Tour Diary: Mo's Diary - September

October 2002

The last peripatetic bit of the drummers perspective

What to say? Where to go now? Which direction is 'home' again?

As I sat in the back of the van I noticed this lump of flabby stuff where my abdominal muscles used to be. 'Where the fuck did that come from?' I asked myself. I guess it's just all the parties (Nick Swan had nothing to do with these), beer, sausage curries and sitting in the back of a van.

The last Stockholm gig was performed with aplomb by mr Kerr and Mr Swan. Mr Mo and Mr Scott were the designated drinkers (Mr Swan had nothing to do with the drinking).

Chocks away to Gothenburg for the last gigs. We find out that Copenhagen has cancelled, with the excuse 'They don't play covers'.

We're going to do a new line in t-shirts especially for them ; 'Jacky Tar say Fuck you'.

But Gothenburg at the end of the tour was a nice crazy party last time we did this, and this time Gothenburg was an utterly lurid, crazy, beautiful ten day party (Nick Swan had nothing to do with these).

The staff there know what we're like, so did their best to out party us, and very quickly it grew to be a monster beyond our control. The band flat, being above the bar, turned out to be the den of bad behaviour, (Nick Swan had nothing to do with this) with various staff and friends turning up at ridiculous hours of the night and morning looking for a party. Our undying gratitude to those of you who took part in that ten days. It is lodged fondly in my memory.

The barmen in particular deserve a big mention here. You know who you are, we know who you are, and if you're ever in New Zealand I'm going to put you on stage, give you many rounds of shooters, and then make

you try and perform some task that requires manual dexterity (Thanks John). Nick Swan had nothing to do with the shooters.

So we left there to go to Dubbers to play the last gig. The gear box began making eldritch noises as soon as we started out, and slowly pooed its pants from there on in. We drove across Denmark, England and

Wales with the noise becoming increasingly more hideous. Fifth gear bummed out near Birmingham, fourth gear about a hundred miles later, and, after driving 90 miles, third gear.

As fortune would have it it finally called it quits outside a bar in a town called Bethesda 25 miles from our destination (The Devil farts in our face one more time).

Towed to Holyhead, towed on to the ferry, towed off the ferry, towed around Dublin. Ah well.

The last show was full of people we knew, from various places (Thanks to those who travelled for the gig), and the band was out of it enough to play well (Nick Swan had nothing to do with this).

I had to deliver the drum kit in a hired car (bummer eh), so Fizzed around Scotland for two days. Glasgow to Aberdeen and back again in one night. Did 1000 miles. Got lost heaps. Had fun.

I'm going back to New Zealand in a couple of days to wriggle my life back together.

Next time, oh yes oh yes, it will all be different, and the advantage will be mine . . .

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