DAY FOUR – LONDON -> BOURNEMOUTH
My alarm goes off at 8.30am. I’m going to prise my eyelids open. When I can. I just need a minute.
Thing is, the Betsey Trotwood gets its delivery of beer on a Thursday morning, so I can’t stay in bed too long. Razz’s wee son, Bob, comes into the room for his breakfast. Razz offers me eggs – but I stick with tea. Good, safe tea.
He pops on a video – it’s a DVD about London, that’s been filmed by a guy I know called Keiran. It’s beautiful. I can’t remember what it’s called, but it’s a ‘day-in-the-life of London’, soundtracked by St Etienne. Really pretty. London’s always freaked me out a bit. I love the people, and all that … but the size of it is terrifying. This DVD kinda made it seem smaller, somehow.
I leave WH Smith’s before I upset anyone with my psychopathic grin
I’ve got to meet Rozi at Waterloo station for 12.15 … Apparently the quickest/cheapest way is by bus. Razz gives me a very detailed set of directions on where to get the nearest bus, and where to buy a ticket. Apparently it’ll cost £5. I take two steps out of the building, and see that there’s a cab just pulled up.
“How much to Waterloo, d’ye reckon?”
“£8 to you, sir”.
“MAGIC”
Yeah, I spent £3 more than I could’ve … but I’d had a free night of booze the previous night. And I’m frivolous like that.
I get to the station, bump into an old friend from Uni out of the blue, sell her an album (!) and mull about the magazine shops. I’m kinda hoping for a review in one of the monthlies. By this point, I’ve had reviews in Clash, Observer Music Monthly, Skinny Mag and Plan B magazine. Oh, NME reviewed it the week before the tour started … and there’s been a bunch of good press in the newspapers. You’re not meant to read your own reviews … but when you handle your own press, post out all the promos, and promote your music literally by yourself, you become a bit obsessed about who is writing about you. Q Magazine – nuh uh. Uncut – zilch. Word Magazine – nadda. MOJO – no siree. Piss bollocks wank.
Still, I’m in too good a mood after last night’s gig to be down about it. In fact, I’m smiling like an idiot. I leave WH Smith’s before I upset anyone with my psychopathic grin, and celebrate my happiness with a tuna panini at the Costa coffee place. NOSH.
I meet up with Rozzer, and we jump on the train to Bournemouth. I’ve discovered two things about Rozi Plain:
1) She likes the film ‘So I Married An Axe Murderer’
2) She is a huge fan of Rik Mayall
I also fall into both these categories, and thus we both do our best impressions of Mike Myers and Richie Rich every two minutes …
“I believe I ordered a large cappuccino? HEL-LO!!!”
“GOD YOU’RE WEIRD … YOU’RE REALLLY WEEEIRD”
“Harri … Harri-et … you stole my heart and my cat”
“Cooo-eee … Mrs Tiggywinkle …”
Repeat ad infinitum. I don’t think we pissed anyone off on the train. Oh no. The journey takes about 90 mins. My friend Sam, (who also happens to be Rozi’s brother), claims that any journey from almost anywhere takes 90 mins travel. This just isn’t true. But today he’s correct.
We arrive in Bournemouth, and I flick on good ol’ Google Maps on my phone. My mobile is dead swanky. It’s got an MP3 player, a timer, does email … and can be used as an electric razor. I’ll show you if you ask me. I type in the address of the venue we’re playing in – the Bournemouth Railway Station Club House. It shows a map of the area, and sends us off in the wrong direction, but we eventually find it. I knock on the door. It’s closed. And there’s no one inside. Oh, BALLS.
I phone up my friend Paul (aka Hardsparrow), who is putting on the show tonight. He lives in Bournemouth – but another part of Bournemouth that is half an hour away (wrong again, Sam). Would we like to get on a bus to see him? No, Paul. I’d like a pint. There’s a decent pub up the road? About 10 minutes walk, you say? And off we trot.
The moral of my story is that noodle soup is deceptively filling.
Bournemouth isn’t very nice. It’s not bad. It’s just not very nice. We have to walk down an underpass to get across the road, and I’m reminded of that scene in Peep Show where the one with the big pupils has his phone mugged off him.
