguing me.  Vik looks like cack so that helps.  Kev seems to be fine again.  Don't fucking get it.  He tells us though that when he was making his way back to the hotel last night he couldn't make his way through the packed alley so decided to sit down on a bench for a while where he ended up falling asleep with the merch bag beside him.  He woke up about half hour later, not knowing what the fuck was going on.

Kev is catching a lift back in Jamie's car anyway, can't say I blame him.  His flight is a ten tonight which sounds very boring.  If he travels with Jamie and the guys he'll make it home about four hours before his flight even lands at Stansted.  No brainer.  We say bye to him and walk off in search of breakfast, via checking in with the venue where we're meeting Luc Bloodshed who is giving us a ride to Brussels.  We meet Kalle HT there who is waiting with their van.  Apparently the fucking guards had kicked out all of the bands who were sleeping in the venue at eight this morning!  Wankers!  I'm so relieved we weren't there.  I think if I'd been in that situation I would have fucking cried.  We bump into Peter, Linus and Erik from Hårda Tider who tip us off about a great bagel place they found.  We laugh about all the chips and sauce we've eaten this weekend, I really need something healthier.  Feels right now like I'll never eat another chip again, but that's obviously nonsense, much like the many occasions I've sworn myself off the booze.  Peter tells us about this sauce they have in Holland they call War Sauce, apparently it's a mixture of brown and white sauce and they derive the name from that.  Fucking mad.  Lucas is outraged.

The bagel place is indeed top notch, although I wish I was in a fitter state so I could truly enjoy it.  The Deptfords end up walking in just as we're finishing up so we get to say goodbye all over again. We end up waiting for ages outside the venue, Luc has been dealing with a lot of shit due to these arsehole guards at the venue.. We finally get going around one pm, so there's still plenty of time to catch our flight, although we don't have much margin for unforseen fuck ups.  I feel mildly nauseous  the whole trip, not helped by Luc's girlfriend's tub of noodles that she's brought along, but the vom is kept at bay.  Despite the fact I feel pretty shite we still manage to have a good gab with Luc and his girlfriend which helps the journey no end.  Nothing like a few rib tickling tales to keep your mind off the hangover.

Amidst all this joviality the game nearly comes to a very sudden stop.  Luc is in the fast lane and the traffic is pretty light.  Out of fucking nowhere some asshole comes from behind us and barges right into our lane, not just cutting Luc up but very nearly smashing him and us into the central reservation.  We'd been on the verge of overtaking a lorry and I can only imagine that this half wit had just come off the slip road we passed and simply not seen us because as Luc's girlfriend put it, "Nobody is that much of a twat!"  Luckily Luc was aware and hit his breaks whilst avoiding a skid.  We're all a little shaken though.  I'm sat in the middle seat in the back, cramped into the tiny car but with no seatbelt, if we'd crashed I wouldn't have stood a fucking chance.  The gig would have been up in the blink of an eye.  Fucks you up a bit if you start getting too deep into that frame of mind.  The whole episode seems to have woken Vik up anyway, he'd been sat there until now, eyes closed, no doubt trying to shut out his own hangover.

We arrive at Brussels airport without further drama.  I'm very glad to get out since I'm really starting to feel sick again and after bidding farewell to the guys we make a beeline for the bogs where I wash my face with tepid tap water.  The flight home is smooth enough although this time we're sat where we belong.  Lucas comments on how it's hard going back to economy once you've experienced the upper echelons of business class.  I'm just glad to be on my way home.  I sit there contemplating how utterly and pathetically predictable this hangover is.  I remember thinking on the flight over how well I felt, sat there with my free pasta pesto and coffee and knowing then that I'd most likely feel shite on the return journey.  As if there's no way I can actually effect this outcome...

One of these days I might just give up drinking.  I mean, why not really.  I'm sure I could live without it if I really chose to.  One thing is for fucking sure though, I won't be eating any chips for a while.