I always get giddy and excited when I fly east across to the pond. Whether I'm flying in to Helsinki or Oslo, London or Barcelona, the level of excitement I feel when the pilot descends below the clouds, and the city in question comes into view is as addicting as heroin. I love many things about being on this side of the ditch. I love seeing old bricks. I love how the French will riot over a soiled baguette. I love the idea of spending an entire weekend going to fifteen different shops just to buy enough ingredients to make a simple chilli con carne. As inconvenient as that may sound, there are many benefits to this. One being you get to know your local baker and your green grocer by name, and these interactions will lower your levels of social anxiety, thus making you less of a wanker in public. Which is good for everyone. The other being you're not supporting some corporate shareholders who live on a yacht and don't know how much the price of yogurt is, and surely that's a good thing.
I’ve been home for a week or so now, and since last week’s flight home was the worst travel day of my entire life, I’ve been hiding in my flat, drinking tea and plotting my next three dozen excursions. Touring is funny, I think people have this pre conceived notion of being on tour as a never ending party. Everyone sees a picture or two on their Instagram feeds and thinks "wow, they're rockstars". Sadly, this couldn't be further from the truth for a few reasons, least of which because, this isn’t 1987, we’re not Mötley Crüe, and I’m definitely not David Lee Roth. What people don't see is the months of work, meetings, and conversations on the back end that goes into planing this circus. There’s literally endless amount of shit to deal with. For starters, we need to rent a tour van so we can get from A to B, and of course, backline so we can make noise. There’s also flights, hotels, and ferries that need booking. Nowadays, because Britain isn't part of the EU (because Nigel Farage and UKIP are racist bigots), we need a carnet to take our own gear from the UK to the continent and vise versa. We also need work visa's to play here, or they won't let us into the country. There’s also income taxes to pay. Merch to order. Show advances to deal with. Promotion. Social Media. Radio. Music videos. The list is quite honestly endless. All of this, so we can strum a cord and you can like a story while you're sitting on the can. Madness.
Touring is also extremely taxing on you personally. Aside from the abstract and crushing loneliness you feel after a few weeks away, there is zero routine. It's very difficult to do simple things such as go to the gym, or do laundry. Some people handle it better than others, but by the time we got to Manchester I had zero clean clothes. I had resorted to wearing my boxers inside out and asking the other bands to donate a few shirts. Eating well on the road is extremely difficult too. I know I'm a sucker for a Gregg's sausage roll or two, but after a month, the novelty wears off pretty quickly. It's also tiring having to deal with the same seven or eight blokes everyday. Don't get me wrong, I love them dearly, but if you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to take my spot and try living in a tin can with the same dudes for 35 days or more. I guarantee you, you’ll last 4 days. It’s like you’re traveling with 8 girlfriends at the same time, at least one of them is on their period at any given moment. Needless to say, you're bound to have the occasional blow up. All of this to be a travelling t-shirt salesman.
Minus the occasional hiccup, the clutch that died in the first van, the trailer I destroyed, the occasional Barney, a missed flight, the load in's (and out's), the late nights and early mornings, we made it to Manchester for the 28th and final show of the tour. We've had countless laughs on this run, and as it would turn out, Manchester would end up being my favourite club show I've ever played. Everyone at Rebellion was singing along, moshing and making it the perfect send off. I was stone cold sober for this one and I vividly remember looking out and thinking that this weird life we live is pretty damn incredible. After the load out, we all wanted to go out, send everyone off and say a proper hangover and goodbye. I had no plans on getting completely blotto, but we stumbled upon Bunny Jackson's, and let me just say Bunny Jackon’s would have other ideas for us. It turned into the perfect send off for everyone.
Walking into Bunny’s felt as if I had taken a detour off the A5103 and teleported straight into a Texan road house. I had no idea such places existed in the UK. Since UKIP would not approve of this Boss Hoggery within the Kings border, we had enough fun for us, and them. There was live band karaoke and after a few moments of convincing, we sent our singer up there and he sung us a little Highway To Hell to fully complete the tour. Have you ever seen a mosh pit or crowd surfing at live band karaoke? No? We did that night. The regular punters and stag do goers had no idea what the fuck was going on. It was a moment of pure chaos, and we enjoyed every second of it. Bunny's turned into one of those spur of the moment afterparties that'll stay with us forever. With their heavily graffitied walls, the baseball on the custard, the band stickers and neon signs hanging from every surface in the bar like a Royal in an oversized cloak, it was the perfect backdrop to let loose and share the moment with our beloved Viking tour mates from Denmark.
For now, I'm detoxing, and finding a new job. Catch ya's in Tokyo!
6/6.
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