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…

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

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One CommentLeave a comment

  1. Damn Sat-Nav and tired eyes – doh!


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