I’m typing this on a half melted, half absent set of keys on
my hardy little laptop. My lady and I (absent) had a relatively minor fire in
our flat two days ago. Two days ago while the band were stranded just off the
A2 in London, our van Binky having
broken down about 20 mins from the The Old Blue Last where we were scheduled to
play for some very interesting people. Half of the keys on my keyboard are
gone, so in an act of poverty driven defiance I’m typing directly onto the
little rubber buttons that usually rest unseen behind the wall of helpful Roman
characters. I don’t recommend this technique. I will now call it ‘Xtreme touch
typing’.
As the fire spread, licking the
Terminator and Metal Gear Solid posters and other ephemera that line the wall
of ‘Tim’s corner’, my heroic little bundle of sense exhibited the attitude that
got everyone through the last few days – sort
the guitars first, and everything else can be sorted later. I smiled with relief
(after asking after her wellbeing, of
course. Of course. Ahem.) as she
recounted her tale of leaping over the bed like a kangaroo to save my precious Rihanna and Betty (a relic-ed US Stratocaster and baby blue telecaster,
respectively) from Satan’s faulty-hairdryer-fuelled clutches. They are safe and
warm [sic], and thanks to my constant drilling of my girlfriend [sic] in the
most dangerous and irresponsible ways of tackling large fires on your own, my
precious collections of dangerously graphic ‘art’ films and hate letters to
Michael Gove remain unscathed. Please show your love to her under the codename
‘Fire-officer Grimsby’, should you so
wish.
Meanwhile, as she was pansying
around with that shit, Phoria had three gigs in three days, four days after our
return from eleven days on the road through Europe.
That’s a total of three hundred million
days.
Thanks to all who came to all.
Your support is so incredible and we really appreciate it. It’s so nice to do
what you do through all the stresses and worries and waiting three hours for
the recovery services and flagging down amazing strangers in vans who take you
to the venue in exchange for a modest fee and people you met in Croatia who come
to the gig and take you in and buy you beers because you have nowhere else to
stay, and at the end of it all see a new bunch of smiling strangers who so
kindly express their enjoyment of what you’ve just smashed out through a
suffocating sweat onstage. The promoters, also, showed a great deal of patience
in dealing with us and our Laurel
and Hardy ways.
So it has to be said that the day
is done for me. All the band have earned a day of rest. Ed’s going on holiday,
so the focus for now is on the new EP, which is taking shape for release this
year. That’s right. Bloodworks was
our nemesis for a while. A slow, cold war. This one’s going to be slick and
easy. The songs have been brewing for a long time anyway – now all we have to
do is pour the tea (tea being a metaphor for the songs) and wait for you to
spill it all over yourselves in bed because your partner didn’t realise you had
a hot drink in your hand and moved around really violently to improve their
view of Ainsley Harriot’s Go-kart
Meringue Vol. VII.
So yes, a new EP. Gigs. More
stories from Croatia,
once I’ve sorted a new keyboard.
I’m going to watch Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure and
eat chicken nuggets.
For now, have fun, and remember: sort the guitars first, and all else shall
follow.
Tim
P.S. Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.
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