Let The River Run...

Can anyone confirm that the Carly Simon Easter Special did indeed actually happen on BBC Radio 2 yesterday, and that it wasn’t some shared hallucination aboard Air Force Fun on the road from Manchester to Nottingham? (I’m fairly convinced the talking candy bar didn’t exist, and the midget waving from the roadside seems a little unlikely, but the Carly Simon show was so hauntingly real. And it was totally about us. Sorry.)

I should probably mention that this stuff has become my new life’s blood:


Not only does it cure common colds, headaches, nausea and pregnancy, it also makes life taste good again. The colors… so savory to the touch! Like, I can taste them by touching them! Red is strawberry, blue is boysenberry, the orange is mango... Beecham’s All In One is All For Fun, and I’m never gonna come down again.

We’ve been to Cardiff, Manchester and Nottingham in the past few days.

In Cardiff someone wrote the word “Penis” on the air conditioner,


in Manchester Laura and Alan gave us even more facial hair,


and in Nottingham Zachary got fucked.


Nottingham also witnessed what I’ve officially dubbed The Best The Blood Arm Show Ever. Hopefully someone else will blog about it, because my fingers are tired.

This is what Nathaniel looked like at the end:


I love you,

Ben Lee Handler

Manchester!

Manchester! Mancunia! Birthplace of Morrissey! The show at the Apollo was a little intimidating at first as the venue is so fucking huge, but fortunately the Blood Arm's sound is big enough to fill the most gaping of holes, and the show got off without any delays owing to flaccidity. (To parse Zebastian, innuendo is my crutch, especially when I'm drunk. (I'm drunk.) But what is music without sex? And what is sex without music? (I'm asking you this earnestly... as a practicing virgin, I don't know???))

The show was so hot that we all had to strip down to our nothings in order to recuperate afterwards.


But then as soon as the sweat dried we sped off to see Little Barrie at the Manchester Roadhouse, and they had us hot and bothered again in no time. Little Barrie is one of those bands you have to see live to believe, and I'm not just saying this because they invited me to guest MC. I expected the show to be good, as Chalkie--our Tour Manager and Spiritual Guru--is a big fan, but their soulful precision and Dyanmic awesomeness simply blew me six ways from Tuesday, and Tuesday is not until tomorrow. This is some future shit, with a healthy dose of retrosexual. It was one of those shows that one doesn't forget, even after a massive headwound. (I wouldn't type that if it wasn't true. Like, literally.) Fucking amazing.

Barrie is like two guitar players in one--we were asking each other where the second guitar man was hiding for the first half of the set--Lewis, the bass player, drives everything along so effortlessly it seems as if he could be blindfolded and handless and still carry a tune, and if there was ever any question that the drummer was born to play, his God-given name is Billy Skinner.

Okay, time to type about us again. Look how small the band looks from the back of the Apollo:


And this is what Dyan looks like with her morning breakfast:


And here is Zachary giving a fifteen year-old boy a hickey:



More tomorrow, including a special guest entry from We Are Scientist Chris Cain.

I love you,

Ben Lee Handler