Day Eleven

25th September 2007 – York Fibbers

Or “But I really like you”

Or “Deborah floating an air biscuit”

Or “Nutso, nutso man”

With Deborah and Maya back to full health, we got back in the van and on the road to York, home of Shed Seven. I was looking forward to playing Fibbers, as it was another one of those venues that every single Britpop band I’d ever read about as a teenager had played. York was beautiful, full of cobbled streets and gorgeous old buildings. The local support surprised us – unlike the shit Libertines rip-offs we had now become used to they sounded instead like a shit Bloc Party. Our set was noteworthy for presenting us with our most stationary audience ever, and Tony SohoDolls described their performance as the worst show they had ever played. We felt we had played well enough, but the atmosphere was dead and there was nothing we could do to resuscitate it. Once the show was all over and we had packed up, we all went to a nightclub called Ziggy’s, where unfriendly bouncers ushered us in to the sound of rock music for a sort-of official sort-of aftershow. On the way there, an incredibly drunk Grant excelled himself by walking face first into a wall. Apart from Grant, everyone found this hilarious. For the first time all tour the whole party was out – the whole of 586, the whole of SohoDolls, and their tour manager Mikko. The music was very, very rock and metal though, which wasn’t really our bag, so Simon and I went up to the DJ booth to see if we could get some requests in. We asked for Prince. No luck. We asked for Bowie. No luck. Suddenly struck by inspiration, we asked for the Foo Fighters covering Prince. No luck. We finally got some Queen after asking for something a little less screamy, a little more glam. The club was still pretty terrible though, so the various band members all eventually drifted off back to the hotel – SohoDolls had very kindly offered us their hotel floor space to sleep on rather than the van.

Simon and I decided to stay out as we were having fun. Well, I was having fun, he was hoping to get lucky. I didn’t mind if he got lucky, as long as I could either sleep on his victim’s sofa/floor/whatever, or get the van keys off him so I could sleep in there. I figured the van would be OK if it was just me in there on my tod. I got talking to some fans who had been at the show and Simon got talking to a girl. She wasn’t having any of it though. As the club closed, he tried to get her to agree to let us sleep at hers. “But I really like you,” he pleaded. I burst out laughing, killing his chances, so we ended up wandering the streets of York looking for chips and the van. When we arrived at the van, Simon realised he didn’t have the keys.

Fuck fuck fuck.

OK, don’t panic. We tried to phone the others. No answers. We tried again. Still no answer. Simon was getting increasingly frustrated. He tried to call Deborah. Still no luck. Her phone went through to voicemail and Simon finally snapped.

“Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnntttttttt!” he screamed down the phone before hanging up, stomping to a shop doorway and sitting in a hairy huff on the pavement.

“Have you tried your pocket?” I asked.

“Of course I’ve tried my fucking pocket.” He snapped, pulling the pocket out. The keys fell to the floor. We looked at the keys, then each other. There was a pause before we both grinned like idiots and started jumping on the spot.

“Quick, let’s get in there and get a fucking beer!” I exclaimed and we opened the back doors. Because there were only two of us, it was actually quite comfortable sleeping in the van – we had more than enough space, so we passed out through to 11 the following morning.

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