Diary Entry Six

Sunday the eleventh day of the month of October in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine

Crawley. I spent the majority of my school life in Crawley. Sometimes I still wake at night screaming, the sheets clinging to me with terrified sweat, my jaw feverishly working on imaginary cud, my fingers tensed into sinewy claws, my eyes bulging and darting in all directions. Then gradually my snorting, gulping breaths subside, the echoes of hacked out threats and coughed curses recede in my mind and trembling slightly I sink back with relief, sleep stretching out it's woolly fingers again to beckon me in. Oh thank God. Then suddenly I lurch upright again screaming and screaming and screaming, drool flapping out of my contorted face as I realise that although the dream was just a dream, the bed I sunk back into is in Horsham. The screaming fades to a wail, and then a soft monotonous moaning, and as dawn drags it's cold face above the wall of night I am to be found mumbling and inert, curled into a foetal comma, eyes raw and puffy in possession of a very full bladder.
So it was with these demons, I took myself to the White Knight in Pound Hill for the resumption of the so called 'When the Monsters Arrive' tour. I had a lovely plate of salmon before the evenings entertainment began, it was but five pounds, but I have to say it tasted like ten. Really wonderful and unexpected, as usually if you handed over a fiver for something 'fresh cooked' in a pub you would be resigned to something microwaved and barely edible. Not so in the White Knight. Delicious!
First on the bill was Ollie Barron and his Imaginary Band, Leah was up next, and then onto The Glass Room. Ollie was quite smitten by their drum box thing, I think if the hole in the back of it for the microphone had been a bit smaller he might well have made love to it there and then.
Then we played. For some reason, maybe an interaction between the joyous salmon and my stouty tipple, betwixt each song I proffered forth a ceaseless torrent of mindless drivel, which ultimately proved to be quite debilitating. Cause for concern. The audience however seemed to enjoy my very public mental disintegration, which only spurred me on into ever increasing tirades of crapulous nonsense. I think our music was well received, but looking back it feels like our songs were momentary tuneful blips in a wilderness of inane orating.
Gregk played last , and it was a pleasure to play with all of the acts, a nice varied bill so it was.
And thence we returned home, in the carriage we compared the character attributes of members of various wacky fringe religions and I lapsed into a catatonic post Crawley ennui. After a night of disturbingly odd dreams I awoke to an offal-tastic breakfast of kidneys on toast. Yum.

Diary Entry Five

Friday the second day of the month of October in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine.

I whiled away the day in Glasgow sitting in the cheap environment of a Wetherspoons alehouse, availing myself of staggeringly cheap ales of high quality and food of good value but poor quality. This combination succesfully built up a wonderful feeling of nausea, so I left for the venue moaning gently to myself and eyeing dark alleyways in which to hastily and noisily vomit. Thankfully the walk restored my vim and vigour and upon arriving at The Drawing Room, I settled into a couch feeling relaxed and entertained myself with The Daily Record, a large glass of red and a few unsatisfactory games of Snake on my mobile device. The gig was good fun, the promoter and his friends were very nice people and the other guy who played was good, his friends (who were quite merry) were heckling him with wonderfully tuneful backing vocals. I then went to get a bed for the night and the guys from the gig dropped me off at a hostel. I was met outside by the proprietor who appeared half cut with his trousers falling down. He led me in and offered me something to drink, which i accepted, half thinking that he might be offering me it with motives impure. After chatting for a bit he fetched a young Czech lad from his room and began plying him with wine instead of me. Our host began to offer long monologues on "cocks", "men loving their own dicks" and dicks "being everything", while women apparently "don't want to bang dicks, they want to bang wallets", also touched upon was what "bitches women are". Our young Czech friend managed to agree with him on a few points, in particular the without exception lack of altruism among female millionaires, compared to generosity of their male counterparts. I however found flaw in a couple of his arguments and after filling their two glasses to the brim he told me it was time to go to bed and led me to my room. I hope the young Czech guy didn't experience any wandering hands. This morning I awoke to workmen hammering and drilling directly beside my head. This morning I had a bowl of chilli.

