M62, 1.07am.

I'm too old for this.

Motorway journeys are not designed WIth Me In Mind. No-one consulted me in the planning stages. And now I'm left cruelly uncatered for. Even the adverts above the men's urinals don't amuse, entertain or inform:

The venue was in the business district of Liverpool, which was odd. It felt like doing a gig somewhere near Bank tube station. An unpleasant side-effect of this was that post-soundcheck there was nowhere to grab any food. We wandered for 20 minutes before I rang Paul Kearney, Guided Missile label supremo and former Liverpool resident. “Sorry Rhodri, I'm on the other line, can I call you back?” “But i'm outside the Old Lyceum Post Office in the centre of Liverpool, I'm tired and hungry, and I need your help.” He just laughed. We eventually found a chippy, Laura chose something unique in the history of chipshop takeaway: a carton of plain boiled rice. It didn't give her all her required food groups, and later, mid-gig, she got scurvy. Let that be a warning.

The gig was fine enough, a large red-headed man shouted out “Woof” after every song as a gesture of appreciation, and later he bought a CD and asked to have his photo taken with us. He took off his glasses for the photo… as if it would make it a better picture, when he was surrounded by a bunch of munters like us. (i exclude anyone attractive in the Sudden Moves from this statement – you know who you all are.)

The headline band were Mates Of State. I'd never heard them before, and they were just magical. It's the first time in years when I've been at a gig by a band I'd never heard of and not been bored for a single moment. Just a two piece, a girl on a gigantic, old & battered 2-tier Yamaha keyboard, and a boy drumming. But the variety was spectacular, the ingenuity utterly inspiring, the harmonies and rhythms fun, the melodies sweet, and I bought 3 CDs afterwards. They're playing in London at the Arts Cafe on Friday; I'm going and I urge you to do the same. This is them:

Now we're on the way home. We just stopped at an almost completely deserted service station. Such was the boredom generated by this little-liked stop off point, a previous journeyer had carefully removed the paving slabs from the path and placed them on the grass verge, in order to generate excitement.

Nearly everything was shut, except the ubiqutious Granary. I hoped it sold grain by the hundredweight, but it didn't. It was completely deserted, and behind the counter sat a fat woman, slumped over with her face buried in lukewarm scrambled egg, while on the television Beyonce strutted her stuff, as if to remind the woman that there is in fact life outside the Merseyside catering trade.

Sally has just made us stop for her umpteenth piss. It's going to be a long night.