A perverse crossover of earnestness and crippling 21st Century anxiety.

Five-thirty.

Five-thirty in the morning.

I didn't even want to go to Abbey Road. Who's ever recorded anything there, eh? Eh? Come on. For goodness' sake.

Five-thirty in the god damn morning.

Still, Ed knocked on the door of the Phoria house looking chipper. Sez rolled out in the way that he does, all silky hair and a distinct focus on 'breakfast time'. Trewin, as usual, was full of beans – throwing van keys in the air and what-not as he talks to you.

I slept through the A27, needing a tea.

London traffic. A sea of cars sitting dead in the shitty morning sun. Everyone beeping and sitting perfectly motionless, except for the people adjusting their hair or their make-up. Seryn.

So, traffic – which is what happens when you flood an inlet – and then bundling across the pavement like a wagon in the wild west. In through the out gate. Honestly. And who says rock and roll is dead?

We slither out, excitable but...focussed.

Sign in at reception. Sign in for your session at Abbey Road.

'Yes , Hi. We're here for the session with x at Studio three.'

Mmmm.

And then we're in! Skipping down the halls, as you do, into the first open door. All dark and wood. All deep red rug and dead headspace. The peace of the treated walls hits you in the chest. A meet and greet, suddenly. The students we'd be working with. This was all set up by Berkeley, Boston. It's their session, but they pretend it's ours.

Handshakes. 'Hello.'

They're all clean. I slept in Jeb's bed (his presence in all but scent is regrettably ommitted from this story), and am who I am, so you can imagine how I felt. I'd just been in the back of a stinking van after a four-thirty start, so how do you think I was? Why did I suddenly have to face fifteen or so grinning Americans?

No, no. I kid, of course. 

Really.

 

So setting up guitars, then. Setting up guitars in Studio 3 of Abbey Road studios. No big deal, really. It's not like I've wanted this exact moment for the entirety of my colourful career so far, noodling around after school playing Guns n' Roses covers, all the while dreaming of doing exactly this, here, right now, strumming my freshly-strung telecaster in the same place any teenage hero I dare mention had strummed their own, so to speak.

So I played a little Pink Floyd. And the whole band, having set up, segued into a kind of chilled out funk jam for a couple of minutes. Ed was on a real Rhodes.

Man.

Time to work.

CRICKETS!

The fire alarms in the building, it turns out, we're being picked up by our guitars, and were forcing the sound of chirruping crickets down the microphones.

Numerous solutions were saught.

Trewin ended up sitting like a Yogi, trying to angle his guitar away from anything,to stop the buzz.

Still, we've just started recording, so sshhhhh. Quiet in the studio.

Cameras. Cameras everywhere. Everyone's documenting everything.

I found out later that there had been two ambient mikes placed in the studio, so as to record the goings on during the session. I'm a nice man (don't look at me like that) and don't often say things that I mean out of turn, but...now the paranoia strikes. What if I made a bad joke? What if I was having some fun just being a little bitch? I'm sure I didn't say anything. Oooh. I know I screamed. A lot. But then, that's just what I do.

40 odd takes of two halves of a song, in the end. Jesus, lads. Get your acts together. They don't call me Three-minute Douglas for nothing, you know.

Everyone's in and out – not knowing where to go or where they should be, but focussed. Always moving with purpose, despite not knowing how best to fulfil it.

Lay down the bass, Tim.

Synth was easy enough. Bass guitar was not. My hand had become a lump of lead. I played my balls off and, on holding the last note of the last take, screamed over a sustained note as I held back my left pinky, which was cramping its way towards the fretboard, ready to ruin my good time.

I showed it, though. I told it who was boss.

An original Hammond through a Leslie speaker. Our balls were literally exploding into dust at the sounds and the toys and the atmosphere and the people. Ed could have been skipping through a field of marigolds. Trewin had his eyes on everything.

It's a fucking magical place, I tell you.

