The Answer tour – Part 3

Ah bonjour.

Now where were we? Oh yes, your heroes (?) had just completed the first of the three legs of the Answer tour and had celebrated by colourfully redecorating their bathrooms with their own stomach lining. The day after the Sheffield gig was a day off, which we all took as an opportunity to get some rest, drink green teas, hook ourselves up to IV drips filled with Innocent smoothies and generally make sure that we were in tip top condition.

The thing is, we didn’t.

Atko and Bill proceeded to head out into the wilds of Sheffield and by all accounts got completely rozzled to an even worse state than they had been whilst out on the road. I struggled manfully to get myself back to normal but failed miserably to the extent that I lay awake all night sweating with ‘Mr Blue Sky’ by ELO stuck in my head. On repeat. For eight hours. By the time we got to Nottingham on Monday we all looked and felt like complete shit to be brutally honest, a situation that was not improved when we decided to wolf down about 3 plates of chips 5 minutes before going onstage. The gig was ok considering but I certainly had that awful sensation akin to when that chap from Quantum Leap turns up in someone else’s body with absolutely no fucking idea what he’s doing there. In that way I passed the 28 minutes of power that comprised our set.

The next day was another day off which we all took slightly easier than the last one (I ended up locating a leak in my supply pipe, if you pardon the expression) and thus we were all much more lively and well-oiled for the gig in Birmingham on the Wednesday. Home of Black Sabbath, Judas Priest and UB40, Birmingham was clearly an important one for us to get right and I rather feel that we did just that, thank you very much. In a slightly off-putting manner the venue’s big screens were showing a mixture of promos for future concerts and what appeared to be cookery programmes, so much so that I found myself drifting wistfully off halfway through Widowmaker as my attention was caught by a rather nice looking Greek salad on the TV. But apart from that it was all good honest rollicking stuff, rounded off slightly unusually by meeting a chap who had come to see us play despite riding his bike headfirst into a moving car only days beforehand. To be fair to the lad he did look a little bit like he’d been put through the ringer, but total and unmitigated respect to him for making the effort. Apparently only the day beforehand he hadn’t been able to get out of bed so the fact that he’d made such an effort to come see us useless set of dipsomaniacs really meant even more than if Tony Iommi or Ali Campbell themselves had come to see us. I think I gave him a bag for free because I am nothing if not generous.

The next day was York – fair historic city of the North and home of Richard III, famous for his winter of discontent, his rather pressing need for a horse and the fact that his name is rhyming slang for having a dump. I had been at work that morning after getting back to Leeds at 3am from Birmingham. Needless to say I felt a little bit peculiar, but only in that rather lovely way where you feel like you’re passively viewing your life like it’s happening in Coronation Street. On that note, upon arrival at the venue we started drinking gently and were approached by somebody from the venue staff who asked us whether we had any space on the guestlist. But of course – ‘who would like to come and join us for some exuberant boogie-woogie?’ we asked. ‘Soil and Puddle ofMudd’ was the response. Well, how could we pass up an opportunity to meet such luminaries of the 5th wave of grunge? Anyway, we stuck them on the guest list, had a few more drinks and upon finishing discovered that that chap from Puddle ofMudd who looks like a wrestler had bought one of every item of merchandise we had and was struggling manfully with his phone in order to make a call to his manager to tell him all about us, which was very nice. A few of us went to get a Chinese at that point, leaving Dougie to have a lovely chit-chat from the man from Puddle ofMudd. Upon returning to the venue, I asked Dougie how he was. Dougie responded with the immortal words:

“What, him? He were fucked.”

I can’t imagine that we’ll be playing Lollapalooza any time soon. If it even exists.

Well that was that. We loaded up and headed back to mine for a lovely evening of light ales and documentaries about the making of British Steel and Bat Out of Hell. Rather worryingly I pressed play on my Sky Plus box only to find that the first image that appeared on my telly was from the previous programme to ‘Classic Albums: British Steel’, which happened to be of Bill playing guitar in Napalm Death in about 1989. Did RATHER make me look like some kind of stalker. That and the little shrine I’ve got.

Anyhoo, the day after saw us head even further North to Scotland for more japery. In the next exciting episode we meet girls, cause girls to leave abruptly, and nearly miss our own gig. Stay tuned!


Published in: on November 14, 2011 at 7:22 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Answer Tour: Part 2

Hello everybody!

