Leipzig

I'm woken by the sound of the hotel phone ringing. It's reception informing us we have ten minutes to pack up and get out. It's eleven am. I'm now really disappointed with myself. I was so looking forward to a good night's sleep and relaxing shower in the morning. That is now fucked. I tell the reception lady that I need to shower and she tells me fifteen minutes. Deal.

We gather down in the foyer at eleven thirty. The drive today isn't that long apparently, so we decide to get some breakfast somewhere on the way out from Trutnov, before embarking on the journey to Leipzig. Andy has come down, looking surprisingly fresh again. When he left for his room last night, he was looking pretty drunk. So we're just waiting for Jon...

He finally comes down. He's looking rougher each morning. He's in pain, he's on medication and yet he's been drinking heavily and sleeping sparsely since we left. Andy said he had looked at the clock at six this morning and Jon's bed was empty. The boy needs a proper night's sleep. He comes down to the foyer looking as happy as always however. We get in to the van.

We're picking up our friend Anton, who is travelling with us to Leipzig. He played in Acursed with Jon and is now playing in Martyrdöd. He and Jon are close friends. He's a great guy and it's always fun having other friends along on the trip. The more the merrier as far as I'm concerned.

We head out of Trutnov after picking up Anton from his hotel, looking for a restaurant and a motorway. We drive up the forest road out of Trutnov and after a short while find a restaurant. It's a nice looking place with a view of the valley. We walk in. It's a fancy looking joint and looks pretty full. It feels like every diner in the place turns and looks at us as we walk through the door. Luckily, there is a table for seven free, so we sit down and everyone orders the classic Czech dish. Fried cheese and potato pancakes. I'm starving...

Jon and Anton are already on the beer. They get through three each during the meal. The rest of us stick to coke. I'm starting to worry about Jon. He needs to chill out. It seems like he's drinking to dull the pain in his shoulders. He's desperate to play. It would destroy him if, to what in his eyes, would be letting the band down, he had to sit out a show. But his health and comfort is obviously more important to us.

We wash the greasy food down with some coffee and get back into the van. Next stop Leipzig.

It becomes apparent after about an hour of driving, that a certain new motorway we were hoping to take, is not happening. It's the usual winding, country lane. All the way to the German border. I can't understand how that is possible. I mean, it's the main road out of the country and it's not much wider than the road between fucking Corby and Cottingham. The van is swinging all over the road and the fried cheese is dancing around in my stomach. We put a film on in the back of the van, but I'm concentrating as much on the film as on trying to keep the sick down. Fucking rubbish. The road never seems to end.

We were talking about a four hour journey, but it's already been that long when we finally get to the German border. I've been sitting silently in the back of the van, praying for the sight of the flat autobahn. I'm temporarily dismayed when as soon as we cross the border, Stachel turns the van around and drives back into the Czech Republic. But it's only so Andy can buy some cheap cigarettes from the border shop. I'm happy to put my shaky legs on to firm ground and breath some fresh air. There is nothing worse than feeling sick, I simply can't handle it.

I feel better after about five minutes. We hang out in the car park for a while, eating ice cream and enjoying a breather. Andy has bought a carton of cigs, Jon has bought a bottle of single malt whisky.

We arrive at the venue in Leipzig around seven pm. The four hour journey we'd predicted had actually taken closer to seven. Been a lot of driving time in the space of a few days. We jump out of the van, happy to be at this particular journey's end. By now, Jon is in extreme pain with his shoulder and he's having a really hard time. He's been drinking in the van all afternoon but everything is catching up with him now. We're worried he might not make the show tonight. We send him off for a walk whilst we load in.

The venue tonight looks perfect for our needs. It's big enough for about one hundred people, it's ran by some friendly Leipzig punks and we're sleeping in apartments right above. We load in, get the stuff set up on stage. No sound check tonight. Happy about that. The venue has food waiting for us and we sit out in the street and eat it. Once again, the food is great. We've been well treated at these shows. The hospitality and sense of community that greets you at every show is the crust scene is something that fills me with a great feeling of belonging. You feel part of something. It was never that way with Speedhorn, we were always outside of every scene. Victims belongs to something and for the first time in my touring life, so it seems, do I.

Jon comes back after a walk and is feeling a little better. He has been suffering from a stiff neck and shoulders, like his muscles are seizing up. The doctor told him that basically, he needs to take pain killers, which will allow him to keep active, which will in turn loosen up the muscles. Sitting in a van for eight hours a day is not exactly what the doctor had in mind. It's good to see him in a little less pain when he comes back. We convince him to go the van and get some sleep, which he does.

A few of us go for a walk to stretch our legs, since we're also feeling pretty fucking stiff after the day in the van. Leipzig still looks like an “east European” city in many ways.  Although it's obviously been westernised somewhat over the twenty years odd years since the Wall came down, there are still some scars left. The canal we find ourselves walking along was described to us by a girl at the venue, as beautiful. Well it's not exactly the Stockholm archipelago, but it is charming in a downtrodden, sort of way. The murky water weaves through an area of boarded up buildings, which are covered in graffiti, but in contrast there are beautiful willow trees draping tiredly over the canal edge and into the water. It's a fine contrast of nature and desolation.

After some much needed exercise, we hang out on the street corner outside the venue. There are a lot of punk kids hanging out on the pavement, drinking beer and chatting. It's a warm summer's night with a breeze that is just cool enough to keep the humidity at bay. This feels like a perfect show for a Sunday night.

A friend of ours, Janne, who sings in the great band, Herätys, is here tonight. He moved to Leipzig earlier this year. We'd played with them at Punk Illegal a month ago and we'd forgotten he'd moved here. It's good to see him again.

I wake Jon up as the first band are starting. It takes him a while to come around but he looks better for the little sleep he's had. He says he's good to play. His spirits seem considerably better than they were a few hours ago. I tell him Helene, our friend who organised the Berlin show on Friday, is here. He's happy to hear that. They're pretty close. He gets his stuff together and we all hang out, listening to the first band but not bothering to fight our way into the now packed venue.

The show tonight is great as far as atmosphere goes. The place is wall to wall with about one hundred and fifty people, great for a Sunday night show, far more than we were expecting. Although the place is buzzing, the show doesn't go that smoothly. Jon breaks a string first song, which causes a gap a little too lengthy for it to stay comfortable. Then towards the end of the set I break the same fucking string on my red SG, again...and then break the same string on Jen's white SG during the penultimate song. So even though the gig is buzzing and the crowd are kicking off, it's not one hundred percent relaxed on the stage. At the start of the show, the stage felt relatively cool, but by about half way through it has heated up to boiling point. The sound on stage is also a bit hard too work with, especially for Andy, who is sat behind the amps as opposed to level with them. But all in all it's a good show. They've all been to a high standard on this mini-tour, and tonight is certainly no exception to that rule.

People after the show tell us it sounded great out front anyway, which is the main thing, so we're happy with our night's work. After cooling down outside, we pack up the gear and hang out with friends and drink a couple of quality Czech beers. But it's obvious before long that we're all feeling tired.

We say goodbye to everyone. Anton is travelling up to Berlin with Helene tomorrow, who is going to tattoo his whole back over the course of two days. We wish him good luck and tell him we'll see him at home.

Frank, the guy who booked the show, kindly takes us to his apartment which is in the same house, just the door beside the venue.

My eyes are already closing as I fall into bed.

Trutnov

The alarm goes off at eight. Nobody welcomes the sound. Nobody wants to get up, having only slept for three hours. What's worse, we still have to load the van. And it's raining... The rain is actually warm though, humid as it is. I stand in the courtyard letting the rain fall on me.

Stachel goes off to get the van and we start loading. Jon is still lying on the kitchen floor, passed out. Johan has tried to wake him but has given up. I think Jon was up late last night. When we departed for our sleeping quarters, both he and Andy were at the bar, drinking, listening to Baroness and arguing over the Blue Album. Everyone is in agreement that the Red Album is a great record, but Jon declares the Blue Album to be a masterpiece, Andy doesn't agree. We'd left them to it..