FREE LUNCH AND DINNER.

Say. No. Mawah.

Back to Connie's. She's a violin player, playing in the quartet (made a quintet by the appearance of her fabulous bass player friend), for a quick beer and, good lord, sleep.

Do we sleep?

Do we?

God, we peeled ourselves off the floor that next morning.

I had to look at the financial district of London through caffeine-free and sleepless eyes. I had to watch the wankers in the back of their cars, skimming a little bit off everything, causing all the problems that we are told they are the answer to. It was one hell of an energising hour.

And I had the day off, on day two! I'd played my three god-damn instruments. It was the turn of the string-quairntet, and a bit of piano, and Trewin's vocals. One of the most magical moments was when Trewin, attempting the vocal track, very quietly asked for the lights to be turned off, and in the control room we were left in complete darkness but for the panoramic glow of the mixing desk. I just stared and listened, one of which things is something that I have never done before, ever.

And...I mean...it just happened. I spent the rest of the time at the back, getting drawn unnecessarily into an offensive joke swap. I swear, mum – I don't know any. We just...hung out and chatted with these fascinating and wonderfully friendly American students and, clearly, very kind, humble, and inspiring staff.

Their professionalism out-marked mine by a-thousand-to-one.

But I played Pink Floyd in Studio 3 at Abbey Road, which they didn't.

Then, Connie's. Or maybe not?

'I could go home.' (Not my words.)

Ah, a car park debate.

'If we ever come against an option where we choose whether to be men, or mice,' said Trewin, 'can we choose to be men?'

Agreed.

Back to Connie's. Again. More beer, this time.

More getting a knock from a frustrated neighbour because we were waking little children across the complex.

More dancing to tunes we didn't know., in our alcohol soaked pyjamas.

After all, we'd just been to Abbey Road, and we didn't have to wake up at three-thirty the next day.

I'm still getting over it.

We're on tour, next. Let's see how it goes.

Have fun, whatever you choose to play in Studio 3 of Abbey Road Studios.

I know I played fucking Pink Floyd.

Did you?

No.

Tim

No such thing as a free launch?

OK, OK. I know the Brighton Display launch was on Saturday and it's now the following Tuesday and I've only just rolled into work, my sleeves covered in blood and vomit, but you can guess why, no?

That's right. I was glueing fragmented socks to the specific inner sections of middle-aged men's sandals so that the members of that group might finally have the weekend comfort of a hot sock with the aeration of the modern sandal.

I don't waste my time.

So thanks, then, to those who came down. There was a little stress in the days running up to the show. We'd had the London launch, as you perhaps know, and it went really well, but this, lest we get complacent, is another gig, and you never know what each gig will bring. Will anyone turn up? Will we stride out in a blaze of woohoo and slink off stage fifty minutes later in a fug of underboot downtreadery? Will we play to the beer pumps? Will my shoes feel too close, not enough...circulation? But then what of the leather-upper comfort?

You never know what the next gig will bring.

Luckily, you're all bloody lovely people, and you turned up and cheered your little lungy-bums off. That was real nice. It makes me feel nauseous with happiness that you all came and made it a big hot and sweaty one to remember. TVM.

So that was it, then. We had the months of lead up to the release where we fretted and non-stop-internetted and wondered how regretted we'd get if the whole thing failed and we were asked to fuck off into a horrid late-twenties obscurity. Then we had the London launch where it all came to a head and the post-gig shenanigans were no more than falling asleep against a van window as the honey-like lights glooped across our faces, and then after the Brighton show...

...that all went away. We had a little-wittle bit of 'freedom' to play with.

So today I'm still rubbing my legs after a four-hour 'walk' home on Sunday morning along Brighton seafront. Nothing pleases me more than watching Seryn struggle to handle the mixed pleasures of bodily poison, sunrise, and a rooftop jacuzzi.

Little more cliché, nothing more fun.

