Back at the hotel after the Sutton Coldfield gig I sat in the bar and looked at this old photo. It amused me that even in the olden days people weren’t quite sure where the actual camera was. But then I wondered if the bloke at the back has actually just realised, “We’re all long dead.”
One day we will all be nothing more than anonymous faces staring out of photos, causing people to question their own mortality.
I looked at the photo again and I am pretty sure that man at the back is actually me in a funny moustache. Looking out to warn me to make the most of life.
I had been quite looking forward to being out on the road on my own for three nights, like in the old days when I couldn’t afford a tour manager and had the energy to do shows and party into the night and drive myself (not sure there was any other partying, but let’s just pretend). And I might have got through three gigs on my own without it destroying me, if only my children hadn’t insisted on giving me a little something to remind me of them on the road - a horrible sore throat bug.
I had messed up my opportunity to have a decent’s night sleep by waking up every hour and then getting up at 6.50, like I had a fucking baby with me anyway, without any of the disarming smiles (my boy gave me the kind of grin as I left that could keep the fire of love lit for 5000 years). I thought the drive would take two hours, so caught up with some work in the morning and then planned to stop off at a service station to write a set for my appearance on Matt Forde’s Unspun this Sunday.
But the traffic was awful and my journey to my hotel (with a 60 minute stop where I failed to work) took me 5 hours. And any hope of having a quick nap was dashed by the discovery that the venue was another 50 minutes away (including bad traffic) so I had to leave straight away.
But though I was exhausted and feeling lousy, the warm Little Theatre welcome made up for it all. They had provided me with a tiny snooker board and a nice lady called Sandra arrived to give me two handmade Chorley cakes made with fair trade ingredients. She had read that I hated Chorley cakes and wanted to show me how great they were. But I am always only joking. I don’t hate Chorley cakes. It’s just fun to take the piss. And these were the nicest Chorley cakes I’ve ever had - you’re supposed to have them with butter which I didn’t know. On stage when I laid into Sandra and called her handiwork disgusting and said that it was nice that they were made from fair trade ingredients, but was it fair that those ingredients had been wasted on making Chorley cakes. It was entirely unjustified and unfair, especially as I like Chorley cakes. But where’s the humour in saying that?
It was another sell out, meaning 5 of the first 7 gigs on the tour (including last year’s dates) have sold out. Though I don’t think that level of sales is going to sustain and is partly down to some of the smaller venues being in the first section of the tour. But I didn’t quite sell out last year, so that’s a positive sign.
I drove the half hour back to the hotel, wondering why this one had been booked out of town when tomorrow’s drive isn’t that long and I am going to have a lot of time to kill. I popped into the pub next door for a medicinal brandy and then headed to my slightly sad room to pass out from exhaustion.
The party days are behind me. And I wasted them by not partying.
And now I am dead and it’s too late. (only to be read posthumously)
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