Andy is up and looking fresh in any case. He'd not stayed up so late, I guess he tired of arguing with Jon about music. When Jon is drunk there really isn't any point in arguing with him, since he will just repeat the same thing over and over again. And besides, Andy knows that whatever he says, Jon will say the opposite. Those two are always that way. It provides entertainment for the rest of us.

So we're loading out, minus Jon, in the rain. There is some transvestite guy slumped in the doorway beside the van, beer in hand, whistling at us. He chirps along throughout the entire van loading process. Lucky Jon isn't here right now, since we'd never get the two of them apart if they met each other.

Jon finally appears just as the van is loaded, looking fucking ropey. He'd been up drinking until six-thirty, so he's had about an hours sleep. He says sorry to everyone, the transvestite says “byeeee” to us, we get in the van and go. It's a long drive, made longer by the winding Polish and Czech roads. I'm fucking knackered so I creep down on to the floor of the van between the seats and try to get some sleep.

I wake up when I feel the van stop at a service station. I sit up and put my head between the seats to check out what's going on and get Andy's elbow right in my fucking mouth. I'm now awake and not going back to sleep.

As expected, the roads through Poland and the Czech Republic are slow. There isn't a motorway in existence beyond Germany it seems. The border road between the two countries climbs through a high forest, and if the roads weren't making me feel sick then I would have appreciated the scenery. As it is, I'm just dying for the roads to flatten out and take us to the Obscene Extreme Festival site in Trutnov.

We finally arrive around five in the afternoon. The sky has turned a disturbing shade of black and it looks like we're finally going to be getting that thunder storm that the humidity has been promising these last few weeks. It's fucking pissing down as we pull the van into the back stage area. We wait in the van whilst Jon is charged with the task of sorting out passes and tickets. He's been here a number of times and is good friends with Curby, the organiser. So off into the rain Jon trudges.

After a while he comes back with a beer in his hand and passes for everyone. The rain has stopped, the giant puddle that was literally just outside the van door has already dried. We get some food, get some beer and chill out for a few hours. It feels really good to be out of the van. There are lots of familiar faces here today. Jon seems to know everyone. It is a grind festival...he's like royalty here due to his past with Nasum, Sayyadina and Retaliation. He's having a great time, and the beers are happily flowing down his throat. He gets a bit freaked out when he thinks he's forgotten his bag in Berlin, but Andy assures him it's in the van. He says sorry to everyone again. I give him a hug and tell him I love him and it's cool. Jon just isn't a guy you can be angry with.

He's been feeling really bad all day about missing load out this morning, but really it's not a problem. He's been in a lot of pain with his shoulder recently and is taking some strong medication for it. He doesn't need to worry about loading in and out, he just needs to worry about himself. Unfortunately that's not always something he's so good at.

The atmosphere at the festival is great, despite the fact it's pissing down again. We meet up with the General Surgery and Martyrdöd guys, who played a couple of days ago but have stayed to hang out. Our friend Atle from Mörkt Kapitel is here too, he's as drunk and happy as he was at Punk Illegal a few weeks ago. He's a guy that always makes everyone around him smile. He's always chuffed, and it's contagious.

The rain dies off just in time for us to load the few parts of gear we need for the show on to the stage. By the time we go on the sun is just about coming out. There must be around two and half thousand people in the crowd and the atmosphere is buzzing. Again, touring extremes. Last night was a packed out cellar bar in Berlin, one hundred and forty people wall to wall, tonight is a huge outdoor festival with thousands of faces pointed in our direction.

The show is an absolute blast. The crowd kicks off from the first song. People are up stage diving and the atmosphere is engulfing. At one point Jon announces to the crowd that this is the biggest show Victims has ever played. It feels great to be a part of that. I decided to go with Jen's guitar as my my main guitar tonight since I keep breaking the same string on my guitar every night. Typically, the strap comes off Jen's guitar during Breaking Out, so I'm down on my knees as usual, but it doesn't ruin anything. I get it sorted and get on with it.

After the show everyone is chuffed. As we're hurriedly packing our gear up I notice this strange sound, like the crowd is still screaming...it isn't of course. It's the sound of the rain, hammering down on the stage roof. It is now rain of biblical proportions. There is now way we can load the van, so we wait it out and watch Misery Index. Fuck me, their drummer can play fast. I watch for a while, but it not really being my thing, I make a run for the backstage beer tent where Jon and the other Swedes are hanging out. By now, most of the Surgery and Martrydöd guys are in very high spirits.

I get a beer and some vegan soup, which turns out to be the tastiest soup I've ever eaten. Chuffed.

The rain shows no sign of stopping so we decide to make an attempt at loading the van in record time. Johan puts his rain jacket on, Jen waits in the back of the van, myself and Andy have the job of collecting the gear from behind the stage, pushing our way with it through the masses of people standing there and then passing it on to Johan who is standing at the entrance to the stage, getting pissed on in his rain jacket. He in turn, runs with the gear as quick as he can to the van and passes it to Jen who is waiting to accept it and put it in place. We repeat this process maybe ten times. It's fucking boring to say the least. When we're done we decide we've earned ourselves a couple of beers. We pick some up and head over to the merch tent to hang out with Stachel.

We hang out for a while, chatting to people and selling merch. After sharing some fried cheese and mushrooms, with potato pancakes, which are stunning, we pack up the merch and Stachel gets the van. Jen and Johan have a had a few beers and Jen is looking a bit merry, so Stachel drives the van back to the hotel we're staying at. Jon and Andy are also looking merry. Andy hadn't drank all day, but has obviously cracked open a few since we played. We get to the hotel. I'm really looking forward to a good night's sleep in a hotel bed. We're not leaving until noon tomorrow, so setting the alarm clock for eleven is a luxury.

When we're checked in we notice that there is a cosy little bar next to the reception. We decide to drop our stuff in our rooms and then come back down for a night cap. Jon has already sat himself on a bar stool and is waiting for the bartender. Someone says to Jon that we're taking our stuff to the room, to which he replies, eyes set firmly on the bar, “I don't have any stuff.” We all laugh as he orders a beer.

We come back down, grab a beer and sit on the sofas in the hotel foyer. Jen sits with Jon at the bar. Everyone is super relaxed. We're talking to Stachel about the new record and the plans for releasing it through his label. The drummer from Misery Index, a guy called Adam, comes in after a while, wearing a Victims t-shirt. He sits down with us and we engage in conversation. He's a really friendly guy. The conversation and the beers flow. I'm not getting drunk in the slightest, but the clock is ticking away and every now and again I find myself thinking about the sleep I'm wasting. The mood is so relaxed though that it's hard to leave. Eventually, after people have peeled off to the rooms, I'm sat there at four am, with Jon, Adam and a D.R.I. roadie. Adam has a taxi taking him to the airport at five am, so he's decided to stay up and wait for it.

I finally decide that it's time to go to bed, the nine hours of sleep I was looking forward to having now become six. I head off to bed, slightly disappointed with myself, leaving Jon and the other two to it.

Berlin

The five hours of sleep was actually four hours. I woke up at seven in the morning, the sun shining directly into the room and heating it up like a fucking oven. I lay there for an hour, sweating, needing a piss but too tired to get out of bed. That classic vicious circle..

I eventually get out of bed at eight, get a shower and go downstairs. Filip and Magda's place really is something. And Magda has prepared breakfast for us out on the veranda. This morning we're treated to a vegan kind of salsa, which is really tasty. We lap it up with some crusty bread and wash it down with black coffee. Touring with Victims, we're almost always given vegan food, even though Johan and Andy are vegetarians and Jon and I eat whatever is put in front of us. Vegan food and crust punk go hand in hand though, and most of the time it tastes really good. I'm, as a rule, always grateful for free food, whatever it is.

After eating breakfast with Filip and Magda, we hug them goodbye and get in the van, It's a long journey today, eight hours or so. We drive off, following a map that Filip has given to us with a short-cut route drawn out. Our GPS charger is broken, so until we find a store selling one, we're navigating old school. The short cut lasts about an hour and half. The roads in Poland are infamous to touring bands. The roads we're travelling on this morning are at least tarmacked, but they are very narrow and constantly winding.  And the locals drive like they believe they're on a German autobahn, so we have to keep our wits about us. It's a little unnerving and I'm looking forward to getting to the motorway, though the scenic route we're taking certainly is just that. The sun drenched Polish countryside is beautiful. If only the other drivers on the road would let us enjoy it...