Thanks, all. We'll be busy this week, performing a few experiments in some London recording shed or other. Then we're gonna look forward to the tour. More on that as and when.

Tuesday can be pleasurable, but the sun is out, so if you're anything like me you'll be wisely staying inside, smearing peanut butter on your skin to form a full paste of opacity.

Don't choose chunky – it makes you look weird.

Be fun.

Tim

We all do what we must, don't we?

It's a chore, isn't it?

Releasing an EP, playing the launch at St. Pancras Old Church to a top-notch bunch of you lovely, lovely people, cruising around London afterwards dreaming of the future with so much tiredness in your eyes that you look like you've been soaking your entire head in bleach... (I wrote that 'so much tiredness' bit first and then tried to fill in the end. The idea of us soaking our head in bleach is accurate in terms of our appearance, but it doesn't really work, does it? Still, you'll get what you're given.)

It's a chore.

So, today's a day off.

No. 6 in the iTunes electronic chart, highly recommended by those nice folks at Radio 1, word going all over the globe about us, apparently. Display. Display Display Display. American Display. Vinyl Display.

So yesterday was the London launch. Saturday is the Brighton launch. Do come, if you're about, and/or tell your friends. Come come come.

That's it, then. Display is OUT! OUT and ABOUT! (Except for our friends in Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. We had to push it back a bit over there, for reasons.)

Today, then, is kicking back (which is really taking its toll on my legs) and watching Seinfeld and wasting my time on video games and drinking tea and picking out the wallpaper for my future swimming pool.

It's going to be a good day.

Tempted to head into Brighton later. You know when you're like 'I could go out. ...maybe I fancy going out. Staying in sounds nice, though. I don't know... Maybe I'll go out. Will people be out? Of course. Is that good? Sometimes. If I go out, will everyone go inside? Will that be bad? I wouldn't mind having the whole town to myself. I could lick all the gutters without being judged and smear 'myself' over all the shop windows. But can I be bothered?'

You know when you're like that? Well that's how I am.

Nah, screw it.

If you need me, I'll be bringing the ruckus. Just follow the slug trail through town.

Have fun on this Tuesday; it might be your last.

I only mean that it might get rebranded to 'Pleasure-day', or something, to convince everyone that life is good now that we're finally seeing the benefits of a precarious and limited economic recovery. They can finally afford to run the air conditioning at full tilt in the back of their limousines. Oh, praise be to those on the supply side, for when tempered by an active and caring government they truly are the arbiters of all that is good and pure in this world.

Yes, let's just sit here at the bottom of the hill...

That's enough of that.

Stay safe, and thanks for the love! Keep it coming!

Tim

Death and bad PR.

But why are the kids crying?

Haven't you heard? Rik is dead! The people's poet is dead!

But how can Rik be dead when we still have his poems?

Dammit, death. Why did you have to have to...

Ah, never mind. We're as bummed as all of you, OK? Just see Richard Richard off with a two-fingered salute and we'll have done with it.

We've been weeping into our keyboards, then. Blue sparks flying everywhere. We'll be sporting new hairstyles at the launch this coming Monday. Think Dr Emmet Brown mixed with 80s Tina Turner.

We've been going at it really rather hard. OK? We've pretty much spent the last seventy-two hours getting stuff down: putting new samples on new gear, getting stuff wrong, trying to make a couple of lights look like Guy Fawkes farting on a candle at the wrong time.

It's good to be so concentrated.

Let's see what happens. I can't emphasise enough how excited and/or shit-panteningly scared we are about the launch on Monday. Not so much the launch gig at St. Pancras (which I'll mention here again), but just...getting Display out of the door on its heels. Nothing but a sleeping bag (vinyl sleeve) and a couple of quid (no metaphorical analogue, here); out on its arse (music). I know the fine people at X Novo have been doing one of those bang up jobs I so often hear about.

Loads of radio stuff, which we're really grateful for. I even had an old friend get hold of me the other day saying he'd come across our stuff accidentally on Radio 1, and is now, at last, a fan. I've been telling him to listen to us for years.

