The Fable of the Van, or 'How to Make an Album Underwater'.

We were cruising just fine, until a problem came up.

The van’s engine, until then our must trusted ally in the fight against Achieving Nothing, was sputtering, groaning, and cutting out at random intervals. Its glitchiness started just as we entered London—as if the four wheeled veteran had made an effort to wait for the best time to finally admit its frailty but, in a case of combustibilia nervosa, was guilty of a gross miscalculation.

Sometimes on failure the engine would burst into life, and roar, bringing us smiles of relief. Sometimes it would crank and its tones would veer up and down, like a hoover singing a Christina Aguilera song. Sometimes, after the engine cut out, we found ourselves riding a large, yellow, four-wheeled rock.

This blog entry tells of the first time we drifted over to the side of the road.

We got everything started again, and, making decisions on what to do, approached Blackwall Tunnel. If you’re not familiar, Blackwall Tunnel is a long...tunnel, with no place to pull over. Tons of traffic makes its way through it every hour of every day.

There were stories about people who had broken down in there, causing tailbacks for miles and grinding half the city to a halt. These stories hit the whole of London. Some wanker’s broken down in Blackwall Tunnel...

It was rush hour, and after numerous delays we were running late for our gig at OSLO. We had to risk getting all the way through. Cars were piled up on either side of us, trailing down into the dark entrance. The opening scrutinised us like an eye. It scowled. It knew what we were up to.

‘That’s the point of no return...are we sure we’re going to do this?’

To our left was the final turn-off before all traffic was funnelled into the black by a hundred signs.

‘We don’t want to be the ****’s who break down in the tunnel.’

‘How long will it take us to get around to another crossing?’

Phone’s were whipped out. Sat-navs smashed with sweaty palms.

‘In this traffic? About forty-five minutes to get there, and then we’ll have to get to the venue from there aswell.’

‘Right. I guess we don’t have a choice, then.’

And then the engine died.

‘Oh no...’

We drifted forward a few feet, restarted the engine, and scarpered off the main road on the last turn-off, out of everybody’s way, to pull over, spend five minutes on our lives, and make a decision.

Everybody had something to say. Six people all trying to figure out whether they themselves were stupid. Who was the most wrong person here? What’s the gamble? What’s the here and there? How long to wait for a fix? How long to take an alternative route? Do we run the same risk whatever we do? How late can we afford to be? What’s sunk? What’s up?

We are, when it suits us, a democracy.

Four votes to two: we go through the tunnel.

Ed’s arms are folded.

I’m jumping around the cabin.

‘You just have to believe, Ed. We’re all on board. If you don’t believe, then it falls apart. If we all do it, we’ll make it through. Trust me. That’s how it works.’

‘It doesn’t though, does it?’

‘No. But YES! DO IT ANYWAY. FEEL IT. BELIEVE IT. COME ON!’

‘It’s an engine, Tim. An engine that’s going to get us into trouble.’

I believed in that engine, and I believed in my bandmates.

We turned onto the main road again, ready for the great eye to take us in like a tiny photon, indeterminate, of unknown status, either a particle of success or a wave of unmitigated failure. Breakdown inside the eye will mean the gig is off, and London stops.

We passed the point of no return.

‘COME ON!’ We all chanted. Ed rested his head on one arm.

‘She’s been fine since we last started her,’ Trewin said. He revved the engine and it purred.

The traffic slowed as four lanes merged to two.

COME ON.

Once the lanes had merged, there was space. The traffic kept moving at a steady pace. The entrance to the tunnel moved over us like an eclipse, and from then on it was all concrete, tiled artery and grim, artificial roadside light.

Ed clenched his fist. He was silent.

The rest of us shouted.

‘COME ON! WOO! WE CAN DO IT!’

And we all believed into our bellies and we all starting singing football chants. There were three things to the experience: the doors of the lorry in front of us; the ochre warp of the tunnel walls passing on each side; and the sound and sensation of song and will in that cabin, driving us forward. We were already at the end, tasting victory. We had already succeeded. We were over on the sweet otherside, in the sun, nowhere to go but forwards in every direction. There was no questioning it. We had the sheer volume of voices on our side. We had taken our gamble, together, and we had won.

But we hadn’t. Yet. The tunnel was a long, and soon my throat cracked. Nothing changed. We saw no progress. After a few minutes, the white lorry, moving at the same speed at us, appeared static—a square void hovering in focus. The tunnel walls no longer passed in blurs but were blurs, like paintings. It had all turned to simulation; film set. Now our songs served not only to take us above the river where we could breathe but also to make the inside of this cabin real. We asserted not only our beliefs but the existence of those beliefs. We made ourselves real and looked at each other with doubts about our destination. We had fallen victim to bravado and brain chemistry. What were we doing? We kept singing, up and down. We should have called for help. The engine stayed smooth, but we faltered. We're not going to make it, are we? We were lost, on a path with only one road...

And then the pitch of light changed, from pub-tooth yellow to pearlish white, around the outside of the white lorry that now looked dirty and real.

‘YES!’

‘COME OON!’

‘VINDALOO...VINDALOO...’

The traffic stopped and we could see the ridges of the tunnel’s round exit.

‘I can’t believe we’ve done it.’

The traffic moved again and we moved off.

And then, twenty metres shy of the tunnel's exit, the van’s engine went dead.

‘NOOO!’

We cranked the thing and pumped the gas as the white lorry sped away from us. We drifted forwards shiftlessly, like a piece of debris lost and aimless in space. We chanted and hollered at the engine, at the world…

‘There’s a big guy behind us,’ said Trewin.

And the big guy blew his horn as we slowed:

PPPHHHHPHRPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP.

Which echoed down the tunnel.

‘...Christ.’

We were almost to a standstill, losing all momentum. Cars were slipping by us on our right, with ease.

COME ON.

We all shouted at the top of our lungs, cajoling each other and ourselves.

Ed shifted forward in his seat, an energetic smile on his face, completely in the throes of a new emotion.

Other cars were beeping around us.

The van stood still. Trewin cranked the engine.

‘Alright! I believe! I believe!' said Ed, 'We can do it! Come on, Buttercup!’

Our van is called Buttercup.

And we all called her name at the top of our lungs.

...

POWER.

And we roared out of the tunnel, almost rearing on our back wheels, beeping our horn. Trewin threw his arm out the window, clenching his fist, and the big guy behind us, a huge metal tanker, blew his horn again, short and repeating along with us. We caught up to the traffic and settled in the London evening light, ten minutes away from OSLO.

We arrived on time, and, as the venue had no lift, carried our gear up six flights of stairs in silence.

Tim

P.S. The album will be done. We have a date. What that date means, we do not know. Whether we get there in time depends on whether we can will ourselves across the river to the other side of the tunnel. Eh? Eh? Do you see?