Diary Entry Four

Thursday the first day of the month of October in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine

So the gig was cancelled last night in Stockport, as the owner of the Blue Cat Cafe in Stockport succesfully completed his transition from friendly, reasonable, rational venue owner in July; to gibbering, posturing, self contradicting bonehead in September. My heartfelt congratulations and indeed a measure of sympathy to the fellow for what must have been a difficult and confusing time. Unfortunate though this was, it did enable me to pay a visit to a friend in the borders of bonny Scotland. And it is here that i find myself scribing my journal. In perhaps a half of an hour I will be setting of to Glasgow for the final gig of this, the first leg of the UK tour. Having only ever encountered Glasgow in the novels of Irvine Welsh and the moving picture, Trainspotting, I am expecting to be confronted by an orgy of headbutting, savage violence and sordid drug activity. Thankfully my sore throat seems to have cleared up so I should be able to indulge in all of these. A bowl of fruity all bran was my fast breaker this morning, along with a handful of grapes which gets me one fifth of my way apparently towards my five a day.

Diary Entry Three

The thirtieth day of the month of September in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine.

Finds me sitting here in Sheffield nursing a worryingly ravaged throat. Tonights show in Stockport could well be a croaky and squeaky affair. We had a wonderful time in Bristol, caught up with some old friends, and played a good gig at the lovely Mr Wolf's, who looked after us very nicely with free noodles and free booze. Then with a leaden heart and violently gushing eyes, I bid farewell to Ollie and Rich who returned that eve to Brighton to do battle with the Policemen guarding the Labour Conference and the hire car office that is contained within their mighty metallic shield of inconvenience. I made haste for Sheffield the following morning, clearing my throat constantly and swallowing nervously, my eyes like raisins of fatigue and the doughy pastry of my face. Last night was a restful one spent with my cousin Sarah here. The tour resumes this evening in earnest. I should eat something, perhaps some boiled eggs and soldiers. Ooooh yes, how lovely.

Diary Entry Two

Monday the twenty eighth day of the month of September in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine

And so to Wednesbury. We played our instruments in the St Mary's Club to a wonderfully friendly audience. Very good gig indeed. The other acts included Ben Marwood, who was very super and Oxygen Thief who is the loudest and heaviest singer/ songwriter fellow this homo sapien has ever clapped ears and eyes on. We then proceeded back to Mr Addis' residence to annihilate his fridge full of cider and engage in revelry until the wee hours.
Sunday morning loomed unwelcome and ugly. With your scribe here suffering a splitting headache and a hangover from deepest Hades we drove to Wolverhampton for our morning soundcheck for the afternoon gig. Gamely struggling through our set to a polite and sparse crowd, albeit in a nice venue, we choked and sputtered our way to the end and our date with the road.
And lo we found ourselves in Bristol, staying at the abode of my old friend Fran. Last night was spent in my old haunt the Sugar Loaf, lubricating young Oliver, relieved of his driving duties for one night, with the amusingly named Butcombe Ale. We then snuggled up in bed and I found him to be very considerate in the sack.

Diary Entry One

Saturday the twenty sixth day of the month of September in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine.

Sad news, sad sad news. Last night the carriage of Richard Joy's decided not to join us on the tour. It delivered this message by demonstrating an extreme rise in temperature. Perhaps it has the celebrated Swine Flu disease? Can cars get the virus? I don't know. I'm not sure anyone knows. But good news, good good news, although hidden in the fusty cloak of the bad: we are hiring a car to spirit us to the midlands and the west. Fortune smiles on us. We leave soon. I had muesli and yoghurt for breakfast and an apple. It was a turgid yet filling meal.

nice things said about 'when the monsters arrive' by stick in a pot -

http://www.tastyfanzine.org.uk/singles89aug09.htm#StickinaPot

http://www.music-dash.co.uk/releases/release.asp?item=6338

lovely...

http://dblewett.blogspot.com/

http://www.stickinapot.com

http://www.dblewett.com

http://www.lucychapman.me