Nottingham Maze

I write on the National Express coach to Peterborough from Nottiingham, I’m hung-over and listening to Grammatics. I’m hoping their outstanding debut album is going to soothe my head. Last night was good, the staff and general vibe of that place were both fantastic. It’s not often I play places where a guy plays a chair and stool miced up like a kick drum and snare, at 1am the house sitar comes out and for most of the evening one guy walks around holding a didgeridoo. Not playing it, not even hinting at playing it, just holding it, obviously comforting him in someway with it’s mere presence.

My set was okay. There were a few things I thought I could have done better but then there always are. Playing a set of 80% finger picked songs was new, not going on stage and belting songs out was strange. ‘Rule Of Three’ was debuted and went well. All positive steps forward but just one’s inevitable with teething problems. I was pretty nervous too but then I always am first night.

My friends and I drank too much and the availability of Belgian beers ultimately proved my downfall. By the time the sitar came out it had to be hometime so we got some burnt pizza, got a cab home and then sat up till 3am trying to form cohesive debates about philosophy and climate change. I thought we were doing okay but when I spoke to one of my accomplices in the debate this morning he reasoned “we were talking some right bollocks last night” so perhaps out arguments and solutions weren’t as well founded as I’d imagined.

I feel rough today. Company and coffee kept me going this morning but now I’m alone life suddenly not as rosy. However, the sun is shining, I’m looking forward to tonight and so all’s well really. I’m going to do some writing now I think and maybe listen to The Blood Brothers. or maybe ‘Downloading Porn With Davo’ by The Moldy Peaches as it makes me smile.

Peterborough Boat Inn

This morning I feel awful. That local real ale I was drinking last night may potentially be the cause. Apparently the beer is brewed with water from the canal next to the pub. Judging buy the look of said canal I could well have dysentery now. The place I was playing was about six miles outside the city center. I got a bus there, when I asked the driver if he’d let me know when we got to my stop he looked up from the wheel and dryly exclaimed “you’ll know when we’re in Whittlesey, it’s a fucking shithole” Excellent, I’m playing some sort of ghetto.

I go to the pub and sit in a corner sipping my pint. I’m competing with the Liverpool vs Arsenal game tonight. ‘Soundcheck’ is mainly the PA squealing, much to everyone’s irritation. I go on. I can’t hear too much but I can hear enough to know it sounds rough. Everyone is quiet for ‘Rule Of Three’ which pleases me. ‘Draw Me A New Outline’ is debuted and I’m happy with it. Halfway through ‘The Doctor’ the PA cuts out and I play the rest of the set minus amplification. I crack a joke about thinking it’d be impossible for a folk act to blow up a PA. Silence. Tumbleweed. Excellent, this is going great. I thank everyone for their time and for listening, play ‘Crystal Missile’ and get off stage.

Some friends have arrived, we talk and I try some more local ales. Everyone else smokes. Some guy keeps walking past me making chicken noises. The boules match is in full swing outside. Cries of joy and derision come from the football room. I drink and watch the other artists. There’s a bizarre father/daughter combo who go on, there’s some kind of odd sexual tension thing between them. I dunno, it’s odd. someone plays Johnny Cash, I’m happy. Someone plays The Killers, I’m distraught. I draw the raffle as tonight’s special guest. Woo. The odd father/daughter people win some wine. Some lucky lucky girl wins some bright orange flip-flops, I’m slightly envious.

We go to a friends house and play some game where you chainsaw people in half on the XBOX. I instigate a conversation about whether there is a God or not. I’m interested as to how peoples views and beliefs differ. I’m coming to the conclusion that God is as little or as much as you choose to make him/her/it. I totally suck at Grand Theft Auto as we eat chips. It’s two am and we go to bed. I wake at twenty to seven and the allergy tablets have worn off. Hmmm…cat allergy sneeze. We drive into town. I realise I left my jacket of 4-5 years, Herzog, in the pub last night. I’m sad. I have a minutes silence for it. I get the coach and listen to music after some coffee and a failed attempt to acquire a hot water bottle. I write my tour diary entry. I look at the trees and houses we pass in the sunshine on this duel carridgeway. I put the pen down.

London 333 Mother Bar

Today hasn’t been much fun. I did get some sleep last night and a small lay in. However, I’ve spent the rest of the day rushing around. I’ve not managed to do the amount of recording I planned on doing. I had a mission to uncle Dave’s with my guitar, bag of stuff I need to live for the next tour days and also the 1680 for Dave to mix songs for the album. I was very sweaty once the 106 bus had eventually got me to Clapton. Leila (Dave’s 11 month old child who ‘One Day All This Will Work Out…’ was dedicated to) is now a toddler. She has hair and can crawl. Amazing to see someone you’ve known when they are the size of a rugby ball developing into a little person.