We finally get on to the motorway, which is still only one lane, albeit a wider one, and progress picks up. Six hours later, after a stop for some pizza, we arrive in Berlin.

I'm really looking forward to tonight. Our friends, Helene and Elenor are putting the show on, in this really cool cellar bar where Helene works. The room is small, with a tiny balcony above it and we're playing on the floor. A hundred people in here and it's going to be chaos. Helene is really excited about it and is promising a good turn-out.

Stupidly, tonight's show actually has had some controversy surrounding it. The famous squat venue in Berlin, Köpi, has apparently blacklisted us from playing there. There is another show happening there tonight and strangely enough, someone from the venue had contacted Helene last week and asked if Victims wanted to play their show instead. Before we even had the chance to reply, the same person had gotten back in touch with Helene and said that we were actually banned from playing there so it wasn't going to happen anyway.

Now let's get this straight. We wouldn't have wanted to play the Köpi show tonight. Our friend, Helene, has already put a lot of hard work into this show and we would never just blow her off like that. Do Köpi think they are punk rock royalty or something? And the reason we are banned from playing there? Well, nobody in the band knows for sure, but it probably has to do with the fact that Victims have on recent occasion, played Berlin with some bands and venues that don't fit Köpi's agenda. If Victims play a bigger venue with Rotten Sound and Trap Them, or Municipal Waste, then we're turning our back on DIY punk and the squat scene. It's a story that has been repeated over and over since the days of Black Flag and it remains as amusing to me now as it ever has.  But so it persists.

So, it's hardcore politics tonight. People have to decide whether they are coming to our show or the show at Köpi, and by doing so, pledging some sort of allegiance. Pathetic. To make things even more hilarious, a certain member of that scene has spread the rumour that we're not playing Köpi since we need to make enough money to pay for the night-liner we're travelling on. Night-liner? I fucking wish! Amazing all the more then that the venue we're playing tonight is smaller than Köpi. As I said, pathetic...

It turns out that there are plenty of people coming to see us anyway. One of the faces that come through the door that I'm not expecting to see, is Modde Nitad. I'm just about to walk upstairs to the bar when he comes walking in, his usual smile spread across his face. It's a nice surprise. He's here on holiday with his girlfriend and he thought he'd pop in and see his friends play a show in a cellar. Good times. We catch up over a beer.

There's another addition to our travelling party tonight. Our old friend, Stachel, who put out the Kylesa split 7”. He's coming along for the rest of the shows, helping us drive, taking care of things and generally making us laugh. He's always fun to have along.  It's always nice to have a couple of other people outside the band on tour, keeps cabin fever to a minimum.

There is a great buzz about the show tonight, despite the tiredness wrentching through all of us. We're treated to some amazing vegetarian food, the beer in the bar is ours to feel free with and there are loads of people coming through the door.   As Jon would say, "Pepp."

The show is absolutely spot on. One of those shows that, even after all these years, still gives you that buzz. I mean, most shows you get a kick out of, but shows like these give that little bit extra. We're playing on the floor. There are a wall of people in front of us, packed into the small room. There are people looking down on us from the little balcony above and there are people stood to the sides and ringed around behind us. We're playing IN the crowd and I love it. The show is a pleasure to play and despite the heat, it flies by on auto-pilot. Lots of energy from the band, lots of energy bounced back from the crowd. Jen, who is selling our merch for us in the room beside, can't even get in to see us, it's so packed.  It's a truly top fucking night!

We finish the show and cool off in a room beside the "floor-stage". We're chuffed with the show.  I've played big shows in front of thousands of people but there is nothing like the buzz of playing a packed DIY show in a tiny room, full of people who belong to a community.  It's something very special.

When we're packed up the gear, we head upstairs to the bar. It's incredibly humid, even outside in the street, and we need a drink. Unfortunately the barman is a miserable bastard and refuses to make us any, so we have to do with beer. Most of the people still hanging out want to party but after just one glass I can feel sleep taking a hold of me. Four hours of sleep, followed by eight hours in a van and a hot show is taking it's toll.

After a pint in the bar down in the cellar, which is by now far cooler than the bar upstairs, it's time to go to bed. Helene makes me some vodka/caffeine soda drink, but I'm done. I can't manage more than a sip. It's time to go to bed. We've got another long drive tomorrow and it's already gone three in the morning and we're getting up to load the van at eight.

We get taken to an apartment above the venue where we can sleep. It's comfortable and I'm looking forward to putting my head down. Before I do though, I can't resist having another plate of the food we had earlier. Now, head down.  Sleep.

I really wish we were fucking travelling in a night-liner..

Gdynia

The first morning began exactly as predicted. Hungover to fucking piss. Head banging like a rusty steel drum...

We'd taken the ferry from Nynäshamn yesterday at six in the evening. We dumped our bags in the cabins, which were as small and compact as they could possibly be, resembling more a drunk cell than a bedroom, and then we headed for the bar up on the outside deck.

The weather has been nothing short of glorious these last few weeks and yesterday was no exception. The first cold beer up on deck, whilst gazing out at the calm Baltic Sea, was a small taste of heaven. With a fifteen hour journey ahead of us, I had the distinct feeling that there would be more beers to follow, before we reached Gdansk on the other side of the water.

The last time I'd taken this same ferry was with Rowdy Ramblers a few years ago. That night had ended with my arse out on the dance floor, and Olle's arse with an angry Polish boot planted up it! I was hoping that with Victims it wouldn't go that far, but you never know what is going to happen with Jon around. And besides, what else is there to do on a boat for fifteen hours? When the beer tastes good and is very cheap? It was also Andy's birthday a couple of days ago, so there was an excuse to celebrate.

We sat up on the highest deck with a beer in hand, eating some great broccoli and blue cheese pie that Jen had made the night before, and watched the sun setting on the eerily calm Baltic. It's moments like this that remind me that I love playing in a hardcore band.

When the sun disappeared and the night air cooled, we headed down in to the bar. There was that dance floor again..oh the foggy memories. We sat down with some more beers. We'd been drinking steadily since we left. It must be ten or eleven in the evening by this point. We're sat around a table chatting away and the first signs of drunkenness are appearing. We're all starting to get a bit sentimental, talking about the band. You know a group of guys have had a few drinks when they start telling each other they love one another...

As we're all happily drinking away, we're amusingly interrupted by a drunk old Polish boy. He's spotted Andy's tattooed arms and has taken him them in his hands, whilst asking Andy in broken English if they are “original?”. We all crack up laughing. The old boy is soon joined by his other friends who have now all taken a keen interest in Andy's arms. We all laugh along with each other. We take some photo's with the guys and before long one of them has came back with a tray of beer for us. What a nice bunch of old boys. We're extremely grateful for their kind gesture. We sit there drinking with them, whilst being taught some Polish words, such as cheers and thank you.

The old boys head off after a while and we head to the dance floor At least, Jen, Jon and myself do. By this time, we've bought some drinks for Andy and sung the Swedish birthday song, and now we're on the floor dancing to Tupac. There is considerably more action on the dance floor this time around...and I'm well in the mood for a boogie. Jon and Jen are dancing away together, but I've found some new Polish buddies. The DJ puts some sort of Polish dancing music on and I'm dosey- do-ing with some guy who looks like a thug but is actually quite a happy bloke. He's probably as pissed as I am...

And that's about the last I remember...

I wake up in the prison cell cabin. It's completely dark and I'm desperate for a piss, and my head is banging. And it's fucking hot! I'm stuck to the plastic mattress, wearing nothing but my kecks. Mouth is as dry as a desert and not for the first time in my life, I'm asking the question, “Why?”.

A while later the guys knock on the door and ask if I'm coming for breakfast. No fucking thank you. Too busy dying...I eventually get up around eleven-thirty. At least there is now only an hour and a half left of the journey, and the sea is still as calm as a placid lake. I'm grateful for that...