Some of you may be surprised to see part 2 of this blog appear so soon after the first one, especially those of you who have read previous entries and know that there can be a wait of about 6 months between updates. However, as part of my new regime of ‘pulling my bloody finger out’ I’ve decided to crack on and try and keep things moving like a well-oiled narrative machine. I hope you all bloody appreciate it.

Now where were we? Oh yes – we had just spent a day of aimless wandering, flamboyant drinking and fully-clothed sleeping in Bristol hadn’t we? Well the following day was the actual Bristol gig so we were up with the lark as usual (about 11.55 ready for being kicked out of the Travelodge at 12) whereupon Atko, Adam B and I indulged ourselves by attending a local Bristol fitness centre which had the benefit of having a sauna and steam room. As you may know, Gentlemans Pistols are devotees of the general ‘good living’ principle and have been known to find ourselves in all kinds of exotic places across Europe, sweating in tiny wooden boxes without any trunks on. Fortunately or unfortunately the Bristolian spa that we found ourselves in was very much of the ‘trunks on’ school and as such everybody’s modesty remained intact – at least until some of the later dates on the tour, but we’ll come to that.

Emerging from the sauna like new-borns squinting at their first sunrise, bodies cleansed and wellness throughout, we set about the by now fairly standard task of finding somewhere to have a nice big drink. The gig that night was on a boat which fortunately enough was to remain static while we played. Having performed on a boat before I had bad memories of starting a fill just as the vessel keeled and nearly finding myself on the floor by the time I’d got to the end of my flamboyant paradiddle. However as I mentioned the boat for that particular evening was to remain moored and any instability would be solely due to the addition of ‘rum’ to ‘coke’. As it turns out we had a thoroughly nice evening as always, chatted affably with several inhabitants of the local environs, and headed back to the Travelodge for more Black Velvets and other ill-advised combinations of drinks.

The following day was the former mining town of Ebbw Vale in Wales so off we set to see our spiritual and geographical cousins in Cymru. Getting to the venue maddeningly early we managed to collar a young ‘mosher’ who directed us to the local Wetherspoons where gentlemanly drinking commenced. Atko was furtively abused from afar by a chap who called him ‘Charlie Manson’ or ‘Jesus’ or something equally cutting-edge, only for said chap to be rather taken aback (he shat himself) when the fellow he had previously compared to a homicidal maniac turned round and started coming towards him. Needless to say his bravado shrivelled as quickly as his extremities. Eventually it was time for soundcheck and showtime and we thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Whilst talking to some chaps I was introduced to a girl as the drummer from Send More Paramedics which caused a certain inflation of my already tumescent ego when she promptly burst into tears and hugged me almost uncontrollably. Later on in the evening I acted as Cilla for a young chap who professed his admiration for said young lady by signing a £5 note for him, complete with the assertion that this fellow was really very nice and every opportunity should be taken by the girl in question to blow his legs off forthwith. I hope it worked.

We got to the Travelodge later on having stopped off at Merthyr Tydfil Tescos for supplies (Pot Noodles and hot sauce) and bedded down for the evening. The next day Atko informed me that the previous night had been a quiet one for everyone, which came as some surprise as later that morning I ended up puking in the toilets of the very same Tesco in Merthyr Tydfil that we had attended the evening before. Even more aggravating was that the very thing I was bringing up happened to be the Alka Seltzer I had taken with the express intention of averting such a scenario. Anyhow, off we went to Sheffield for the final date of the first third of the tour. No sooner had we got to the venue than rum and gingers were prepared, although I couldn’t help but notice that Dougie’s division of ‘rum’ to ‘ginger’ was about 50/50, which was certainly a lot higher than mine was. Also, with only 40 minutes until stage time he had suggested to me that we drink the entirety of the 24-can crate of Tuborg before we played. I only realised that ‘Mr Ze Boogie’ may have been on a drinking mission when, back at his house once the night was over, he disturbed me while I was relieving myself by bursting into the toilet and throwing up in the general direction of the same receptacle into which I was pissing. I narrowly missed giving my old chum an impromptu golden shower, fortunately. Earlier on in the evening the gig had been thoroughly entertaining, marred only by the fact that Bill’s head blew up midway through the first song. Undeterred we took the opportunity as always to become the sweatiest men in the history of the universe and thoroughly enjoyed the experience, thank you very much. After that all that was necessary was a brief journey back to Leeds in time for Dougie nearly to be sick all over my male area.

