I'm not quite sure where I can start, what I can and cannot say, who I can and cannot implicate, and how on earth I'm going to make this record of a simple chain of events at all readable given my current state of mind.
On Friday evening we left Brighton for Salisbury. Salisbury being nothing more than a stopping off point for the next day's event: a very secret w*dding at a very s*cret location. Jeb had to be there first thing in the morning, acting as resident film-maker. I'm looking forward to the 360 degree epic that comes out of that computer in six months - get to work, Jeb. Again.
Friday, then, was filled with generous parental supervision, casual chats, a grandmother (not Ed) and not enough sleep.
Saturday morning; we hear that Jeb (having been on a different schedule to the rest of us) successfully screwed up his mission of 'waking up on time' and/or 'picking a tie'. We hear this from Ed as he bounds into the back of the van (shortly before finding the door and getting in), looking annoyingly fresh-faced and 'awake'. I am slumped in the corner at this point, instant coffee scouring the inside of my arteries, and a townified dread of spending the next 24-hours in a shit capped field forcing my features down towards the glorious, life affirming tarmac that streams past beneath us.
'Where are we going?'
'...erm.'
Somehow Ed had memorised a set of directions through unknown territory, in a part of the world, beautiful as it may be, where green fields are all. Turn left at the green field, and there should be a green field on your right. Go past the green field until you get to a green field... Where are my industrial estates and gastrocombustible drive-thrus? Where are my screeching Vauxhall Corsas and blackened brick walls that haven't been touched since 1994? No, this is not home. Here there is sunshine, clear blue skies, and grass everywhere. Don't even get me started on the weird patchy brown things in the fields. They look like they have eyes. And legs. Get me a billboard, some over-priced coffee and some gobby knob to bump into, for I cannot cope out here in the wilderness...
Eventually, with Trewin expertly working the steering wheel of the van I had adorned with a rip-roaringly clever and hilarious swear-word (those masking-tape calligraphy classes clearly weren't a complete waste of money) we pulled in to some indistinguishable field or other and strolled, in jeans, t-shirts, and whatever, into the middle of a w*dding that had to be kept secret. Imagine what that w*dding is like. Yeah. We turned up. Strutting in like a more cocksure tribute to Quinlanck Tarentino.
We were all set-up by 3pm. We were scheduled to play at 8. As we weren't guests, we spent our time in the van. We went to Winchester, and had a picnic in the Tesco's car park. We went into the nearby village, and bought some beers once we realised we were bored of sitting in the van without beers. We sat, we laughed at Ed cleaning an innocent but unfortunately located stain off his trousers, and we realised that if you were going to put an 'Elmon' away, you'd put it in an 'Elmon Cupboard'. We hadn't really started drinking at this point, but fatigue can lead to the worst creative and spiritual decisions of all time.
It is partly to blame for the aimless nature of this account.
So: we played. We played well. The kids liked us. We're not your typical wedding band, but then this wasn't quite a typical wedding. Someone flew their chopper in, so to speak, and I was told there were papa-papa-paparazzi knocking about at the ceremony. Jeb apparently had to muscle in to get the essential shots. You go, Jeb. Later, when people started to leave, we felt safe to enter the wedding area itself and start a party. I don't really recall an awful lot of what happened next, as I accidentally...well, you can guess. I recall winding someone in a suit up to the point of red-facedness, I recall trying to play the blues at 2am with frankly uncontrollable fingers, I remember Seryn and I hijacking the disco, lying in the middle of the dancefloor with Radiohead blasting out and over us. That may have been the highlight, for me.
Morning, then, and it seems to me that Trewin has decided to drive the van around in circles and start altering reality so each individual object has a distinct and moving double of itself around three centimetres to its left. Two days of 'sleeping' on floors or chairs, and I am battered, bruised, and, frankly, still battered. Oh no, not the rumbling diesel engine. Oh no, not harsh sunlight through the new windows, straight into my eyes, hot dusty air prickling my airways...
A stop off at some motorway 'nutri-hut express' or whatever they want to call themselves, and I order some of the worst food I've ever had in my life. It was just a bread starter - the Warm Bread Trio (which sounds like a South-West jazz band made up of men with white beards and wet breath) - so I didn't expect much, but it was still massively disappointing. The 'Olive oil with balsamic vinegar' looked like something that had oozed from a wound, and the bread was simultaneously soggy yet stale. Boo. Still, my bandmates took pity on me, rather than see fit to wind me up, which was nice.
So, back in the van. I slept. Good lord did I sleep. Then I came home, and slept some more.
So now here I am, writing this almost out of a sense of obligation given an eventful weekend. I'm free from all substances but the essential caffeine, which means the animated thing I live with is going to have to put up with a puffy faced, grumpy old man for however long it takes my brain to get its act into gear and realise that nicotine, alcohol, and whatever else are not native members of its community.
Never mind marriage; that's love.
Tim
No comments:
Post a Comment