It’s been a while since I posted anything of worth here. About 3 years, some might say. The last couple of weeks have been spent churning out an 8,000-word chapter of a book about the harsh realities of being on tour – specifically the subject of the mode of transport itself – and the rest of the time, rather appropriately, was spent preparing for a gig in Bristol, a Green Gartside ’solo’ show at the Venn Festival. The logistics were complex and the budget was tight, and this meant that I found myself volunteering to drive a 9-seater minibus for some 270 miles, despite having never driven anything bigger than a Ford Fiesta with a big dent in the side (thanks to some bastard who recently drove right into my car outside my flat in the middle of the night before stealing away, having not even written a courteous note claiming responsibility and tucking it under my windscreen wipers along with a cheque for £200.) While some people sit in crisis meetings and wonder how everyone else might solve the problem, I tend to volunteer for tasks that involve great personal sacrifice. Bear that in mind, next time any readers need something doing – burying your grandfather, demolishing a nuclear power station – I’m your man.

Anyway, we slung together some new Green-penned tunes during the week, and by yesterday morning we were ready to rock, or rather hip, hop and croon. I picked up the van from a hire company in South Wimbledon, and was served by a girl who was obviously bullied by her workmates; in the 15 minutes I was there filling out dockets in triplicate, they’d already shouted at her once, and ignored her three times. She looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. I tried to soothe her by being nice and friendly, and not, say, gouge her left eye out with the car keys. The van was long, and wide, and the clutch had a biting point somewhere around Equatorial Guinea, and the first hour was tough. By the time Jenny, Alyssa, Green & Andy had got in it, I was no longer feeling embarrassed about my lack of minibus experience. I felt more like a chauffeur, but sadly not the one in the Duran Duran video who gets to watch sexy ladies moodily wield shards of mirrored glass. Oh well.

We played at the Arnolfini, right on the quayside in the centre of town. We were preceded by Baby Dee, who played a harp and warbled enigmatically. Green, myself, Dave and Alyssa wandered unprofessionally onto the stage, and did about 35 minutes that was only mildly interrupted by technical hitches, and it all went down famously. Afterwards, someone recognised my stupid face from the FridayCities website, and thanked me for posting Le Breton Gourmand. My pleasure. Afterwards we enjoyed beers and food by the water as the sun set, and then attempted maximum contrast by going to watch Extreme Noise Terror play on a boat. We didn’t last long. Back to the hotel (which, incidentally, was a Premier Travel Inn, and I have to applaud them on the comfort of their beds and their splendid soundproofing, which I hope will get me discounts in future, but probably not) and I ate a complimentary caramelised biscuit snack which I didn’t really need. We then spent 45 minutes trying to find a club that was about 2 minutes away, and when I arrived I was so horrified by the heat and the noise that I drained a can of Red Stripe, burst into tears and made Jenny leave without seeing Luke Vibert, which was fine, as Jenny gives even less of a shit about Luke Vibert than I do, which is saying something.

A peaceful night – not just because of the Premier Travel Inn’s excellent hospitality, but because Jenny bought me two snoring remedies; one minty paper-thin lozenge thing that you dissolves at the back of the throat (your throat, for best results) and one of those strips that goes over the bridge of your nose. Working in tandem, they proved to be a revelation. And the fact that they did the trick in the middle of hayfever season and after I’d had a few drinks means that they probably underwent the ultimate test, there. In the morning we all walked down to the quay for breakfast, and en route I noticed a poster for Thai Ladyboys of Bangkok, alongside others for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and so on. I attempted to take a photo, and this is what happened:

But you get the idea. Rather splendidly, they’re trying to market the Ladyboys of Bangkok as family entertainment. Roll up, roll up, grannies and grandads, aunts and uncles, little’uns, for some glorious transgender fun! “What do you imagine happens at the show?” asked Green. “What do you think they actually do?” “Talk openly and frankly about their sexuality,” I suggested, and then made a mental note to put the exchange on this blog, as I made myself laugh out loud. What an revolting human specimen I am.

The journey back to London was notable for a more confident driving display from yours truly, and several bottles of Diet Irn Bru to keep me awake, although in retrospect I’m not sure that they have any caffeine in at all. We pondered the phrase “the birds and the bees”. When people say “the birds and the bees”, is that because some official version of the Facts Of Life actually features the antics of birds and bees? Are birds and bees particularly noted for their mating rituals? I don’t think so. So why do we say it? On returning home, I went to the all-knowing Wikipedia, which informs me that “The phrase is evocative of the metaphors and euphemisms often used to avoid speaking openly and technically about the subject”, but that doesn’t address why birds and bees were chosen as the featured lifeforms. If it’s appropriate metaphors you’re looking for, how about the rabbits and the pornstars? Or the sabre-toothed tiger and the machete? (If that’s your bag.)