And so the first part of the tour was over. However, there were still two weeks left and much much more excitement and adventure to come. In the next gripping installment our heroes will experience nearly having a chip-induced heart attack and receive gushing praise from a member of Puddleof Mudd. Stay tuned!

Published in: on November 5, 2011 at 7:25 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Answer Tour: Part 1


Who’d like to read a blog about the tour we’ve just concluded with The Answer? Oh, go on then.

We commenced the tour on the 10th October and it all started pretty much as we meant to go on, by which I mean that at 2pm Atko was rustling up some Mojitos in the back of the van. Leicester was the first date and was very nice thank you very much, albeit slightly plagued by the ‘first gig of the tour’ syndrome where you’ve not really hit your stride as yet and you’re still actually THINKING about what you’re doing. This however was the first and last night this phenomenon was to be experienced and from that gig onwards it was all a combination of both downhill and uphill until the end of the tour. Needless to say we drank a lot of Mojitos (should I be capitalising them?) and ended up drifting gently into oblivion in a Travelodge in Coventry.
Waking in the home of Lady Godiva and Cyrille Regis we wolfed down a Wetherspoons all day brunch (well, everybody apart from me, who had a superfood salad in the vain hope that this would set a ‘healthy’ tone for the remainder of the tour. It didn’t.) and headed off to Exeter. It had been decreed by Atko earlier on that, as the following day was gig-free, we could all get ‘absolutely fucked’. Consequently once we were in the van some strawberry Daiquiris were concocted, which whilst very exotic (and no doubt with rejuvenating health properties) did taste a little bit like neat citric acid. Once our collective gums had receded back over our teeth we got to Exeter and went back to the Mojitos for the sake of our intestines, our beautiful intestines. The Exeter gig was enormous fun, with a certain amount of gay abandon being present in our performance that had perhaps been absent from the night before. Having met some lovely people and drunk some unusual drinks we set off for our Travelodge for the evening, although whereabouts this was I couldn’t tell you.
The next day we didn’t have a gig and as such travelled to Bristol, but not before the requisite Wetherspoons all day brunch and the gentle imbibing of some of their light ales. There’s not really a huge amount to report from a day off and I’m sure you can fill in the blanks yourself ie. we went to a pub, got gently sozzled, I had an argument with a girl about whether there is a Debenhams in Norwich – you know, the usual stuff. Having wolfed down what was described as an ‘avant-garde curry’ at Bristol’s finest Indian restaurant (I was disappointed it didn’t consist of an onion bhaji served in a bowler hat floating on some perfume) we ended up back at the luxurious Travelodge where we drank some delicious ‘Black Velvets’ – a mixture of Guinness and champagne (Cava). Needless to say I fell asleep with all my clothes on.
Anyhow that’s probably enough for the time being. In the next gripping installment your heroes end up on a boat, meet the Welsh and are sick in a variety of places.

Stay tuned!

Published in: on November 3, 2011 at 8:35 am  Leave a Comment  

The Sword tour – Part 33 and 1/3

Wherein our heroes do merrily encounter the proletariat of the industrial hubs of Manchester and London.

Right – where was I? Oh yes – we had just finished playing in Glasgow and I had successfully quelled the wild tempest that was churning ‘below deck’. Up and at them with the lark (as usual) we managed to locate a Wetherspoons in Glasgow city centre, gorged ourselves on a variety of fried produce and set off for Manchester. Arriving at the venue only a short while before soundcheck, a near-manic search ensued around the environs of the university to try and locate the necessary ingredients of a White Russian, a search that proved fruitless as apparently nowhere in the North-West sells Kahlua. Undeterred, a substitute was purchased in the form of Tia Maria and once we’d knocked soundcheck on the head a series of deliciously milky cocktails were rendered, the imbibing of which caused me to feel only just the right side of ‘mindless’ when we hit the stage. My abiding memory of the gig was Dougie, mid-song, bending down by his amp, eyes darting about and generally looking a little confused. Greyum, ever alert to potential on-stage problems beckoned Dougie over, assuming that there was a problem with his equipment or sound.

“What’s the matter, Doug?” enquired our erstwhile roadwarrior. Dougie leant over, still looking a bit unsure.