Basically this whole 'growth' thing (not that one – I've had that lanced) is just an opportunity for us to weed out the wheat from the chaff as far as our extended social networks are concerned.

It's a very hurtful experience.

Keep listening, then.

Tim.

'Do you farm corn?' 'Wheat.' 'OK, I've got time.'

What is it? Wednesday?

There are a myriad of reasons why one would not know what day it is. In the interest of 'selling the dream' I'll let you make up your own. Is it the result of a five day rock and roll drink and drugs bender? Is it the result of my staying up until 7am every day trying to get rid of all this candy floss? Have I reverted to the ancient Shankhandian calendar where every day is 'Cruelty day'?

As I say, in the interest of our lives acting as a conduit for you to fulfil your own fantasies, I'll let you make your own mind up.

The weekend that's just gone was the temporal site of the first festival of the summer! Woohoo!

At an unspecifiable part of the trip up to Cheltenham I thought we'd entered a trans-dimensional state of suspended animation, as while I could clearly see the world and its myriad of green horrors whirling by outside of the van, inside of the van, the speedometer suddenly read '0mph'. 0mph?

'Uh-oh.' said Trewin.

On viewing that, then, we just had to pull off.

What a great mood I'm in today.

Not only were there electronics problems, but we knew that the starter motor was having issues, too. This meant that we had to drive around a little off-motorway village at 0mph (which is difficult at the best of times) looking not only for a good pace to stop, but somewhere hilly enough that we could bump-start the van should it fail.

'Hi? Yes, we're running a little late...'

Luckily we found a lovely little roady inlet, all lined with trees with big thick trunks and nice grass; all peaceful like, to stop and wait and hope for the AA man.

We played guitar, laughed at our own bodily functions (an underused technique for any motivational speakers out there) and Jeb and Seryn went for a two-hour walk to the nearest place they could get food. The AA man (I forget his name, but it may have been 'Heltaaaaaaaaaaaaarn') was a very nice man indeed. He even took the piss out of Trewin, which not many of us get to do. It was like when a guest speaker comes into class and makes a slightly snarky comment to the teacher to get you kids onside. Except it was over a van. We weren't in school. We were outside. I've been over this.

Fixed.

Late.

'Can we still make it?'

Of course.

Turn up late, but the awesome people still put us on, straight away. We rushed them, but they all pulled together and put us on really well. The staff at Wychwood Festival, I have to say, were awesome. Thanks, everyone.

Although the bar staff didn't take much of a liking to me. I ended up sitting outside with them at about 1am, having danced like a loon at the silent disco with the others until 'Come on Eileen' came on and I thought I'd rather have an axe in the eye than listen to that like an irony soaked bank-holiday-celebrating fun-time fuck. Simon Pegg has already covered this attitude concerning The Timewarp. That's my feeling.

So I sat outside with the bar staff who were on a break, feeling like one of the rich people on the Titanic going down to mingle with 'the hands', but sinking even faster as my state of mind made me think it would be funny to make them hate me. I get this feeling a lot, but... Well, there is no but. I get amused by it. I was alone.

Then I went to sleep across the gapped seats of a van that smelt like Vince Cable's voice.

I'm writing in a fit of energy and updatedyness. Maybe it's the onset of summer, maybe it's because I've got other stuff to be doing and my subconscious is telling me to do anything but that, or maybe it's because I love you all – every single one of you – and just want to impress you.

Or make you hate me.

Look, we've got two shows coming up for the launch of Display. One in London and one in Brighton. Click on them. Buy tickets. We're musicians.

I think.

Stay safe and be well, and don't shout too loud at PMQs.

Tim

What's the do?

What's new?

