Glasgow Kisses, Birmingham Ghosts

Glasgow is a very beardly city. Look at all this facial hair:



For those of you not in the know, there is a citywide law that actually prohibits shaving for the duration of the spring. Something about it being bear season (hear that Grandmaster B?), or rabbit season, or the season of the resurrection, or the wheat harvest, or the beer harvest…

Anyway, the lovely Rory, the freshly coiffed Graham (aka Dolby Anol), and our Franzy friends led us into quite a debauched evening, one which I entirely blacked out. Thankfully—or regrettably—Dyan had enough presence of mind to snap a few pics for posterity.







I was in such a daze by the time we reached Birmingham that I was almost completely oblivious to the fact that the Barfly audience had an (un)healthy contingent of ghosts. Like, seriously. That place is built on a morgue. Creepy.

Alright, I'm tired, and Leeds awaits.

I love you all, passionately.

Ben Lee Handler

Oh yes! We must help my friend and disciple Johnny Spunkhands come up with a new nickname. Such a handsome man deserves a handsome stage name... Any suggestions are welcome!

Glasgow Party; Zachary Pukes on Himself

First things first: Nathaniel’s bag went missing the evening of 26 October in Glasgow. This is the bag in question.


Although the two were having personal differences at the time of its disappearance, Nathaniel now wants the parcel back, and swears to never ever let it out of his sight again. The bag contains certain irreplaceable personal items of the singer, and the loss has been devastating. Rewards for its return include free admission to every the Blood Arm show for life for the bag’s finder plus a guest, plus a certain to-be-disclosed monetary reward. Please email info@thebloodarm.com with any information that may lead to its whereabouts.

Now a brief explanation for how this separation came to be: There are fireworks in Scotland every time we pass the sign that says “Welcome to Glasgow.” (Not literally. There is no sign that says “Welcome to Glasgow” as one enters the city, and I don’t think foreigners are allowed to carry fireworks in Scotland, either.) But a good time is pretty much guaranteed from the second the town is added to our itinerary.

After the show (which was phenomenal), our dear friends from the Matchsticks (formerly known as the Flying Matchstick Men), Sons and Daughters, and Franz Ferdinand took us to the Capitol Karaoke Bar, where Zachary only relinquished the microphone long enough for people to sing the first few lines of the songs that they requested. (For the record, Zachary can sing very well.) From there, the whole of our massive party reconvened with the fabulous lads and lasses of Au Revoir Simone and We Are Scientists at the Art School Bar for some more heavy drinking, from where—and from here on everything is only alleged—we went to two more house parties and Dyan met a dude from Snow Patrol.








When I awoke in the morning, Zachary was being delivered to our hotel lobby in a police car, Nathaniel had a bloody head, and the singer’s bag was missing.


This is what Zachary looked like in the van on the way to the ferry to Belfast the following morning. Try to guess what that is on his legs. Also, try to guess if he still wearing those trousers today, two days after whatever it was happened on them.


Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. That’s vomit on his legs, and yes, he is still wearing those trousers. This was about the point where Iannis, our Greecian sound technician (who will soon be given a blog entry all his own), began referring to the drummer as it.

The ferry to Belfast was well fast, and now we are sitting in the dressing room, waiting for the show to begin.

Au Revoir for now,

Ben Lee Handler