“I don’t know but…has someone farted?” enquired Dougie.

Aside from potential onstage ‘boff-whiffs’ the gig was lovely and we all retired to the dressing room to continue the demolition of several White Russians. My memory now becomes a little bit hazy but I’m fairly certain we were particularly affable and when the night was over we set off to our friend Steve’s house to stay the night. Again my memory is a little unreliable but I do recall needing a piss more than I have ever needed one in my entire life on the way there. Whilst at Steve’s I set about lapsing into unconsciousness with the aid of some hoppy ale that had found its way into my hand and Doug and Atko commenced a game of football in Steve’s back garden in the dark at 2am. Whilst I did not see it I am reliably informed that Dougie ended up heading a watering can by mistake at one point, a development that had repercussions only felt the next morning when he woke up complaining of a ‘banging head’ and had to be reminded of his previous night’s sporting exertions.

The following day we got up and had breakfast while watching a particularly bizarre live concert of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young on video, wherein Stephen Stills sang ‘Our House’ with a newborn baby clutched to his bosom. They did things differently in 1973. Following an obligatory viewing of ‘UFO Live 1980’ (which I think I’ve watched every time I’ve been to Steve’s) we set off for the big smoke and the final date of the tour. Arriving at the venue it took all of about 5 minutes before we were in trouble with security again, this time for leaving some ‘incriminating’ materials lying around the dressing room but undeterred we located some more White Russian materials and set about well and truly taking the edge off before showtime. The gig was a lot of fun again and before long it was all over and we were packing up and loading out. Fortunately I had decided that a wall had been reached earlier on in the evening and switched from White Russians to Dr Pepper just as I was approaching the stage of not being able to string a sentence together – I relay this fact if only because it meant that when I got to the after-party I was just about compos mentis enough to enjoy myself. Which I did, thank you for asking.  Once the party was over it was time to get on the road again – or so we thought. Sadly, although very kindly, the staff at the Garage decided that we couldn’t go without having a final drink, at which point a young lady emerged with two gigantic bottles of liquid, one clear the other dark brown. We were informed that these bottles contained ‘Liam Gallagher’s Tequila’, one being your standard Mexican tipple and the other ‘coffee tequila’. Do not ask me what the connection was with Liam Gallagher nor indeed why the Garage should have been in possession of quite so much of the stuff. However, never one not to try something at least once I plumped for the coffee tequila. One should bear in mind that at this point it was 3am and we had to be at the Eurotunnel at 11am the next day. Oh well, I thought, fortune favours the brave.

Can I just say that if anybody has the opportunity of tasting ‘Liam Gallagher’s coffee tequila’ (not a euphemism) they should without hesitation turn the offer down politely and run as quickly as possible in the opposite direction. My mouth exploded with unrestrained waves of saliva as soon as I got the stuff down and it took every last atom of my being not to be sick all over Adam our merch guy. I think Atko may well have been sick, and possibly even Dougie too. In the words of Gwen Stefani – that shit is bananas. And bananas I mean ‘fucking disgusting’.

So anyway, having given our guts a good rinsing we were off to the Travelodge for about 25 minutes sleep before we had to be up and out to get the Eurotunnel across to Holland. Sadly, London was to be our last date with The Sword as the remaining gigs in Holland were our own headline shows. However I can confirm that The Sword are without exception all bloody lovely people and a completely terrific band – but you don’t need me to tell you that. Even taking into account near-life-threatening levels of diarrhoea and the unusual tour affliction of ‘random hard-ons’ we had a really good time and met some splendid people.

However the story does not end there!  The following day we were in Holland, where you may have heard they have a rather more liberal approach to both drugs, pornography and alcohol percentages. So stay tuned for more salacious tales of rum, sodomy and the lash in the next exciting instalment – ‘The Gentlemans Pistols tour – Vol 4’.



Published in: on June 25, 2011 at 2:32 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Sword tour – part deux

Hello everybody.

Welcome to part two of my little blog all about the tour we had a short while ago with the Sword. Thanks to everybody who was complimentary about the first part  – I hope that you all enjoy this instalment as well.