Well, we had three tracks at once in the HypeMachine chart. It's a kind of blog presence aggregator which tells you who's the most talked about artist across the internet. We had it with Red and Emanate, and now Undone has done the same. That's cool, right? This remix of Once Again is in there, too. It's lovely to have so much support that we start getting involved in these things. It's a clear sign that things are moving forward. I mean, we love what we do and have loved everything we've done so far, but moving forward in our online presence and getting more people involved is just so good; knowing that we're able to reach so many people by doing what we enjoy.

Thanks, everyone.

Undone, if you're not aware, is now available to stream. Display is on its way. 16^Th June. You can pre-order via iTunes (UK, US) OR take a look at our limited edition vinyl, available here.

Two launch shows; one in Brighton and one in good old London town, at one of our favourite venues. We're talking to the string quartet. We'll be...stringing them along.

Eh?

Eh?

So clever.

We had a rehearsal yesterday for our appearance at Wychwood festival tomorrow. First festival of the season!

Ed hands me a sustain pedal, back in the Phoria house.

'Tim, I've got to go and sort something – can you please remember to bring this to practice for me?'

'Yeah of course!'

So ask me why I left the rehearsal room and got in my car just as we were getting started. Go on. Go on, ask me. Go on.

He got his revenge. 7-0 on FIFA 13. 7-0. I'll get my revenge, though. I wonder if his gear will be at the gig tomorrow, or whether it will have mysteriously disappeared into a ditch somewhere along the A27.

I wonder.

Otherwise, it's work. More new stuff. Talking to people. Doing interviews, watching the reviews come in.

Getting ready for an exciting recording session at a very famous studio at the end of June. Who knows what'll come out of it. Music, probably.

Jeb's working on a couple of videos for us and other people, which should make their appearance soon enough. He showed me some of the drafts yesterday and they're really impressive. I mean, like, really impressive. Damn him.

All I've seen Seryn doing of late is sprinkling salt on buttered toast. What a wacky neighbour.

And I'm just sat here typing.

The weekend's coming up. If you can't feel the sense of pure unadulterated ecstacy that I'm trying to force through this post, then to be honest you're not ready for the weekend ahead of you. I'd pretend it's Monday tomorrow and go back into training, if I were you, which I could well be without your knowing.

Perhaps I should put the keyboard down, now, and play Fez for the rest of the day.

If you're going to have fun, make sure you grease your toes with butter, first. It aids the dancing.

Pleasure, as always.

Heartford O'Helt.

(Tim).

'He said he just wanted to say 'Hi.' Shall I let him in or shall I scrape his face with this automatic rake? He's got long hair.'

Where have we been?

Well, we've been on Radio One, for a fucking start. Thanks, Phil and Alice.

That's a good thing, I've heard.

Radio Six Lauren Laverne record of the week, last week. Thanks, Lauren.

I've heard that's good also.

Where have we been?

Well, we played at The Great Escape on the 8^th. Did an interview, in a fantastically lucid state of mind, for Juice FM on the morning of the 9^th...

...and since then it's all been back to normal. Planning. Sorting. Even a little bit of WRITING NEW STUFF. That's right, we never sleep. We're too big for it, now.

It's not long until Display is out. [preorder UK] [preorder US]

Trewin's spent a bit of time out in the woods, Jeb's been cooking up fantastic videos, Seryn's been mixing things up, and Ed's been in Wales, skipping around the mountains, yodeling and putting his thumbs in his backpack straps whilst looking out over grey hills, breathing in the cool mountain air and wondering if he remembered to hoover both sides of the sofa cushions.

I've been sitting around, tapping at this keyboard thing, drinking all kinds of exotic teas because that's the kind of man I am; watching lots of The Larry Sanders Show for the millionth time, and am right now reclining with hovering feet watching Sigur Ros live and contemplating the last few months of stress and insanity as we finished off Display.

It's nice to be here, in the land of italic descriptors.

Thanks for the support, everyone. [Theveryone]

My brain is sautéed, but I thought it polite to pop my head into your crevice and scream 'Hello!'