If the first official day of the tour starts as expected, it certainly takes an unusual and pleasant turn. We arrive in Gdansk with the whole afternoon to kill. The venue in Gdynia is only a half hour away and we don't have to be there until six. We drive to the beach.

I have never, ever started a tour with an afternoon at the sea-side. From this day on I demand that it be standard on every tour. We should demand the beach on our rider. The sea and the beach in Sopot are both really beautiful. So much so, even Jon is down to his kecks and heading for a dip. The salty water must be easily over twenty degrees. I fall into it, beneath the surface of the rippling waves, and feel my hangover slowly washing away.

We hang out there for a couple of hours, all of us pretty fucking chuffed with the situation. After some lunch at a beach side restaurant, we head off to the venue in Gdynia. The promoter of the show tonight is an old friend of the band. He's a really nice guy named Filip, who has been involved in the punk scene for years, releasing records, putting on shows and driving bands on tour. He now runs a bed and breakfast lakeside resort as his full time job. We have the pleasure of staying there after the show. Johan promises me happy times ahead.

Getting back to the show. The venue is a really great little bar. The stage is just big enough, and the room is just small enough, as Jon puts it. The one thing he omits from his summary of the venue though, is the fact that it is incredibly hot! Just sitting down, re-stringing my guitar, I'm dripping sweat from every pore. The gig tonight is going to be a hard shift.

The support band tonight, Drip of Lies, from Warsaw, were really good. I always find that to be a welcome bonus. I enjoy watching their set and they really get me in the mood to play. I watch the most of their show before I'm forced outside by the stifling heat. I need some air before I'm getting up on that stage.

The gig is of course as sweaty as expected. I'm out of breath by the half way point, counting how many songs are left. There is a good crowd in the small venue though, and they are really into it. This Is The End goes down a storm, as it usually does. Lies, Lies, Lies seems to be becoming a crowd favourite too, since we released it on 7” through Deathwish. We play two new songs tonight, which are going to be on the album we're recording in the autumn. They go down really well too. I break one of those new strings during the second of the new songs. Why do I fucking bother? Always a waste of time..I change to Jen's guitar, which I've just bought some new strap locks for. The strap of course flies off during the last song. I'm worried the screw has come out and tore a hole in Jen's beautiful, old white SG, but luckily for me it hasn't. I'm forced to play the whole of Your Life Is Red on my knees though. It actually works out well, it's the last song and I'm fucking dying.

After the show, I get out of the building and onto the street as fast as I can get through the crowd. The breeze in the Gdynia air outside the venue breaths new life into my lungs. I sit on the curb beside the van and let it wash over me. The beer I've had with me on stage tastes like warm piss, I throw it and take a gulp of Andy's water instead. Beer actually isn't what I need on this occasion. I don't know why I even bother taking a beer on stage with me since it does nothing for you during the show. Just sits there getting warm and flat, and if you take a gulp it just lies heavy in your stomach. Funny how after thirteen years of touring, free beer still hasn't lost it's charm...

Anyway, we hang out with the Drip of Lies guys for a while and talk about a possible future show in Warsaw next year. They are making the five hour drive back to Warsaw tonight, since their drummer is working early in the morning. I'm very happy that we're staying at Filip's place tonight.

After loading the van and then sharing the final beer ticket, we follow Filip back to his hotel. It takes about half an hour, although it seems much longer on the dark, narrow, winding roads. It's worth the journey though. Filip's place is beautiful. He has this really nice bar with an outdoor veranda. We have a double bed to sleep in. Chuffed. The contrasting extremes of where you sleep whilst touring...one night in a tiny, airless boat cabin, the next night in a five star resort in the Polish countryside. You take the good with the bad I guess.

Filip's wife, Magda, has made a big pot of vegan soup for us. It's more than welcome. We sit on the candle-lit veranda, filling our bellies with it. The beer from Filip's bar is a local beer and it tastes great. We sit around chatting, talking with Filip about arranging some shows in eastern Europe next year. I'm really looking forward to getting the new album recorded so we can get back out on tour for real again.

We peel off to our respective bedrooms one by one. After my second beer, I too retire, leaving just Jon and Filip, who is, much too Jon's ignorance, fretting about getting to bed. He has to get up early in the morning for the breakfast service to his paying guests. Jon pretends not to hear him. I thank Filip for his hospitality and say goodnight to them both. Jon, stood at the beer tap, filling his glass, simply replies, “Poof.”

I smile and head up the stairs to the double bed, looking forward to five hours solid sleep.

Victims Mini Tour

Well, the weather is stupendously hot, the beers are flowing and everybody is on holiday.  Except me... 

So I'm chuffed that Victims are playing five shows in mainland Europe, starting next Thursday.  Looking forward to getting away and playing some fun shows, like the Obscene Extreme Festival in Czech Republic and a show with our friends in Converge and Kylesa in Hamburg.  I will of course be writing a tour diary on the blog each day.

JULY 15  Gdynia, Poland - Rockz Klub
JULY 16  Berlin, Germany - Kastenienkeller
JULY 17  Trutnov, Czech Republic - Obscene Extreme Festival
JULY 18  Leipzig, Germany - Plague
JULY 19  Hamburg, Germany - Markthalle

We take the boat from Nynäshamn to Gdansk on Wednesday evening.  I wonder if it will be as incidental as the trip we made with Ramblers a few years ago?  Either way, we get to Gdansk early Thursday afternoon so I'm hoping to get the chance to have a good look around one of the pinacle citites of the Second World War! 

Keep you posted!

Gareth x

Don't Ban the Bru!

I was awoken this morning by a very alarming text message. It was from my mate Lee, who works for IKEA in Glasgow, telling me that his employers have banned Irn Bru due to the E numbers it contains. At first I laughed at the thought of IKEA banning the Bru, but then a wave of panic came over me...

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and let his text message sink in. It isn't just IKEA that are banning the Bru, but the Swedish government! Fuck! Does this mean that the English Shop at Medborgarplatsen will no longer be selling Irn Bru? Or does the English Shop run on the same principal as the British Embassy, as in if you're in the English Shop you are on British territory and therefore under British law. I fucking hope so! If not, then I may have to start a campaign to make it so.

Those who come from my home town, Corby, will empathise with me here.

Irn Bru is a classic Scottish pop drink. And with Corby still being ninety nine percent Scottish (or so the town's folk would have you believe), it's hugely popular. It has an almost cult like status. It's hard to pin-point, magical taste, it's orange colour, it's mythical power to fight the hangover! I can't tell you how many times an ice cold can of Ginger has eased the pain of a vicious hangover. It has to be a can though. Some pop is far better in a glass bottle, like Coke for example, but Irn Bru is meant to be in a can. And it works ten times better than any other medicine.

So to hear that it could possibly be banned in Sweden, due to the E numbers in it's ingredients, is quite literally horrifying! What the fuck is a E number anyway?! Apparently it causes ADHD? Well it also gives Irn Bru it's beautiful, rusty orange colour! I've been drinking Bru all my life, and I don't have ADHD. I don't think I do anyway. But seriously, if you actually took into account every warning over different foods, you would fucking starve! I'm sure I heard a few years ago that potatoes can cause cancer. What a load of bollocks! I couldn't imagine a life without spuds...

I love living in Sweden, and even though I miss certain home comforts like the Chippy, it's not enough to make me want to move back to England. A life without Irn Bru though? I don't know... It's not like I drink it every day, but at least I know it's there if I want it.

A couple of years ago, I nearly shat my pants when I walked into a 7 Eleven and saw that they had Irn Bru on the shelves! I couldn't believe it. I was overjoyed! It didn't last though...within a few months it was gone again.

My wife thinks it's horrible and tastes like bubblegum. Certain ignorant friends of mine from the USA think it tastes like puke. These people know nothing. Nor do the Swedish people it seems. I knew the Swedes wouldn't get it.  I was more disappointed than surprised when 7 Eleven took it away. But I knew I always had the English Shop... Those days might be numbered too now.

The hysteria of government health and safety chalks up yet another victory it seems. When will the madness end?

