Approximately 94% of our free time (i.e not driving, playing or drinking) is being spent in the noble 21st century pastime of assembling, upgrading, networking and getting incredibly irate with, our technology. We collectively possess 2 Macbooks, 4 IPhones, 6 various other lesser mobiles (or 'handys', as the Germans call them), about 13 power adaptors, about 20 chargers, USB cables and general tentacled riffraff ; in short, we're like a pack of Daleks, continually desperate for the nearest charge point, willing to exterminate all who may step across our path…. it's plain fuckin ridiculous, but hey, these are the times we live in. Steve actually, literally, spat at his Turk-phone-shop mobile trying to text his girlfriend back in Australia the other night. He's more a 19th century kinda chap, so it's all a little rough on the dude.
We left Germany yesterday after 6 shows, all in a wide variety of smallish clubs and private 'social collective' kinda joints, mostly dodgily equipped and invariably stinking of beer and smoke (yes,we relived the 90s playing in smoke-filled chambers, not good for the ol yodelling pipes), and also invariably run, booked and organised by some seriously lovely people…. Sabrina, Martin, Till, Florian, Joachim and Uschi are just some of the very kind and switched on folk that have helped us even make it to this centre of Western civilisation in the first place.
As we write this, we are driving our erstwhile Mobile Ape Transportation Module out of Rotterdam on our way to Gay Paris. So far there have been only two relatively minor car-related prangs because there have been only two relatively minor Joines-related pilotings of the M.A.T.M. - Joines, well, in a few words, smashed into Frankfurt. The M.A.T.M. now has an Achilles Heel; A weakness in our armour in which Gypsies and cats can penetrate to thieve our fancy technological accoutrements. He has been banished to the Grief Deprivation Chamber and forced to read Finnegan's Wake in German. So, gaffer-taped up, we charge valiantly toward Gaul like brave warriors of rock! This is not a visit a plaisance Paris, you will be Rocked and you will be Rocked Properly! (that sounds like tough tour talk, doesn't it?)
Joinesy, on punishment for his naughty and heinous auto crimes, isn't bestowed with the same privileges as the rest of the battle-ready rock warriors. He sits back there like a vanquished plankton in the belly of the massive M.A.T.M. whale.
When he finishes his punitive sentence, he will be released and returned to his job
of contributing to the cause by keeping us in serious stitches berating all the 'foreign cunts' that we are, in his little Zambian brain (yes, Steve is an African, folks), unfortunately compelled to trust and, god forbid, talk to. Some male members of the Dutch audience last night took a particular shine to Steve and his 'uber Australian truckdriver chic', they love it, and he smiles at everything they say, nodding, deeply confused, but friendly.
So, yesterday was also a landmark for our soundie, Rendang: being Dutch by birth he got very excitable as we crossed the border into Holland at a gentle150kph, teaching us various foul expressions (it is particularly common to slag someone hear as a 'Goat's dick' - bokker lull - go figure) and then forced us to listen to hideous Dutch nursery rhymes (he only has the mentality of a 5 year old in his mother tongue, having migrated to a semi-civilised place, New Zealand, at that age), a very happy day for the dude, especially as it was on the back of a 'romantic encounter' with a lovely German lass the night before. We are all incredibly jealous and demanding of 'details, details'. Bastard. He, of course, has been sacked.
A major milestone in the life of Todd 'Snoop' Pickett was also reached last night. The rest of the band escorted him to the door of the "Sky High Coffee Shop' and tearily watched him walk inside, like a father seeing his son walk off with a scarlet woman for his first root. This was where Todd's lifelong ambition of picking from a delectable list of uber-grass was to be fulfilled. At 5 euro a gram, the choice was made to go for the Jamaican (a dark organic bushy strain, super nice I must say) and Bubblegum, a fairly mellow yellow hydro variety. The 'Amnesia' listed on the menu was carefully sidestepped in view of many shows ahead requiring at least partial brain function. You gotta keep the drummer happy. In his blissful little green bubble, he belted the skins like a motherfucker at the show. Rock.
We have a very large Mobile Ape Transportation Module (6 metres long, 3 metres high); Paris has very narrow streets. Under guidance from James "C'est La Vie" Cruickshank we have adopted a siege mentality for our arrival into the fair land of snailmunching gypsy thieves. It's gonna be tricky but we have the world's greatest goat-track afficionado - Alex 'Zero Error' Archer is our inner-city wheel guy - the rest of us share the long stretches of expressway but we systematically defer to Alex when it comes to more complex elements of driving, like cornering, giving way to foreign cunts, or parking this beastly box (which is actually very comfy, we just like complaining about everything).
So I should say something perhaps of myself (your author, the Don) or Dux, but I can't be bothered. We're good, we're cool, we're happy. Ryan's basically on this tour so he can go boot shopping in Spain, we expect him to go a bit strange around that stretch of the trip. As for me, it's all about the chicks; so far, an abysmal response. Thankfully I bought a huge book of incredibly fucking difficult Sudoku puzzles at Perth airport so I'm content for now. Yep, rock n roll.
Paris beckons, au revoir.
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