Hope you're well on this Sunday. It's sunny here in Brighton.

Best close the curtains, then.

Timmy.

My inability to find a parrot has given me a real chimp on my shoulder.

RIGHT!

What's the do, then?

Emanate's doing well. Thanks for that, everyone. You're all part of our team, now. Display is on its way. Here's the pre-order link (US). We're so happy with the response so far. Too many blogs have picked up on it to mention here – needless to say we very much appreciate all the positivity.

We were up to Liverpool on Saturday for the Sound City festival, which was great. It was my birthday (a fact which I allowed no-one to forget, after leaving the house just before 8am and spending nigh on seven hours in the van, staring at roads; Costa coffee and UKIP signs), so we had a RUDDY GOOD LAUGH trundling around Liverpool, playing for some lovely people at the awesome Kazimier venue and getting a free dinner. Everyone was chugging energy drinks like they were suspiciously fashionable after spending the last few days saying 'Hurrah' to the Emanate release, and putting the final few tweaks on the other EP tracks. Our eyes were puffier than Sean Combs riding a hot-air balloon through a wind tunnel.

We caught up with fellow Brightonians The Physics House Band too, bumping into them in the middle of the street and later catching their awesome set at The Black-E, which was another damn cool venue. I don't think any of us had been to Liverpool before. It was RUDDY nice, I tell thee. I even had a stare down with a man in a car after we accidentally parked the wrong way on a one-way street, as on our manoeuvring he insisted on staring deep into these holes that have been punctured into my face. He either wanted to kiss me or hug me, I think. That's the whole story, but it made me feel like a man. I need some indication. (We held each others gaze until the car disappeared out of sight, and then I panicked; wondering if his group were perhaps staying at the same hotel as us and I had just gotten us into a lot of trouble with fists.)

So, we've surfed through it all. Display EP done and ready for release, single released, gig in Liverpool played...

The next one's at the rather good The Great Escape festival in Brighton this Thursday. (I tried to find a good link to put here, but they either weren't working or weren't informative enough. We're at St Mary's church on 8/5 at (I'm quite sure) 19:30. Keep an eye on our FB etc. for more info. The festival has sold out, but you could probably stand in the street and shout our name.) We'll be wide awake and hot-to-trot. New material, and all that.

Things are fun.

So, having spent that day on the road (and the next day, too) and, despite appearances, working – today is a day of rest and opening presents. Pants, socks, and the inevitable Terminator 2 board game. Bacon and maple syrup pancakes for breakfast. The snooker starts at 14:00.

That's all for now. We've been so squirrelled away, it feels strange to put it into a readily assimilable capsule for semi-public consumption. Still, here it is. Here's whatever it is.

Do have fun. It's a bank holiday, which I assume means that money assumes no value for the next few hours.

Go to Waitrose, then.

Warmest regards and fondest well wishes,

Tim

It's like you've got one of those dentist's mirrors and you're using it to peek around the corner of our lives like a Hollywood spy.

So we've got an interview today. Cool! Not a bad way to spend a Sunday evening.

It makes you wonder how to be, though. How do we turn up? What do you wear to appear in words? Does it change anything? Who do you appear as? Yourself? Maybe. What if even you find yourself somewhat of a doof? What risks do you run in putting up a front? Especially if you question your own judgement on what makes someone not a doof. Using the word 'doof' marks you as something of an ass on its own. So what do you do?

Are you charming? Who knows? Could you pretend to be? Maybe.

Are you disarmingly humble? No.

Do you risk, in projecting an air of confidence, appearing to think that you're more talented than the person on the other end of the dictaphone thinks you are? Where are we then? Does that air result in your convincing people that there's more to you than first appears, that perhaps your work demands an even more positive appraisal? Or do you come off as some arrogant and clueless little thing, convinced of its own superiority but ignorant of how opinions are formed in other peoples heads?

What if you come across as caring too much about how you're taken by others?