Good Coffee/Bad Coffee

Fucking wonderful coffee!

You know that situation where you know someone, but you don't know their name? Like, for example, this guy I kind of know from around Sunbyberg. He used to work at the Elektra Greek restaurant, just down the road from my flat. Me and Jen used to go there now and then and we'd always get talking to him if he was working. And then I'd bump into him in the street and small talk would ensue. Nice guy, haven't got a clue what his name is. And the time for asking each other's names has long passed. It's just too awkward. It's not like after all this time you can just come out and ask, “What's your name, by the way?”. Well, I can't anyway. So instead I find myself going through my inner thesaurus. Mate. Buddy. Man. Mr. etc. etc.

Anyhoo...

Our Greek friend has since left Elektra and gone and opened his own café in Sumpan, Café Caldo. The wife and I popped in a while ago and were really pleased to find that there is yet another top quality café in Sumpan.

I was out walking Bonzo this afternoon, taking a well earned break from the mountain of laundry that has once again overflowed from it's basket in the wardrobe, and I decided to pop in to my buddy's café for a spot of lunch.

One café latte and a chevré cheese ciabatta later, I'm excitedly trying to get through to Jen on her work phone to tell her about it! She's in a meeting so I text her. For a start, the coffee is fucking great, and at twenty eight kronors a complete bargain, considering what Wayne's Coffee and the like charge you for a cup of black piss. But the ciabatta is to die for. Chevré goat's cheese, fig marmalade, balsamic dressing and a crisp green salad with red peppers. I didn't want it to end, if sex was a sandwich, it would be this bad boy! And to think I almost went for the roast beef. When vegetarian food tastes this good, it makes you ashamed to eat meat. Sorry mum, it's true..

Thank the Lord for café’s like Caldo. Who needs Wayne's? Not I Sir.

Punk Illegal Was A Blast!

Here's a clip of our show at Punk Illegal Fest a couple of weeks ago.  Check out Jon, he has a little bit of a belly these days!

We had a great time in Munkedal anyway.  The show was a lot of fun, we got to hang out with loads of friends, like Bloody Kev, Palm, From Ashes Rise and of course Sonic Ritual, who shared the ride with us.  Many others too.  I paid all day Sunday, for the party on Saturday night...

Highlights of the festival for me were From Ashes Rise, Doom and Herätys.  Bloody Kev and Kristoffer stage diving, my friends in Palm drinking snapps for the first time, Kenta from Palm flashing his nob and then apologising to the nation of Sweden for it's pathetic size, and last but not least, our friend Atle from Mörkt Kapitel falling on his ass with a huge smile on his face, piss drunk.  Again.  And again.

Good times.  Looking forward to playing some more shows in July!

Betty

I look back on the Speedhorn years and for the most part I'm happy they are over. Don't get me wrong, the ten years in the band were some of the happiest of my life, but throughout the whole period, there were a lot of hard times too. I wouldn't change a second of any of it, but there is a lot of shite I'm happy I no longer have to deal with.

If there is one thing that still pulls at my heart strings though, that makes me long for the road with the Speedhorn boys again, it's when I happen to see a photograph of our old van. Betty.

Betty was a van we bought with the recording budget we received from our label to record the last album, Before the Sea Was Built. Luckily for us, we had some friends and contacts which made it possible for us to make a great sounding record on limited budget. We didn't receive that much money for the album from the label as it is, but somehow we managed to save about a third of it to buy a van.

It was all par for the cause. Buying a van of our own would make it a lot cheaper for us to tour, which meant in turn that we could tour the record a lot more.  Given the shit job the label were doing on the band at the time, touring was the best chance we had of promoting the record ourselves.  So Gordon went about searching for a big van that with the help of his brother, Sandy, we could transform into a tour bus.

After some searching Gordon found an old school bus, designed for disabled kids. It was a big, heavy beast and although we knew it wouldn't move that fast, the engine looked healthy. And the van was big enough for six beds. Thanks to Sandy's handiwork, we were able to live in that van whilst we were out on the road. He built six beds, in bunks of three, built a wall in the back so that we'd have an area to store the equipment, built an extra seat for a designated map reader up front (we spoke about investing in GPS many times, but it never happened), he even built a shelf for a tv and Playstation to sit safely on. It was our home on the road. Her name was Betty and we loved her.

The three years we spent touring in Betty were the happiest of the bands career, even better than the early days. The band had peaked around the second album, had got as far as headlining the Astoria in London to three thousand people and had played all over the world playing to a lot of others. By the Betty years we were very much back to playing punk rock shows to smaller crowds, but we were still lucky enough to play all over the world to a hardcore fan base, and the feeling that we were all making it happen ourselves was very rewarding. It was very DIY and we had a great time doing it.

We toured so cheaply when we had Betty. If we toured Europe, the only costs that needed covering was petrol and the ferry to the mainland. We talked about servicing the van after every tour but that never happened either... So every gig we played, we were keeping at least 60% of the fee plus the money from selling merchandise. The promoter didn't have to pay for a hostel or find sleeping arrangements for us, so we could take that money as part of our fee too. This meant that we all made money to pay the bills when we got home.

Betty was an old girl though, and she really couldn't move that quickly. Luckily for us we had our best friend, Lee, out touring with us. Lee was the seventh member of the band. He drove through the nights, he sold merchandise, which he also designed, took countless photos and filmed countless clips all in the name of documenting the madness of touring with our band. And he loved Betty as much as the rest of us, so he was always fixing little things with her here and there whilst we were busy doing other tour stuff. It was great having him along. Amazingly, Lee is straight edge. How he put up with us, I'll never know...

We had some great, great times travelling around the continent in that van.  There were also some times that we not so great, but even those memories now bring a smile to my face.

As I have said, Betty was really, really slow. She was so heavy. A lot of that had to do with the huge steel wheelchair ramp which was underneath the back end. It must have weighed about a ton. It took us a few tours to get around to removing that thing. The upside to this was that the van was registered as a disabled school kids bus, so we didn't have to pay tax on it. It was a technicality that probably wouldn't have held water under thorough investigation but it was good enough for us. The obvious downside was the fact it took us about twice as long as the other bands we were touring with to get from venue to venue.

On a few occasions we literally pulled up outside a venue, loaded out, ran on-stage and played, all in a mad, stressed panic. This was caused as much by Betty's sloth-like speed as by our miserliness regarding the purchasing of a GPS system. In general though, Lee would drive through the night to break the back of the journey. A five hour drive for most bands would take us at least eight or nine. But since we had beds in the van we could pull over whenever it suited us and sleep for the night. Well, not Lee so much, he didn't have a bed, just the floor area between the seats, and if it rained hard enough the roof would leak a little, but generally it worked out.

It is amazing that we never got pulled over by the police on the autobahn and told to fuck off home. If we hit just the slightest of hills then Betty would literally be down to twenty miles per hour. We would have to pull into the hard shoulder and drive with the hazard lights flashing, praying for the hill to end before the cops came along. At best, at an absolute push, Betty would drive at sixty, and that would be downhill with the wind up her arse. The normal cruising speed would be between forty and fifty, so the night drives were necessary.

A lot of the time the night drives were when we had the most fun though. One of us would be up front keeping Lee company and reading a map, the rest would be in the back chirping along. On a calm night we'd be playing a football tournament on the Playstation, on a not so calm night we'd have music blasting, necking booze and dancing down the motorway, and every now and then, one of us would end up naked. Betty would literally become a mobile disco, to the annoyance and hindrance of our loyal driver Lee. Although secretly, I think he preferred those nights, since he had no trouble staying awake, even if on occasion he had to tell us to shut the fuck up.

The nudity thing became more and more of a regular thing towards the end of the band's days, to the point where we joked about saying to the press that we were are splitting up before one of us ends up fucking someone else in the band and the whole thing gets too awkward. I don't know why British guys always get naked in front of each other when they're drunk and away from home, or at least why we did, it's just one of those tour phenomena. We realised things were going to far when one night, we were all fucking steaming, sat in the van in the dark, driving through the night, naked. We were pushing the boundaries it seemed. The boundary was well and truly reached when someone's voice in the dark, asked if we dared to cup each other's balls. We eventually decided against it, but pissed ourselves laughing about it the next day. I think in reality, we were getting carried away with our aim of distancing ourselves from the typical metal head gumbo who would attend most Speedhorn shows. We were done with the whole “ macho metal” thing.