Where did we leave off? Oh yes – Big Momma’s House and Four Palms. The new day dawned in Southampton and I awoke to the realisation that the nutritional quality of the non-specific ‘vitamin juice drink’ I had used as a mixer the night before might have been slightly cancelled out by the chemical holocaust that was the faux-Malibu with which I had been drinking it. Whilst I felt a bit groggy immediately upon waking, this epiphany only really struck me once I took one bite out of a Marks and Spencer falafel wrap a few hours later – whereupon I suddenly became aware that I was in grave danger of shitting my pants almost immediately. Don’t panic though – both myself and my undercrackers survived what was a tense few minutes and we continued on our merry way to Birmingham for the next night.

Arriving at the venue, and having successfully completed the now well-established ‘wander from locked door to locked door for 25 minutes whilst the locals sit on a wall and giggle at you’ routine, we unloaded the gear and got our bearings. Doug, Atko and Bill went off for some sausage and mash whilst I and my tender constitution sat quietly and listened to Greyum tell stories about ginger axe-widdler Dave Mustaine. A couple of hours later it was soundcheck and the time-honoured tradition of ‘taking the edge off’ could begin in earnest. However there were two problems – firstly, tonight’s mixer for the Malibu was pure pineapple juice, a drink so unappetising that after a couple of rounds Dougie was heard to utter the plaintive words, “I don’t want any more pineapple juice. It’s hurting me.” The second problem lay in the fact that, to our shock and amazement, the security within the Birmingham O2 academy seemed to think that some of us might have been smoking within the dressing room. Having checked with our lawyers I can only confirm that person or persons who may or may not be known or unknown to us may or may not have been smoking in the dressing room. And that is that.

Regardless, the show was another fun one and once we were done Atko and Dougie retired to the side of a dual-carriageway to continue the gentleman’s smoking session so swiftly curtailed earlier. Meanwhile I, feeling that my guts hadn’t taken enough of a pounding, went to buy a bottle of vodka thinking it would help take the edge off the pain in my ribs. I don’t know whether I mentioned this in the previous instalment of the blog but they were FUCKING KILLING ME. Anyhow, suitably refreshed and anaesthetised we jumped in Greyum’s car and headed back to Leeds.

The following day was Glasgow and the plate-tectonic like shifts in my undercarriage were no better – in fact they were considerably worse. Undeterred, Greyum came to pick me up in the morning – but only after having taken a scenic tour of North Leeds due to typing the wrong postcode into his Sat Nav. To Glasgow! With stop-offs for extra sugary Kendal Mint Cake-based confectionery! High on sugary goodness bought from Tebay services we got to the venue and unloaded, whereupon Dougie and I decided it would be an excellent idea to go and buy a load of spicy noodles from the takeaway round the corner. Bearing in mind that only hours previous I had felt like I was about to lose an organ to the toilet bowl I can only assume that I had gone briefly mindless due to the zesty rush of chocolate-covered Kendal Mint Cake. As I’m sure you can imagine, not long after scoffing my noodles things started to go badly wrong. I made it through the gig ok but once we were done I realised I was in a bad old way  – not even a warm bottle of Fosters could take the edge off my woes, and I spent the entire set of the Sword in a foetal position in the dressing room. An honourable mention at this gig should nonetheless be given to Dougie who had decided, in mimicry of Status Quo, that during any instrumental section he would go up to one or more of us and say something along the lines of: “Fucking hell, Arsenal have fucked it haven’t they?” – a trend that would continue for the rest of the tour.

Gig concluded, we loaded out in the midst of a city apparently on lockdown given that Rangers had just won in the footie, attempted to get some booze to no avail and headed to the Travelodge. There was a brief moment of concern when the chap in the queue in front of us announced his name to the receptionist as ‘Nick Griffin’, but ultimately it was a thoroughly well-mannered evening, rounded off by my nodding off in front of Aliens on the telly.

By this point we were past halfway on the ‘Sword’ leg of the tour and starting to get into the zone. The following night would be Manchester and the first introduction to our adventure of the beast known as the ‘White Russian’. Stay tuned…

Published in: on June 8, 2011 at 7:20 pm  Comments (1)  

The Sword tour – part 1

Hello everybody. I haven’t blogged in a while but a few people have mentioned that they wanted to hear more, so I’m finally putting finger to keyboard to bring you the story of what happened when we went on tour with The Sword.