Thankfully there’s some coppers milling about.
Roz’n’moi drop into Paul’s recommended boozer, the iBar – which isn’t really a boozer at all. It’s a swanky, white walled, ‘interactive’ type place. Have a pint, send an email, upload some pork scratchings, and download in the bog. I pretend to fit in by supping a pint of Miller whilst shaving my face with my phone.
Hardsparrow and Pete (aka Art Pedro) arrive, looking like an agile grandparent with an unruly schoolchild in tow. I love Hardsparrow – he’s so cuddly. Art Pedro is a bit sinister, but lovely too. Except when he’s drunk. Then he’s just really sinister. We all take a nice trip to the seaside. Rozi’s keen to go on a flight simulator. We join her, paying our £3 each. Except it’s not a flight simulator … it’s a virtual rollercoaster, that lasts all of 4 minutes. At the end of the “ride” there’s a little bit of copyright blurb, revealing the year 1995. “That’s pre-digital … unless it’s been projected from a laser disc?” some cuddly nerd exclaims.
We mull about the shorefront for a bit, take some pix on the beach, and then walk into town for something to eat. On the way we pass a grounded hot air balloon, that sits in the middle of a park, with a vistors display around it. The display has a video screen showing the balloon mid-flight, soundtracked by pop’s plump pig-in-knickers Adele. It’s her song ‘Hometown’. Is she from Bournemouth then? I thought she was a bleeding cockernee.
Wagamama has a fun sliding door, so we end up going in there to eat. I think I like the food from Wagamama, but I always order the same thing by accident. And I’m always full after about 5 mouthfuls. The moral of my story is that noodle soup is deceptively filling. Eating/drinking soup whilst having a beer is a bit weird too. Very liquiddy.
RIGHT – this day has been too eventful to summarise … so I’m gonna fast forward to the gig. Hardsparrow has been putting on nights in Bournemouth for the past year, under the name Club Anemone – and this gig tonight is its one year birthday.
So, he’s decided to throw a party. There’s cakes and sweets (a lot of flumps), and goodie bags and all sorts of shit. I didn’t eat any of it – as I was too engrossed (and grossed) by the movies being projected onto the stage by Paul’s friend. Alejandro Jodorowsky‘s Holy Mountain, being one of them. I can’t describe this movie – except to say it is one of the most f**ked up things I’ve ever seen. It contains midgets and full frontal nudity. That’s all your getting out of me.
The music was great, though. Hardsparrow opened the night, with a guy called Expedition Guide following, and then Art Pedro. All were great. Hardsparrow‘s got this new tune called ‘Mushroom Ghost’ that is a particular fave of mine.
Expedition Guide is the lead singer of a band called Dutch Husband – and his solo thing is really good. Quite Pavement-meets-Grandaddy, except solo, and with a sampler. Art Pedro‘s got a few new songs – including one about suicide where he rhymes the words ‘kitchen’ with ‘my body twitching’. Touching stuff. Plus he does an amazing cover of children’s TV favourite, Round The Twist.
Rozi Plain takes to the stage. She’s brought a DVD with her own films on, and they are projected behind her. Show off. I’m not going to write any more about her today.
Which leaves me to bum everybody out with my miserable songs, and my bad hair. I start to wish I had the rollercoaster laser disc, so that I could have that projected behind me. Everyone’s very polite, and listens … they all clap as well… but it doesn’t warrant an airing of ‘You Covered The Earth’. So I don’t play it.
I sold a few CD’s afterwards, which I was chuffed with – and I chatted with a few folk too. I met Frances (aka Animal Magic Tricks). She’s nice. I met a guy who’d been at a King Creosote show in Southampton. He was nice too. I’ve decided everyone’s really nice in Bournemouth. Except Art Pedro, who is sinister. But only cos he’s pissed.
We trundle into a cab, and make our way towards Hardsparrow‘s abode. I’m sleeping in Hardsparrow‘s room, on his bed. Hardsparrow is sleeping elsewhere. I’m relieved about this. He’s cuddly, but not that cuddly. As I turn on my side, about to turn off the light I notice he’s got a Paula Abdul tape on his shelf. Aww, bless.
I’m not getting much reading done this tour. Good night.