There was one occasion we were playing a show in Copenhagen. We'd had a great show supporting Carnivore and were having a whale of a time afterwards. We were all pretty pissed and we'd got friendly with a few girls we'd met at a bar after the show A couple of the single guys in the band were obviously interested, but the girls were just cool people and we were having a laugh hanging out with them. We ended up on Betty at the end of the night, sitting around chatting with these three girls. Really relaxed scenario. Until, in the space of what seemed like two seconds, completely unprovoked, our bass player Dave has stripped off and is pole dancing, rubbing his arse up and down one of the support poles that went from floor to roof inside the bus. He didn't really realise it at the time, but his arse was only about ten centimetres from the one of the girl's faces. We all piss ourselves laughing, but the girls don't see the funny side of it and they make their excuses and leave sharply. Dave has no idea why they were offended.

I think it was actually Dave's voice in the dark that time...

There were of course, as I said, some bad times too, or at least, some worrying times.

Another occasion we were playing our own show on an off during a European tour. We hooked up with a guy called Lorenzo who had booked us this show in northern Italy. When he mailed me about the show he told me the venue was on a mountain. I was a bit confused by this but shrugged it off as a translation thing. We met up with Lorenzo in this beautiful little town called Montebelluna. It was a glorious day and we were in high spirits. He told us again that the show was on a mountain and that we'd be playing outside. Intrigued, we followed him. We drove away from the town and started heading for the Alps on the horizon. After about twenty kilometres, we take a turn and start heading up a steep road. And up. And up. I call ahead to Lorenzo and tell him Betty's engine is getting pretty fucking hot. He tells me that it's only another couple of minutes. Well, five minutes later we're on the side of the narrow mountain road, the engine is on fire and Lorenzo is still telling me it's only another couple of minutes away. I'm sure we are well and truly fucked at that point! Stuck on a mountain dirt road in northern Italy with a burnt out van engine. But amazingly we get the van cooled down and the damage appears to be minimal. We decide to load the gear into cars from the venue and worry about the van later. The venue turns out to be a cottage and we're playing in the garden. They have a mobile bar, home made lasagne and beautiful scenery. We later manage to get Betty to the house, thanks to John pushing her up the hill, like a scene from Superman. About a hundred kids show up to the show and go fucking crazy. It turns out to be on the best gigs I've ever played, if not one of the most bizarre. And the party afterwards is of an epic proportion.

As much as we loved her, there was usually something going wrong with Betty. It's hardly surprising, we drove her over the Alps about ten times without ever servicing her. There would be black smoke bellowing out of the exhaust and we'd just grumble and put it down to her being an old van...

We never did the simple thing and make things easier for ourselves in Speedhorn. One winter's night, at a petrol station at the foot of the Alps, we're humming and hawing over whether to purchase some snow chains for the wheels. We're heading over the Alps from Italy to Germany, over night. After some quick discussion we decide we have better things to spend twenty Euros on. Of course, a couple of hours later we come speeding out of a tunnel at the top of the mountains into a vicious snow-storm, almost come veering off the road and get completely stuck in snow. We're there until morning, waiting for the snow plough to turn up. When we finally get going we still have a huge drive to Saarbrucken to make. We get to the venue and run on to stage with our gear to play the show, about an hour late...still, it turns out to be an awesome show.

Whenever something would go wrong with the van, in typical Speedhorn style, we'd just end up shouting and fighting with each other, before settling down and trying to get things sorted.

Another time on the Alps, during a European tour. We were two weeks into a tour and it had been raining every day. Literally. Every fucking day. We'd just played a show in Zurich and were heading to Italy through the night. It was a sober night and everyone had gone to bed. Lee was at the wheel and Kev was co-pilot. I remember nodding off once the city lights disappeared into the shadows of the mountains and we started moving in an upwards direction. It was fucking pissing down and every now and then I could hear Lee and Kev gasping and cursing at the weather and the roads. I get woken by a jerk and Lee shouting “fuck!” The van is pulled over and Lee is calling to Gordon. The van is on the side of the dark mountain road, the heavens are pissing all over us, and the windscreen wiper has flown off into the abyss somewhere. How Lee managed to pull the van over safely is a miracle. For some reason, Lee and Gordon break into a huge argument. Probably the stress of the situation. Anyway, they're soon friends again and are out in the pouring rain looking for the missing windscreen wiper and a method of putting it back in place. The thing has just snapped off. I think it was gaffa tape to the rescue as always. I stay hidden in my bunk during the ordeal, trusting the boys work it out...they do.

Another night I'm in my bunk, tucked in all cosy for the night, was during a mammoth drive between Prague and Warsaw. Again, Lee and Kev were in the cock-pit. I wake the next day and we're well on our way to Warsaw and everything is going smoothly, though Kev tells me the night journey had actually been somewhat interesting.

They were on the motorway heading towards the Czech Rep./Polish border and all was well. Traffic was non-existent, the weather was calm and Kev and Lee were awake and up for the journey at hand. After a couple of hours Kev noticed that there was something on the map didn't quite look as it should. “It's weird mate, but according to this map the motorway we're on just ends dead. It just seems to stop”, he casually mentions to Lee at the wheel.

“Nah, it must be an old map. It's probably under construction or something and hasn't been updated..”

They carried on in silence for a while, the unspoken and uneasy feeling in their stomachs that something was up. It was a Speedhorn tour after all.

A half hour passes or so and the uneasy feeling is starting to pass. Signs for the Polish border are starting to appear and all seems well again. The greater concern is the renowned roads on the other side of the border. BRAKE!!!!! Lee brings Betty screeching to a halt. The motorway we are on is now a farmer's field. No signs. It just ends. There is a t-junction and the choice is either right or left. Straight ahead is a fucking farmer's field. It's dark and they'd seen nothing warning them that the motorway does indeed just fucking stop. No off ramp, no signs, no lights. Stop.

They're sat there, a little in shock, staring at the field ahead and the options to either side. It's completely dark to the left.  Behind them is the three hours of motorway they just drove. There are a few faint lights off to the right. They decide that's their option. They just hope that will bring them back on course towards Warsaw at some point.

But it just gets weirder. The road they are now on, the one they turned right onto from the broken motorway, is a pot-holed dirt track. The bump along in the dark heading towards the lights in the distance.

The lights ahead belong to a small village. They approach with caution, still a little shaken up. It just gets weirder. Driving through the village in the dead of night, they notice there are small object spread out randomly on the road. Just as they're about to ask each other what they think these objects could be, Betty's headlights reveal the somewhat macabre truth. The objects all over the road are dead cats. Dozens of them. Everywhere. This is fucking weird. It's starting to feel like a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Just when it can't possibly get any weirder, it gets weirder.

They're navigating Betty through cat corpses, a bit freaked out. All of a sudden, a car's headlights blinds them from behind. It's overtakes them at high speed. As it's passing Betty, it's wheels crush the head of a dead dog that is lying in the road! Just fucking splats it! They both fucking scream at this point and Lee puts his foot down! They speed away from the village and back into the darkness on the other side of it. They drive off not quite believing what just happened.

Amazingly, a short while later they are back on the motorway and they are at the Polish border. It's the same motorway they were on before, according to the signs.

When Kev tells me about it the next day, it seems he's still shocked by it and I can tell he's not bullshitting me. We can only assume that the motorway was not completed and in true east European style, the dirt road leading through the village was the construction companies' idea of a de-tour. Quite what the village with the dad animals lying all over the roads was about, is beyond us.

I'm sure everyone in the band has their own personal memories of Betty.  For me there certainly are many, too many to recall now.  They normally re-surface when we manage to catch up with each other in the pub, on what are now rare occasions.

