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.