Our new rehearsal space fell through with crashing inevitably. A room behind a kebab shop, below an artists's studio, the artist subletting to us, and probably covering her rent in the process. Two minutes into the first song and the shop owner hammers on our door. He knows nothing about any bands rehearsing behind his shop, and cannot tolerate it. Which is fair enough; if I worked a fourteen hour day in a boiling hot kitchen I wouldn't want to hear us rehearsing either. And if he thought we were loud, he wouldn't have enjoyed the racket made by the Azalea City Penis Club, who were due in the next evening. It seems the artist never really discussed it with him. "She's damp in the 'ead, innit", he explained repeatedly. I fear she might be. I spoke to her on the phone. To my utter incredulity, she insisted you can't hear the noise inside the shop. In which case the shop owner must have detected our rehearsal through some kind of telepathic means. He also told us how little he was paying to rent the shop with three bedrooms above it, from the same landlord. Oh the humiliation.

I now have to get everyone's money back. A complete and utter waste of fucking time and energy.