Roadkill

April 26- Most hangovers usually leave a lasting headache, but all this is figurative—to outside observers they wouldn’t even exist save for the acher’s constant groaning. This morning, however, Zachary and Zebastian awoke with headaches very much visible, the bruises covering their foreheads testament to the insanity of the previous evening. Newcastle knows how to party.

Phil from City Rockers had a rubber stamp created for our tour with THE BLOOD ARM pronounced in bold capital letters on its business end. By the end of the show (at which our tourmates Maximo Park were amazing), nearly all 600 persons in attendance were sporting multiple stamp tattoos from forehead to toe. Then the evening became a blur.

There was Nathaniel pissing off, then attempting to throw himself off the Millennium Bridge. There was Zachary finding himself shoeless at the indie club. There was the after-after party at Tom, Duncan, and Lucas from Maximo Park’s house, the only attendees being them, myself, Zachary, Zebastian, and the three young boys Zach had invited from the show. There was soccer in the street, with Tom providing the soundtrack from his turntables inside. There was too much dark rum. There was… I can’t really remember what else. Somehow we made it back to the hotel. Now there are bruises on Zach and Zebastian’s foreheads.

We’re driving to Preston for the gig tomorrow as I type this, and I’ve fallen a bit in love with the countryside. I could live here, I think. Maybe not as a farmer or a shepherd, but as a professional Gentleman. I’d have a horse stable and I’d picnic everyday with my stable boy. Perhaps Zachary could be my stable boy. We’d plot to murder someone. We’d house a deranged relative in the attic, telling no one of her existence. There would be a steeplechase course behind my manor, and I’d organize weekly competitions between the local gentry, a number of whom I’d secretly hate. My wife would take up quilting, the children would be home-schooled, and by night my spouse and I would have affairs with our many servants, or maybe a mysterious wounded traveler we’d taken in. Soon, we’d learn of each other’s infidelities, and after a brief, nasty row and a death (murder?) in the household, renew our vows in an elaborate pastoral ceremony. It’d be so Jane Eyre.

Now I’ve gone and made myself all steamy… I need a breather. See you in Preston!

April 28- Being sequestered in a hotel room while waiting for soundcheck is not so difficult when one possesses a powerful imagination. Through this magical tool, Zachary, Zebastian and myself were able to sail the high seas on a pirate ship, rob a bank, kiss the hand of a beautiful Algerian princess, waltz on the moon… Without ever leaving the room! (Actually we just watched a lot of Spongebob Squarepants.)

When we finally had time to explore the fine city of Preston, Dyan, Nathaniel and I had the good fortune to stumble upon Real Records, one of the best secondhand record stores I’ve ever visited. From Orange Juice to Prag-Vec to the Undertones to Blondie to the Young Ones, they had just about every 45 you could possibly want. The manager and a friend—the latter gent appeared to have been drinking since the day before—were quite knowledgeable as well. (The friend had been Elvis’ soundman!)

Speaking of soundmen, ours is probably the greatest ever. Not only does Mitch carry a list of comic books he needs to buy with him everywhere in his tool belt, he wears a different pair of day-glow spandex pants every day! (He’s brilliant with the sound too, of course.) One of the most genial fellows I’ve ever met.

The show was great too, save for the gent who robbed Zachary of our rubber THE BLOOD ARM stamp.

Now I’m drunk as fuck and I’m trying to type about today at Colchester. Colchester is a fine city. Some ladies told me I was ‘gay as a window’ this evening, but insisted it was a compliment… I’ll take their word for it. A boy who resembled Jesus kept buying me drinks. Does this mean I’m saved?

More tomorrow…

-Ben Lee