Live and Direct From the Rear Corner of a Van Full of Men.

We're in the inbetween.

There is no health, here. The things you say and the things you do have no meaning. All actions are fleeting, all conversations are hypothetical, all memories are temporary. Leave them as lines on the map. All possible things converge to one: the destination

You can develop strange habits on these seven hour journeys. Right now I'm about to add the fourteenth piece of gum to the amorphous clay of nastiness I've been pushing around my molars for the past half hour. That's about the size of things in the inbetween. Nothing is food. Everything is chewed. Every boxed stretch of highway ends with us spitting everything out, forgetting the taste, and starting again tomorrow.

We've done Dortmund and Berlin, so far. Lovely times. Too lovely, in fact. I've been doing a lot of hugging. As the two responsible ones take turns guiding this ship down the autobahn, I've been doing a lot of necessary snoozing in the back. Berlin, especially, is an unfair torment to a mere mortal. It parties like Windows 10 updates: it's relentless, it's intrusive, and you have to do it even though you know it's bad for you.

The landscape outside is turning to soaring hills and golden forests. We're closing in on Munich. It's Friday night and we have a day off tomorrow. The very talented Rosie Carney and band, who have been following us round on these dates, have promised us a good time. I'm sure any competitive element will be solely in my head. I'm a fierce competitor, so we'll have to see how that goes.

Something's going to get lost.

Thanks to all who have come to the gigs so far and thanks to all who have seen to our comfort and wellbeing. We appreciate everything people do for us.

The air in here may be stale, but everything else is sweet.

Whatever you're up to, and whenever you're up to it, sprinkle some sugar on it like a mischievous little pixie.

We'll see you at the gigs.

Tim