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.