What if you come across as alarmingly insecure, or worse, boring?

No, conversations are too big a risk to take. Expression is too big a risk to take. What I think we should do is just sit indoors and never talk to anyone, ever, about anything at all. Like Kate Bush, but without that nagging history of success.

Maybe it doesn't matter. At all. Maybe it's all OK. Maybe there's no such thing as expressing an opinion or attitude that doesn't potentially alienate a large number of the people you're supposed to be trying to get on your side. Maybe if you try and please everyone you just end up going into politics, claiming that The Big Society is part of some grand spiritual mission rather than an attempt to rip out hard fought for governmental support for people who weren't born into a comfortable network of potential. Are there no workhouses? No? Then they should build their own.

So who cares, eh? These questions rise and fall, and the only answer is to go and do and be and not care about it. Have fun, and ignore the sirens and riots that result outside the pub door as a result of what you just said.

I hope you're well, having your Sunday. I keep saying it, but things are coming. We are working, and we are happy with how it's sounding. Artwork, at the mo. That's where we are. The sounds are there. It's coming. And we just might know when, but, as is usual with self-production, we're taking the time to do it right, lest we alienate anyone; lest we fail to appeal to every living thing and come across as people with ideas.

Tim

This unpopular post written with the aid of self-reflexive irony.

Oh it's time for FUN. EH? ISN'T IT? EH? YE

                Right. I’m supposed to tell you about the photoshoot we went for, aren’t I? That’s the kind of thing that usually turns up on here. I tell you about the horribly early morning that only took its toll at 9PM yesterday, when I looked at my phone (goodbye, horology for the unenthused) expecting it to read ‘late into the night’ when in fact it read ‘you just bombed the town of Circadia’. 

                I tell you about the journey up. Five of us facing forwards in a car, having a puffy-eyed laugh, rather than rattling about in the van with the threat of a cymbal stand in a face-hole looming its chromed head at every red light.

                Then I say that we arrived at our destination, in a kind of ‘phew’ tone. A feeling that even this description of that phenomenon has managed to induce a little. Don’t ask me how it’s done. And there’s the bare sarcasm, layered thickly like the similes that often appear here, too.

                Then a funny thing that happened. Something relatively small but humorously magnified. Ed was worried about something in a sandwich, or Trewin realised he’d left his washing on a goat so we had to rush home. Something like that. Nothing like that really happened. It was literally a normal day with very little adventure. The photoshoot was fun and we’re very grateful to Rhona for doing it for us. We’re either getting more professional or more boring. I see no evidence of eitherTHERE’STHATSARCASMAGAIN(hee hee ho, mateys!)

                So we’re back in it now; back in the actual description of events rather than an attempt at having fun with the format. We just drove home. That’s literally it. We said loads of funny things and talked about the shortcomings of various Hollywood franchises. People in a car. You know how it goes. Imagine times you’ve been in a car with people (not that time you parked around the back of the industrial estate because your divorced friend said she really wanted to try it but needed someone there in case ‘something goes wrong’ and then you realised that in fact you have a fear of gloveboxes so you vomited all over her skirt and she had to drive you to the hospital because you were starting to retch your leg bones up around your ribs and through your dribbly, bile smeared lips) I’m really out of ideas and still very tired have a nice weekend I’ll let you know how we get on with the new material next week.

Happy Mothering Sunday.

Tim

[intentionally left ironic]

‘Brrrrr’, said Binky.

‘Grrabbabararabrabrbatatat attt tatt tata ttatat.’

From Our Van in Vanvana by Van-key Moon.

So our delicious van – the van that took us to Croatia and back with nary an issue but how best to express its apparent love for us – started throat singing like Frankenstein the other day. Five minutes down the road from the house, it was. We were due at our Hoxton B&K gig in about three hours.

                We drove home. What to do?

                Take it to a friendly garage?

                Money. Time. Fear.

                Rent a van.

                Frantic calls.