The bus home from Dave’s was slow and populated by 7,000 school kids screaming and throwing pieces of chicken at each other but it got me where I needed to be. The Victoria line not so. Some signal failure at Seven Sisters meant we sat idle for fifteen minutes then eventually someone told us over the public address system that the tube was part suspended. Thanks TFL. I’ve missed the coach to Southsea so I walk home, buy a new ticket and then do the journey with the added bonus of rush hour. Sweaty. Irritated. Face in strangers armpit. Joy. Still, I’m on here now, I have a seat to myself to write AND (drums roll please) we’re going through Guildford so, you know, life’s good.

Last night was excellent and a rarity too: good soundman (who listened to me rather than just telling me to go fuck myself when I request some reverb), good bands and a good promoter. Sound was great on stage. I snapped a string in my last song which, if there is a higher power, I think is their way of saying “I prefer the finger picked stuff dude, sack off this plectrum shit”. Obviously God talks in a fairly informal way in my head. Incidentally 333 Mother Bar is the club in my song ‘The Doctor’ (“followed you from the bar to club and haunted your sleep”) so in some way last night was a piece of Trooper history as I’ve not been back there since 2005, the time period in which that song is based. Good gig. Hung out with some friends. Drank beer. Cuddled my girlfriend. Watched Doctor Who on iPlayer. All in all, ultimate win.

Right, hopefully this gig tonight is good, it had better fudging well be after all this fudging around. Fudge. I currently have nowhere to stay either so if anyone from the Southsea/Portsmouth area can telepathically read these words: please let me stop in your house/flat/dog basket. I promise to be clean, tidy, not eat your cereal, drink any of your herbal tea and be out of your way early for tomorrows mission to Sheffield.

Southsea The Fat Fox

Last night was great and most definitely worth the melodrama of yesterday afternoon. It took me a while to find the pub. Why do I assume I’ll just be able to find places by aimlessly walking around the center of towns and cities I know nothing about and the venue will just present itself to me!? Still, I got to the Fat Fox eventually and was greeted by Abbie and Sarah who run the night. We had a joint hug at our collective relief that I’d arrived, some ten minutes before I was scheduled to play. I meet the soundman. Change last nights broken guitar string. Sarah brings me some water, I’m very grateful. Abbie gives me a card thanking me for playing their night, I’m taken aback.

A guy called Matt comes up to me and tells me him and his girlfriend have sprinted to the gig so not to miss me, I’m stunned. We shake hands, chat and I ask him what songs of mine he likes. I include ‘Nottingham Wasn’t Built For Me’ and ‘Division Street Blues’ in the set as he’s requested them. I go on stage. Strum the guitar twice. yell “BOO!” into the mic to see if it’s working. Lights go up. I play. I ask the audience at the end of ‘The Doctor’ how it’s sounding as I’ve had no soundcheck. Someone replies “lovely” which pleases me because I can’t hear too much on stage and the last part of the song was unintentional feedback!

I play the new songs and then stuff off the EP. End of ‘Old Street Social Scene’ my guitar strap snaps. If I were to treat this the same way as yesterdays theory that a broken string is Gods way of telling me not to strum then today he’s telling me to sit down rather than stand. I reject this idea wholeheartedly as I hugely dislike sitting down to play. A benevolent God would not make me sit. Some kind fellow hands me a chair and I swallow my hatred of the chair and carry on. I realise my voice has improved as I haven’t played ‘Division Street Blues’ for ages but I nail all the high notes at the end. I’m pleased. I come off.

Matt has to leave, we have a hug. He tells me he only came to see me which makes me feel special in a week where I’ve felt anything but that. I talk to many lovely people. I have a pint, I feel it’s well earned. I have my Polaroid taken with Hong Kong Gardeners Club’s mascot cat. I sign it. I’m not used to people being this nice to me. I drink a little more and talk to some more people about my poorly planned tour routes (Edinburgh to London anyone!?) Midnight and we leave. I talk to some drunk woman outside about playing solo singer/songwriter metal. She asks for a demonstration of this. I have to decline.

We go back to Sarah’s where I’m staying. Sleep, lovely sleep. Wake. Shower. Coffee. I read the Artrocker on her coffee table. It’s all plush nowadays, who knew. We drive to the station, we have a hug and I thank her profusely. It’s sunny again today and I’m in high spirits which is just as well as I’ve got a pretty epic journey to to Sheffield, about 230 odd miles. Hampshire looks lovely and green. HKGC are the nicest people ever. Right now, I feel like I’m winning. Nights like last night restore my faith in what I’m doing and there are good people out there to work with.

By Loyal Trooper