Yes, Betty has seen some things in her time on the road with the Speedhorn boys. I miss her and those days more than any other of the Speedhorn period. We finally did give her that service she so badly needed. Right before the final UK tour. She drove like a fucking dream! Cruising at seventy miles an hour on the motorway, not a puff of black smoke in sight.

When the band came to an end, we left her in Gordon's hands. The guy who had found her. He eventually found someone to buy her and look after her. This new age traveller guy who bought her just happened to be looking for a van like Betty.

She's now retired and living in Spain, seeing out her days in the sun.

Punk Rock Stories: Rambling Around Europe...Part Two

We'd been through Poland and Berlin on our “tour” of Europe, playing three shows in five days.

The shows in Poland had gone pretty well and we'd made some friends there.  The show in Berlin was attended by four paying people, so along with the friends we had there, that made a total capacity of ten. Even though the show was dead it was one of those that was a lot of fun to play anyway, the energy on stage was high and those who paid at least got a spectacle. We were supposed to have been supporting a bigger band but they had cancelled the day before.  Since we were already  in Berlin we thought we'd play anyway, even though not a single soul in the whole of Germany would have heard of Rowdy Ramblers.

The show in Berlin was sandwiched between two days off, which we spent in the city. We spent most of the time in the sun, drinking and watching the European Championships. Good times...

This tour was costing us a lot of personal money, since we were only playing about fifty percent of the time. The next show was in Prague in a couple of days time and we decided that as fun as Berlin was, we should probably book a hostel in Prague and head down there where the living is a little cheaper.  The show in Prague would be followed by a show in Rostock the day after and then we were taking the ferry back to Sweden.

After quite a bit of farting around on the phone in Berlin, trying to book a hostel in Prague, we got in the van and drove south. We weren't completely sure if we'd managed to reserve a room since the woman on the phone didn't speak the clearest of English, we'd just have to wait and see what was in store for us when we got there. Olle's girlfriend Gabriella had flown in to Berlin to hang out for a couple of days, but both her and Jenny had now flown back. So the first night in Prague would just be the four of us in the band. Our friend Kalle Blix was flying into Prague the day after. This has to have been the most relaxed tour I had ever been involved with...

We turn up in Prague and find the hostel with relative ease. It's in the Zizkov area of the city, somewhere I'd been before with Speedhorn on the Carnivore tour. We had gotten hopelessly lost that time with Speedhorn but that was to be to Ramblers advantage this time around, since I recognised a lot of the streets, having spent about three hours driving around them previously.

When we get to the hostel Erik's mood dips considerably. The place is swarming with American backpackers. Erik reveals he has a distinct dislike for these types. He thinks they're a shower of free-loading, rich kid poseurs who just loaf around from hostel to hostel in their flip-flops, trying to impress each other with their travel experiences and intellect. His words, not mine. But I kind of see his point. The thing I notice with these backpackers is that they do indeed seem to spend all of their time at the hostel in their fucking flip-flops. They never seem to leave for the streets or the sights, they just hang out at the hostel reading about them on the internet.

Anyway, after much muttering from Erik, we get on with getting checked in. And of course there is a fuck up with the booking...

It appears that for the three nights we'll be spending here, we'll be moving rooms three times. The second night we have a room with five beds and a private bathroom, which will be perfect since Kalle arrives on the second day. The third night we'll have a dormitory with nine beds, but it will just be the five of us in there so no problems there either. But tonight, the first night, we're sharing a dormitory with seven other people. And of course, when we dump our bags in that dormitory we find it occupied solely by American backpackers.

We leave our bags in the lockers in the room, make a few nods in the direction of our flip-flop wearing room mates who are sat around chatting to each other, a few of them holding tourist books. They seem like a bit of a stiff crowd. We head out of there as soon as we can and go in search of a bar and a big tv screen.

It's around 4pm. There is a bar straight across the road and it's showing the footy. It's also selling booze at an exceptionally cheap rate. We settle down and everything starts to feel very positive again. We discuss the room situation and realise it's not so bad. We only have the one night with these people and it's not exactly like we have to mingle with them. We plan to be out all night as it is, and by the time we get back to the hostel they'll be asleep anyway. Tomorrow we move into our own room and then all will be hunky dory again.

With this is mind, and the rum and coke that has just cost him about sixty pence, Erik is in far better spirits again. We sit there watching the footy with a couple of beers and then we're ready for the night to begin. Our connection in Prague for this show is a chap called Radek, who is a friend of an acquaintance of Erik's from back home. Even though the show is still two days away, Radek has kindly offered to show us a good night out in the city, away from the tourist traps. We'd arranged to meet him at 6pm so by the time the football is over, it's time to go.

We meet up with Radek just a short distance from where we're staying. After introductions and hand shakes, we follow behind him and talk about getting some food. We head into the nearest KFC. As much as I know that this is the food of the devil, I can't help but love it. The Colonel has had a firm grip on my taste buds for a long, long time, and being that he doesn't exist in Stockholm, I have a hard time resisting his friendly gesture, beckoning me into his fast food restaurant. We sit around munching down fried “chicken” and making small talk with Radek. His English is pretty good and he appears to be a very friendly, punk/hardcore kind of guy. He tells us he wants to take us to this great bar a bit away from the city centre where his friends are drinking and we tell him that suits us just fine.

We jump on the tram which takes us away from the tight, compact streets and up into the higher ground away from the city centre. As we're sat there talking English with Radek about music and the like, I notice that most of the people on the tram are looking at us, this one old guy in particular is holding a firm stare in our direction. He's eating what looks like a huge, greasy nan bread. Radek notices him staring at us and starts speaking to him in Czech. Radek then looks at us, smiling, and says the old guy is interested in us and where we come from and that he'd very much like us to try the food that he's eating. Uh, ok. I'm never one to say no to food, especially when it's free so I happily accept his greasy bread, as does Tompa.

We tuck into it and it's actually really fucking good. It is very, very greasy and has a quite a lot of garlic in it, but it tastes great. By now, the whole tram is waiting our verdict with baited breath. I nod to the guy and tell him I like it. A few people on the tram actually start clapping their approval. This is mad, it's like an episode of some Michael Palin travel programme! The old guy lets me have the rest of his bread, and warmed by the spirit of these people, I happily munch away at it the for rest of the tram journey.

We hop off the tram after fifteen minutes or so, cut through some bushes, across some train lines and arrive at a very cool bar.   It is actually an old train station that has been renovated into a bar. The beer garden is right next to the tracks and apart from the bar inside and the long drinking tables, the place still looks very much like an old-time train station. It's a really nice place. The have the football on the tv inside, of course, but it's not that interesting a game and the beer garden is far more inviting on this fine summer evening in Prague.

We sit at a table with Radek and his friends and start drinking big steins of beautiful Czech pilsner. As we sit there in the fading sunshine, enjoying our cold beers, Radek decides it important that he gives us an explanation on the drinking culture in the Czech Republic. He tells us that in his country, people like to enjoy drinking their beer. Therefore, they don't like their beer too strong. Apparently the beer they export is a lot stronger than the beer they have at home. They like to drink beer because they like the taste of it, not because they want to get steaming. As Radek is sipping from his huge beer, he tells me that one could easily drink ten such beers without getting drunk... We explain to him that we have a similar thing in Sweden called Mellan Öl, although most of the time we drink the stronger stuff...

The evening rolls on and the beers are flowing. Radek's friends are a rough looking bunch but they're friendly enough. We're listening to music on Erik's phone, chatting about punk rock and life in general, as you do. Someone has pulled out a joint and is passing it around, a couple of the guys happily accepting it. The night is getting hazy and the beer tastes good. We are reaping the benefits of the Czech drinking culture, although Radek actually seems to be getting pretty drunk. Despite his claims that he could drink ten beers and remain sober, he seems to be getting pretty tanked after five or so.

Radek's friends also seemed to be getting pretty fucked. They spend most of the time grinning and trying to engage Tompa in conversation. Tompa seems to be feeling the effects of the joint that was passed around earlier. Erik and I are sat across the table from each other, chatting away, when we hear something from down the table that stops us dead. We hear one of Radek's grinning friends saying to Tompa, “It's like big pig with long tail”, to which Tompa confidently, hazily replies, “Ah, you mean a Rhino.” Me and Erik just look at each other, before pissing ourselves laughing.