                ‘Yes, this is van.’

                Trewin and Ed went with themselves in Ed’s car. Jeb and Seryn took the wholly sensible step of going inside the house while we waited. I sat very still and silent in the broken down van and stared into space.

                I heard a rumbling coming up the hill. Diesel.

                Trewin beamed from the open window.

                ‘You’re going to be so excited…’ he said.

                Ed and I have a history of giifting large and valuable amounts of time to the video games Tekken II and Fifa. I go round fairly often – usually an hour or two before rehearsal or something – to relentlessly thrash him to within an inch of his life. Eh? Eh? What’s that, Ed? Oh sorry I can’t hear you over the wall of servers separating your response from this indeleteable wall of text. Should I redress the balance and say that you’ve won, like, one game in six months? Should I, Ed? And that was even before we found out that the controller I’ve been using is a bit dodgy? Hmm? Eh? Yes, I’d love  a coffee.

                …so we discover that there’s a PlayStation in the back of the van. The van with plump and bulging leather seats, pregnant with hours of inactivity.

                Ed 

n

i

p

s home on my instruction to get the games, delaying our departure by about six minutes. A harmless sacrifice, in my opinion.

                ‘Where’s Ed?’ asks Trewin.

                ‘Erm… dunno. I think he’s dropping his car back.’

                I run away from the conversation.

                I literally don’t care about anything but playing video games in the back of the luxury van at this point. We decided that Binky (the name of our regular van, if you don’t yet realise this) should never know that we’d been out whoring, and that it would be disrespectful to denigrate her out of earshot, especially considering our history with her, so we reign in our praise on ‘Overlord van’, as I shall now call it.

                Overlord van was literally a dalliance. A costly, baroque dalliance. Think of it as nothing more than the lunch-hour activities of a city-bound banker or politician. You know – the self-proclaimed moral arbiters of society.

To remain happy in the Rick Parfitt we shall have to flick that switch we all have and reorder our memories. Force feed our brains the food that makes the remembered imaginary.

                So the trip up there was good.

                Then the gig. Lovely. Great stuff from Groves and Amy Studt. Thanks to all of you who came down to see us and thanks to the good people at IAM for putting us on. We were really pleased with the turnout. If you didn’t come then I ask you: What the hell else were you up to on a Wednesday? Fishing? Where were you going fishing in the centre of London? Some pavement? No, no, no. This doesn’t add up at all. I refuse to believe your harmful concrete lies.

                The gig was fun. I pretty much destroyed myself. That’s always a good thing.

                So – in, out, play on the PlayStation.

                Little story simplified: Ed was winning. ‘Someone get out and help me park, please.’ ‘OK Trewin, but don’t turn off the ignition because I’m winning against Tim and I never win. Turning off the ignition turns off the games console. I’m literally just about to win.’ ‘OK.’ Brum brum brum. ‘OK that’s good.’ (turns ignition off) ‘Oops.’ ‘Oh Trewwwwwiiiiiiiiiiin!’

                I promise, that’s all from mine and Ed’s little obsession. I just couldn’t leave that little bit out, as I often say.

                So then we went inside and did the usual, wrenching up my favourite landscape with the usual means of tectonic transit. Big green bottles and tinnys and candles and cigarette making apparatus and snacks springing up everywhere and everyone laughing and planning our next move towards total world dominance. Release dates, etc.

Release dates.

I outlasted everyone, again. Everyone. I ended up finishing my wine and dismantling prematurely discarded fag-butts to craft glorious machinations of charred health on my own at sun o’clock in the morning. Mmmm. Good?

                Morning. Everyone’s happy. Drive home.

                No games, please – I’ve forgotten how to use my eyes.

                And then it was home. Bacon sandwiches, tea, and a lingering feeling of a job well done.

                Well done.

                More soon. The new songs at the gig were just a taster of what we have in store.

                Be well, and enjoy your Friday - you never know when the next one might be.

                Tim