DAY FIVE – BOURNEMOUTH -> READING
It’s Friday already, and i’m in the middle of cardiac arrest. Ten minutes ago I was sprawled out on a double bed, dreaming of Paula Abdul and flumps. Now I’m starkers, shivering underneath a miserable shower head that can barely muster a dribble of water. And all of it freezing cold.
Disgusted by this sexist remark, we spend the seven minute journey in mumbled silence.
/blockquote>I’m not a fan of cold showers. The bit that annoys me the most is bit where you are waiting for it to get warm. This takes 5 minutes, standing nude outside the shower door, with your arm stretched through to guage the temperature. The first 30 seconds is waiting for the water to get warm. The next 2 minutes are spent slowly realising it isn’t getting warmer, it’s just your hand getting colder. The next two minutes are spent convincing yourself that you can have a cold shower and actually enjoy it. The remaining 30 seconds consist of taking deep breaths, preparing for the coldness.
But nothing can prepare you for the coldness. That first breath in, standing underneath the freezing H2O that is spraying all over you, feels like a heartattack. In a panic, you grab the soap, and try and get clean. But it feels like it’s getting colder. And there doesn’t seem to be all that much water coming out. Pirrouetting on the spot to rinse away the fresh suds, you nearly fall on your arse, pushing your hand out to open the shower door and escape. You towel off, and come across an unrinsed soapy patch on the back of your leg. Arrrghhhhhh.
I could’ve asked someone to put on the hot water, of course … but everyone’s still asleep. Except Art Pedro. And he’s just a bit too sinister to ask. In fact, I’ve a sneaking suspicion he’s responsible for the water being cold.
A cup of tea cheers me up a bit, and soon enough everyone is awake, dressed and ready to go. Hardsparrow has ordered a taxi to take me’n’Roz to the station. Roz warns the taxi driver that her bag is quite heavy, and he says “I bet you say that to all the lads, har har harrrr”. Disgusted by this sexist remark, we spend the seven minute journey in mumbled silence.
After bidding adieu to Sparra and co, we find some seats on the train, and Roz scurries about the aisles in search of a stray Metro. She loves the Metro, she does. We have a daily routine of playing the ‘Enigma’ game, and reading the horoscopes. Today’s ‘Enigma’ is Barbara Windsor. We’re both Libra’s, and we’re both finding ourselves today. Also, we might come into some money. Great stuff, horoscopes.
We get into Reading Station, switch on Google Maps, head off in the wrong direction, realise our mistake, turn around and ask someone. South Hill Arts Centre is about a 12 minute walk from the station.
I like Reading. My pal John is putting on tonight’s show. The venue has two rooms – a big room and a small room. There’s a Who Tribute act in the bigger room. We’re in the smaller one. I’m thinking maybe i should be in a tribute act. Some people would say I already am. I think they are getting me confused with a fat Paul Rodgers. Or maybe the fat one out of Keane.
The PT show goes pretty well, I think. I have a bit of a drink, I do a lot of chat, sell some albums, and then have a more few drinks
Soundcheck isn’t for a good few hours yet, so Rozzers and I whisk ourselves away to The Global Café, a local Ethiopian eatery & real ale bar, for a pint. It’s a handy place – as it’s just around the corner from the venue. They’ve got this honey flavoured ale that’s pretty damn good. A few of those, and I’m ready for a snooze. Except I can’t. It’s time for soundcheck.
Our soundcheck never takes that long, though. It’s just a guitar and keyboard, and two vocals. 10 minutes, tops. Then it’s time for dinner. The venue have got a tab set up for us at … The Global Café. So we go back, have some Ethiopian food (which is incredible) and a few more beers. I’m getting decidedly pissed by this point. When we walk back to the venue, I almost go into the wrong room. I would have loved to have seen the faces on Who fans if I’d taken to the stage. I think I would have sung ‘Killer Queen’ and ‘It’s a Kinda Magic’ just to piss them off.
But I don’t do that. Instead, I swivel around, and make my way towards our room. There’s a guy called The Green Man who opens (who does a lot of looping of stuff), followed by a chap called James from the band My Luminaries (who is like early-Ryan Adams sort of stuff). Roz plays, and everyone swoons. I get up and play some keyboard on her song ‘Knives & Forks’.
The PT show goes pretty well, I think. I have a bit of a drink, I do a lot of chat, sell some albums, and then have a more few drinks at – you guessed it – the Ethiopian place. Their beer selection is GREAT, I tell you. They’re having a drum’n’bass night, and Roz lets slip that her early teens were consumed with the stuff. I don’t know much about drum’n’bass, except that you’re not meant to dance to the drums – you’re meant to dance with the bass. I sit on a chair, and decide not to dance at all. It’s for the best.
We’re staying at John’s place tonight, so we saunter back, and get wasted on whisky in his kitchen, while playing Jenga. I’m a bit of a Jenga maverick. I go for treacherous bricks. I’M CRAZY. I’M A LOOSE CANNON! I’M PISSED! I am quite pissed, actually. I should stumble to bed. We’re heading to the End Of The Road Festival tomorrow … and currently don’t have a plan for where to stay after we’ve played. Hmmm … I’ll worry about that tomorrow.
Head. Pillow. Done.
