Downbeat. Upbeat.

Right, well...

It's now the Monday after the Friday after the night before.

We got home at about 5am last Friday morning after our EP preview at The Queen of Hoxton. This late arrival was the result of a long drive involving three failed sat-navs, Seryn needing to be dropped off near a shepherd's bush, our nearly running out of fuel, and numerous diversions leading to the seventh circle of the M25. Ed and I were the only ones awake as we approached Brighton, keeping each other perked up by telling detailed stories, usually of an explicitly romantic nature, of time spent in the company of various renowned tyrants. Result of: 22 waking hours.

And all that (diversions, lies) after the big gig itself.

If you came, thank you. Oh, and we're sorry about that massive technical hitch that left us stranded onstage without a synthesiser, and without hope, for what in reality was about ten minutes, but what, onstage, in the reflected glare of bright lights in hopeful eyes, felt like about seven hours. If you didn't come, there's a brief explaination of the massive technical hitch in the sentence preceding this one. You missed out on a peek behind our IKEA scenery. Pay no attention to the frantic sound engineer behind the curtain. I like to think of it as a John Cage-like experiment in anti-music, but incorporating the progressive-jazz spirit of entirely unintended improvisation. That's how I like to think of it.

Still, we previewed the EP, and, even if, briefly, it was a preview of what it would sound like if you tried to play it through a shoelace, I liked it.

Away from all of that, away from the horrors of mass transit systems and sickening software slip-ups, away from broken down vans and this little itchy patch of skin in the groove beside my achilles tendon, away from thinking about the war-mongering alien species living in the centre of the sun, who have so far missed our planet with their gravity slingshots of solid rock and gas giants but who will, inevitably, be named our great overlords, forcing us to bow down and kiss the slimy robe of God-saint Tencatu, famed as Prime-master, merciless slayer of the weak; away from that...

/There was a bit of good news here, which I have now edited out as it might not be happening. Good. Good. Let's move on./

/This blog is now empty of positivity./

Enjoy your panicky christmas shopping, everyone! I don't know what to get for anyone, either.

Except Ed.

Tim