WE PLAYED LONDON

Night nine!

John turns to me. It's a huge show and it's rammed tonight. "David, is it just me, or is the audience made entirely of ants?" he says. I don't hear him at first, i'm far too bewildered with the fact he's playing drums with two meatball subs instead of drumsticks. "Eh, what? I don't know, John". All our songs tonight sound like Janet Jackson through a shoebox. I spot Calum riding the crowd, in slow-motion, like a leather alligator over Niagra Falls, as I sway hard and backwards over a tough, three chord structure and rinsed loaves of sweat beads. There is a massive, jarring crunch as song meets fans head on and the world, at once, sounds like Dananananaykroyd. Do you know what that sounds like? It is massive and jarring. There are four rappers in the audience tonight. Suddenly, almost instantaneously, we're back in the van. We look around at each other post-show and burst out laughing. Is it our job to turn strange? To discover strange things about people who are fast becoming strangers? I don't know. It is now us versus them. As you now now, I have a gigantic rash that is starting to curl round the back of my ears and I wish the... I wish I could... nevermind. We play our hearts out tonight. Yes, we are broken and sick, but we put on good show and sell all the t-shirts. I will give you that.