your foot in my face is what keeps me alive

At the weekend we ran the gauntlet. Friday night: train to London, tube to hotel in King's Cross.
Saturday morning get up at 5am, taxi to Waterloo, catch Eurostar to Brussels at 6.30
Arrive Brussels at 10am, 1 hour taxi ride to Pukklepop Festival site. Play cribbage for three hours, laugh at silly major label rock bands with silly hair and silly leather trousers. Spill cup of tea into my lap. Onstage at 2.30, no soundcheck. Play to 2000 people for 40 minutes. handful of kids down front sing along to songs from Flashlight Seasons then look slightly bewildered when we launch into our loudest and best rendition so far of Song From Under the Arches. Then we play Entertainment too fast, and bring the noise for ten minutes with Black Holes in the Sand.
Offstage at 3.10, do two interviews in aggressive mood, state that all garage rock bands are cattle, there needs to be a cull and they should all be rounded up, shot and melted down to make glue, get in taxi, terrifying one hour ride back to Brussels Midi station, constantly staring at the clock, worried we will have to spend a night sleeping on floors. Check in with 2 minutes to spare. 3 hour Eurostar to Waterloo. Tube to Paddington. 8.30 pm train to Bristol, 2 hours, arrive at Bristol Temple Meads at 10.12 pm. Taxi home.
Next morning, the stunningly reliable Keith from Big Joan arrives in his van, drives us for two hours to Baskerville Hall in Wales, hang around at Green Man Festival for two hours, play set at 5.30, no soundcheck. Same set as before, loud. Good. Very good, but in my sleep-deprived torpor I play one song in completely the wrong key, but Paul follows with impressive improvisational skills.

Get home at around 10 pm.

My chief problem with travel is the cost of disgusting food and drink on public transport. Cup of tea that tastes like it was scraped from the barrel of a gun, £2. Dead sandwhich, £3.50. Dampness: £2. Sopping wet yet strangely tough cake, cold as a grave, £4. Toilet facilities you wouldn't wish upon a child molester £0.20 a shit. Clinical depression, growing misanthropy, constant low-level sense of dread, £gratis.

aaaaah fuck

I was recording on the PC when a massive bolt of lightning appeared in front of the window. I unplugged all the computer equipment and hid in the bedroom. God and myself don't get along at the best of times, but recently i've been particularly sinful, dabbling in the black arts (reading Colin Wilson's The Occult), visiting pagan sites (Avebury, Wiltshire) and worshipping false idols (Steven Seagal). It wouldn't surprise me one bit if he decided to wipe my hard drive via the forces of nature.

What happened to Christina Ricci's tits? One minute they were there, the next minute they've gone. Your heroes let you down.

Need to make a truly crucial decision?

http://www.random.org/flip.html

Let the Gods decide for you.

Need to blame everything on a religious conspiracy?

http://www.veling.nl/anne/templars/

Let the Knights Templar do the work for you.

Want to upset Christian and Empiricist fundamentalists alike?

http://www.hermetics.org/ebooks.html

Go worship false idols.

Need a software multi-tracker that doesn't make you want to hang yourself?

http://www.mackie.com/products/tracktion/index.html

Here is Traktion in your hour of need.

Spoke to the hippy today. The cheque arrived, after six weeks, but it wasn't enough. We gave her £180 for a months rent plus £60 as a third of a deposit to be paid over three months.

Hippy: Hello?
Me: It's Nick. I got the cheque. It's not enough. You still owe me £60.
Hippy: Oh hi mate! Good, you got the cheque. Oh right, so that was £60 as part of the £180 deposit, yeah?
Me: Correct.
Hippy: Well, you used it for a week and-
Me: You cannot possibly charge us for using the room. Send me another cheque immediately.
Hippy: You were happy to use the room-
Me: We used the room for a total of 10 minutes. The kebab shop owner came in and told us we couldn't continue. You failed to conduct even the most basic enquiries into its suitability as a studio. You didn't make it clear to the kebab-shop owner that there would be bands playing in a room adjacent to his shop, whilst ensuring us that he was 'cool with it'. You wasted our time and money in a completely irresponsible fashion. I could even charge you for taxi fares to and from the studio, but i'm not going to. It has been six weeks now. I have given you remarkable leeway.
Hippy: (passively) don't shout, look don't get angry-
Me: I think I have every right to be angry, you are taking the fucking piss out of me. Send me the money immediately.
Hippy: I don't have the money right now-
Me: Find the fucking money and send it to me immediately. I have your fucking keys. I won't return them until the cheque clears. Send me the fucking money or i'll make duplicates and give them to everyone I know.
Hippy: Look, okay, okay
Me: I look forward to receiving the cheque. Goodbye.

(click)

Tried to relive the first buzz. Watched Hard to Kill again.