Half term has ended and my liver and I are now on speaking terms again. How long this thawing of relations will last is debatable as I am due to revert back to rock'n'roll road warrior mode this afternoon. It would have been nice to have a few days grace before launching another rocket from the crypt, but there you go. Bristol tonight, London tomorrow, then bed Wednesday and possibly Thursday, if necessary.
I am only required to play the musical saw with my dear friend Haines - hardly a strenuous undertaking, except perhaps on the thighs. (One grips the saw, not the singer, firmly between the knees and bows it like a cello.) Nonetheless, the very idea of it fills me with dread.
Somehow, I am not possessed by the spirit of adventure I used to be. The M4 is no longer a Route 66 to paradise, just a functional piece of tarmac made interesting only by the thickening of accents the further west you go and the spotting of posters in adjacent fields advertising concerts by the Wurzels.
Perhaps in the days before motorways, out-of-town gigs were more fun. You'd pile into a Bedford van and take to the A roads, weaving through the dark innards of Britannia, stopping at cafes for tea and buns, inevitably chatting up the peroxide bee-hived dolly bird behind the counter, while looking like Robin AskwithPlayer's No 6. Today, we will dress like IT sales reps and travel in a hired car, driven by a nice man, who is not called Smithy, Weasel or Knuckles, and equipped with lemon and vanilla air freshener and satellite navigation (in case we can't find the M4).
So there you are. If you come tonight and hear us say, "Hello Bristol, it's great to be here," just remember: it isn't. It's showbiz, and we shan't mean it at all.
