Our already interrupted slumber was interrupted in a more extreme fashion with the news that we had to get out of our bunks, and shamble into immigration for Canadian officials to look in awe at our hangdog expressions. After gazing at us in pity, they let us get back on the bus. We were all giggling slightly at the vigorous attempts we had been making to get some sleep, in the face of surprisingly uneven interstate road surfaces. For some people, it was like being gently rocked in a cot; for others it was like being caught up in the XXXX earthquake of XXXX in which XXXXX lost their lives.

We pulled up opposite a shop called Mystic Muffin in Toronto, and we took it in turns to waddle into the Holiday Inn and take much needed showers. I entered Mystic Muffin to buy a bagel, and was confronted with a finely-honed sales pitch to try and get me to buy an enormous apple cake for $9.99. On the wall was a painstakingly chalked-up imaginary conversation between the two proprietors, along the lines of “You what? You’re going to sell our famous apple cake for $9.99?” “Sure I am, because our loyal customers deserve good value!” “It’s crazy! You’ve been selling that cake at $1.75 a slice for the last 14 years!” “I know – and it’s the best apple cake in Ontario!” etc etc etc. I said that I’d consult the rest of the band and pop back if apple cake was required. Apple cake wasn’t required.

The Toronto Opera House isn’t really an opera house, although it’s conceivable that it might have been, back in its heyday, which must have been bloody ages ago. “Decaying grandeur” is the overused cliché that springs to mind, as does “dressing room with the stench of piss and chlorine.” But the crew were friendly and helpful, and we battled through a tricky soundcheck with difficult acoustics with their knowledge and expertise. Showtime: a sparse audience. A damp Monday night in Toronto clearly isn’t the best time to do a show, although Hot Chip were playing down the road and that was probably packed solid.

Afterwards, we met up with Alexis from Hot Chip and his friend Owen at a bar a few yards from the Opera House, and I showed my appreciation of the effort he’d made to cross town by falling asleep at the table. By the time we were kicked out, the bus had already left for its parking spot in the centre of the city, so we walked the not-inconsiderable distance and had meagre fun on the way, including watching Dave and Dicky hurl themselves around local parkland.

The bus set off at around 9am, with most of us sleeping reasonably peacefully thereon. At 11am we arrived at Niagra Falls, where we marvelled at the sheer, exquisite beauty of the local casinos and hotels, before taking a photo of some water falling off a cliff or something.

Now we’re somewhere south of Syracuse, a place that I dare not attempt to pronounce. The exit polls from the American mid-terms are coming in on the satellite television, and the news that Southend have just beaten Manchester Utd has just arrived via our cutting-edge bus-based wireless internet connection – much to the delight of Dicky and Dave, both former Southend residents. Tonight we stop in the middle of nowhere and desperately prowl the neighbourhood for something decent to eat; tomorrow we drive to Baltimore, where we’ll desperately prowl the neighbourhood for some other reason that I’ve so far failed to come up with.