As with all good stories our tale has a little bit of a preface, one which is very specific to myself and my general well-being. It is an old adage that you shouldn’t start a tour with a hangover – we’ve all done it (obviously) but given the fact that the tour experience is probably going to break you anyway, beginning one’s jaunt feeling like shit can hardly be described as a well-thought out proposition. Unfortunately for me, whilst the tour started on a Sunday I had to be in attendance at a two-day long stag do immediately beforehand, an event that concluded at 8am in York on the very same day that the tour began. Compounding my misery as I crawled towards my car on the Sunday morning was the fact that the stag do had featured an afternoon of go-karting where I had merrily over-reached myself and crashed HARD into a wall when I appeared to mistake the brake pedal for the accelerator. This had almost instantaneously given me minor women’s whiplash and without putting too fine a point on it – FUCKED my ribs.

So imagine if you will a man with a gargantuan hangover, sleep-deprived and covered in bruises, getting in a car at 8am in York with the first date of a tour with The Sword looming – in Southampton. Somehow I managed to get back to Leeds in one piece, forced a Pot Noodle down, had a shower and then went to pick Atko and Dougie up. Fitting the Gentlemans Pistols tour kit into the back of a Peugeot is not the easiest of tasks and Dougie ended up pretty much entombed in the back of my car between a cymbal case and his own bass – good job it was only a short 5 hour drive down to Southampton. In actual fact, given the circumstances the journey wasn’t too bad, made easier by Dougie’s airing of his new Terry Wogan impression, which whilst very impressive did lose a certain veracity when he delivered lines such as “I’ve just shot me muck all over the blarney stone.”

We arrived in Southampton in one piece (just), met with Bill and Greyum (our tour manager, guitar tech, drum tech, driver and all-round hero) and got to Joiners for soundcheck. Whilst this may all seem very smooth and efficient, for me an internal struggle was giving rise to a serious metaphysical hangover, a predicament not eased by anything I could think of to resolve it, be it some spicy noodles or a litre of mango juice. This situation was made worse by the fact that the first band on, Dendera, were roundly and apparently effortlessly excellent, which whilst fine for them caused an almost unbearable wave of paranoia to wash over me, compounded mere minutes before showtime when I fell over the drumkit whilst getting on stage. I’m not a superstitious man but frankly the omens were hardly propitious.

Given all of the above, imagine my surprise when my limbs actually started working as soon as we started playing! Yes, I lost about 10 litres of fluid through sweat and yes, I felt EVERY SINGLE note ricocheting through my brain and body – but frankly it all went a lot better than I could ever have imagined. There was one moment when I forgot what happened in a song that I’ve only been playing for four years but we won’t dwell on that and I’m fairly certain I covered it with my usual professionalism and aplomb.

Having survived the gig we all retired to the merch desk where a faux-Malibu called ‘Four Palms’ was purchased, mixed with some tropical juice and imbibed, much to everybody’s great cheer. The Sword were excellent, as indeed they were on every date of the tour and by half 11 we were all installed in the travelodge watching Big Momma’s House 2. I discovered that mixing Malibu – sorry ‘Four Palms’ – with Caffreys is an unusual combination that probably shouldn’t be repeated and then it was off to bed.

The following day would bring dangerous levels of diarrhoea, more Terry Wogan impressions and trouble with security. Stay tuned, kids…

Published in: on May 29, 2011 at 12:44 pm  Leave a Comment  

Gentlemans Pistols confirmed as tour support for Terrorvision!

Hello everybody. Yes indeed, we can now announce that we have been confirmed as the tour support for Terrorvision’s upcoming 2011 tour. Dates and venues are below. Tickets on sale now!

Thu 24 Feb

Newcastle Riverside
Newcastle upon Tyne

Fri 25 Feb

The Cockpit

Sat 26 Feb

The Waterfront

Sun 27 Feb

Rock City

Thu 3 Mar

Electric Ballroom

Fri 4 Mar

The Brook

Sat 5 Mar

Manchester Academy

Sun 6 Mar

The Garage & G2


Published in: on January 3, 2011 at 3:27 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bill and ze boogie anticipating a feed.

Published in: on October 8, 2010 at 4:38 pm  Leave a Comment  

James struggles with an ice-cold frappucino.

Published in: on October 8, 2010 at 3:52 pm  Leave a Comment  

Bill on the waterfront in Thessaloniki.

Published in: on October 5, 2010 at 9:44 am  Leave a Comment