The beer keeps flowing and the night gets darker. We move inside the pub for some more beers. Radek goes to the bar to buy a round in. He's now had about nine beers. He comes back with four of these huge beers in each hand and bangs them onto the table we're sitting at, before falling on his ass. He is absolutely fucking boats! We cheer him on whilst he picks himself back up. So much for not getting drunk..

We eventually leave the pub and get into a taxi with Radek and head back in to the city centre. As much as he is fucked, he doesn't seem ready to stop drinking. Whilst in the cab, he tells us he's we're going to another really cool bar. When we climb out of the taxi ten minutes later, we're in what looks like a residential area. Nothing but apartments in sight, and it's very quiet. Radek leads the way and we figure he must be picking something up from his flat. We come to a small door leading into an apartment building and we follow him in. Expecting to walk into a large hall area, I'm surprised when I'm faced with a narrow staircase leading underground. I'm even more surprised when I get to the bottom and find myself in probably the cosiest bar I've ever seen. It's literally like someone's living room, carpeted floors, sofa's, wallpaper and a small bar. It's packed out with about thirty people, and the music is good. I'm extremely happy with Radek's choice of bar.

We have a great time there and meet some more friends of Radek's. The booze is absolutely flying down now and we're sat at a round table talking to loads of people. Erik has started chatting to a girl we assume is Radek's girlfriend and the rest of us are just getting on with getting fucked. By the time we leave, I'm very drunk. Radek is beyond fucked though!. It's around 3am. We're on a street corner trying to hail a cab, Radek standing in the middle of the road waving his fist threateningly at passing taxis.

We finally get into a cab. The driver starts to pull away and we're waving goodbye to Radek. He's laughing like a monkey and waving back. Before we make it out of sight, we notice Radek picking up the girl Erik was talking to, in a jovial, drunken, bear hugging motion. Before any of us can voice our concern, the two of them fall, crashing to the pavement, the girl going face first into the tarmac with Radek on top of her. We all gasp a collective “Whoa fuck!” Erik tells us that he had just made out with her whilst the rest of us were trying to flag a cab...

We finally get back to the hostel. Erik and I decide we've drunk enough and need to go to bed whilst Tompa and Olle decide on one last beer before they call it a night. We leave them and head in to the hostel.

Now, we just have to be quiet and avoid contact with the Flip-flop crowd sharing our dormitory...

We creep into the room. It's pitch black. We're drunkenly whispering to each other like mischievous teenagers. I have a bottom bunk to the left of the room, but Erik actually only has a mattress which has been laid on the floor in the middle of the room for him. There wasn't enough beds and Erik has picked the short straw. Just as I'm getting into bed I get a jolt as Erik's mobile phone starts blasting out ZZ Top. It's fucking blaring! It appears he's sat on his phone, causing not only ZZ Top to blast out of it, but also the light, which is giving off a bright, white beam. Being drunk, he can't find the button to kill the music. The two of us are by now, pissing ourselves laughing. It's only made worse when a voice in the dark, coming from the direction of the bunk above mine, calls out in a drippy American accent, “Be cool guys.”

Well of course, this just makes thing far worse. I'm in bed and I have my face in my pillow, desperately trying to suffocate my laughter. I hear Erik in the dark and it sounds like he's crying with laughter. The guy in the bunk above me is sighing loudly. I feel like a kid trying not to laugh in school assembly.

I finally drift off, my face and stomach aching with the laughter attack they have endured, my final thoughts drifting back to Olle and Tompa. They still aren't back yet....

I'm woken the next day by the thud of a large bang against the frame of my bed. I roll over and see who is presumably the guy from the bunk above.  He has just opened his locker door and slammed it into the bed frame. He grunts “Morning!” at me. I reply a simple, “Morning” right back at him, which just seems to make him angrier. I roll back over and face the wall. Bad fucking vibes. I realise that the sooner we can get out of this room and into the private one we have for tonight, the fucking better! I wait until the sounds of Angry Guy shuffling about in the room fade away, before turning back over and scanning the room.

Tompa is in a bed across from me, waering nothing but his kecks, ass facing the room, fast asleep. Olle is on a top bunk on the other side of the room, fully clothed, duffel coat fastened up to the neck, shoes still on, little brown satchel bag resting on his chest. He looks a fucking state. My immediate thought is to wake Erik. I look over at him. He's lying there on his mattress in the middle of the room. His eyes are firmly closed but he's grinning from one side of his face to the other. Thank fuck he's awake.

I whisper over to him and we decide it's time to get the fuck out of the dormitory. We consider for just a second, waking the other two before deciding we don't have time, we have to get out before Angry Guy comes back. My hangover simply can not deal with him right now.

We get up and leave there quick as fuck. We're praying the reception woman will give us the key to our freedom. She does. The relief we feel when we get into our beautiful, private room with en-suite bathroom is almost orgasmic. We jump into our new beds and breath a sigh of relief. We lie there enjoying our solitude, waiting for the phone to ring...

It takes about an hour before Olle calls. Erik answers his phone to a panicked Olle, who is on the other end of the line, whispering, “Where the fuck are you two?” When Erik tells him we're in another room he angrily reacts, “What the fuck do you men other room? Where the fuck are you? I need to get out of here!”

He's knocking on the door within two minutes. We open the door to a very pale faced Olle. This is going to be good...

It turns out that Tompa and Olle had arrived back at the room about an hour after we'd woken everyone up the first time. They're both boats! Tompa strips down to his kecks and crashes into bed, not being too subtle about it. Olle carefully tip-toes over to his bunk. As he's climbing up to his bed he accidentally steps on the girl lying in the bunk below.  She shouts out at him and he hushes apologies, climbing into bed as quick as he can. No more than five minutes pass before he realises he needs to be sick. He panics and climbs back down to yet more groans and grumbles. He makes his way out of the room and goes in search of a toilet. He finds one in time to his great relief. After he's done being sick, he then spends what seems like eternity trying to find his way back to the room we're sleeping in. He seems to have lost it. After a while he actually considers sleeping in the toilet and starts to head back there, before he notices a door ajar and realises it's our room. He creeps back in and climbs back to his bunk, once again stepping all over the girls bunk below him. Yet more annoyed groans fill the room as Olle drifts off to an uncomfortable sleep.

He wakes to the sound of himself farting, followed by a shocked, female, American accent, “Oh my God!”. He hasn't quite remembered where he is, but it quickly all starts flooding back. Bad fucking vibes. He opens his eyes when he thinks it safe, scanning the room and sees that both myself and Erik have left the fucking building. He picks up his phone and dials Erik's number. He makes his way to the haven of the new room, leaving Tompa lying in his bed, who is still defiantely pointing his ass at the room.

Tompa wakes a while later, not really giving a fuck who he's disturbed in the night, packs his bags, says hello to Angry Guy and leaves.

Kalle turns up a few hours later and we recount the story of the night before to him. He loves it and thinks we should start a hostel war with the Americans.

The rest of the time in Prague is a little calmer. We have a great show the night after, which takes place in a nuclear fallout bunker, about sixty meters below the ground. The load in is a nightmare but the show is amazing. We spend a final night in the hostel, having once again moved room. We get back a bit drunk after the show and realise we're in the room next to the dormitory from the first night. Erik spends about an hour shouting out of the bedroom window to the room beside, chants such as, “Go home America!” and “No war!”. We're all loving it, of course...

The final show in Rostock is absolutely fucking rubbish. It's supposed to be a festival, but it's actually in a function room at an English pub and the rather mature crowd spends the whole time watching us, sat down, looking like they're waiting for the bingo to start. It's fucking crap to say the least, and my amp sounds like it's broken.

The one good thing about that show is we're given a comfortable bed to sleep in afterwards. We're getting the ferry at 7am the next day so we don't have much time to enjoy it. But despite the early rise, we're happy to leave Rostock and head home. The memories of the ferry we'd taken at the start of our journey nine days before, cracking a smile across my face as I drift off to sleep on the boat home.