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.
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You describe that brand of Brightonian fascism well. They're conditioning us to accept the police state when it's foisted upon us. I can't help but feel sorry for the filthy swine; they really think they're doing good.
ReplyDeleteI got some good photos on stage and of the audience at Mr Wolf's! Quintin was a good chap I thought. It was with a pang of sadness that both Rich and I felt as we left you there. All the best in Scotland, lassy.