EUROPE - PREAMBLE

I wrote this not just becuz I am a raging egomaniac with a compulsion for documentation. I wrote this becuz I had a lot of fun, fully embedded in the camaraderie, escapism and everyday absurdity of the pursuit of rock ’n’ roll. But mostly the ego thing, I guess. Minimally edited, maximally written sleep-deprived van brainwaffle featuring: naked, aggressive Germans, tire blowouts, Brexit hangovers, sex toy horror stories (not me this time), naked, aggressive Swedes, van leaks, Danish Toilet Nazis, LG Petrov shots, double bass attacks, squats, bars, festivals, Max Burger, heavy metal, punk, wonderful Europe, and Slayer.

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I was lying in bed covered in cats, contemplating the day ahead. Recording for the Who Cares album had just finished and it had been almost a month since I quit another shitass job. It was time to return to adult shit, I needed to find leads asap while skirting poverty.

I was making peace with getting up and commencing the job search when a message came in, Chris from Inhuman Nature. ‘You wouldn’t fancy playing bass for us next week on our European tour would you?’Jack had had an accident and wasn’t gonna be able to play.

Guess I’m going to Europe.

I spend the next 5 days cramming a 10-song set into my alcohol/substance-ruined brain. There’s no time for rehearsals with the band so I’m wary, but propelled by ego. I say goodbye to my wife and cats and head to Hillingdon to meet the van. Rock and roll, playboi.

We load up the 9-seater sprinter at Simon’s parent’s place, Chris, Simon, Jack and I. Jack has pretty much healed up from the accident and gotten that last minute ‘fuck it, let’s do it’ surge of adrenaline. We’re gonna do one nite on/one nite off bass stints, with the occasional WWE-style tagging in/out for encores.

I was a little unsure at first. I don’t wanna overstep any boundaries or make anything weird, but I absolutely want to play with Inhuman Nature, and return to Europe. The band gets their bassist and the good sound they deserve for at least half the tour, and for the other half they get to suck a little as I assume duties. But Jack and I both get to play, and we’ve made madcap plans for even a double bass attack where appropriate (if such a thing could ever be appropriate).

We drive to Hastings to pick up Charlie and Mack. Slayer is playing in the van. 13 minutes out of reaching Charlie’s place, Simon realises he has left his passport at home. Laboured calls are made to his girlfriend Jenny who is able to sort a motorcycle courier to bring the passport to Charlie’s.

In the freezing nite, Charlie meets us outside his suburban Hastings home in his socks and trackies. Handling merch for this tour, Charlie is instantly hilarious, manic, pacing around laughing, cunt-this and cunt-that. Within 30 seconds of our arrival, his neighbour, some wizened old crone, comes out to make sure we are not parking near her property. For a brief flash, a respectable shade of Charlie appears, then he is cursing her as soon as she’s back indoors.

Simon is on Charlie’s computer, trying to add Jack’s details to the ferry we are due to get in about 5 hours. The website form doesn’t accept the info, so we’re gonna have to wing it.

 We order pizza and eat in the living room where Charlie insists on watching Love It Or List It. One couple need a home close to schools in their catchment area but not too close to main roads. ‘Picky cunts,’ Charlie remarks. Another family have too big a home, leaving them feeling disconnected. ‘No pleasin’ some cunts,’ he shakes his head. The band eat in silence, unfazed, having experienced Charlie’s cunt-compulsions day in, day out on previous tours.

We cramp into Charlie’s upstairs cupboard bedroom, smoking joints and watching Yngwie Malmsteen live videos. The window is open for the smoke. Charlie opens music writing software to play us obnoxiously loud, evil Mario Kart-sounding metal he has programmed for his solo project. Outside in the garden below, his dog barks up at us in time to the riffs. Only I am laughing.

We swap merch out from boxes to distribute amongst band members’ luggage to avoid getting taxed by EU border officials. Charlie starts laughing and looks up from packing. ‘I was on tour with a band once and shat myself. I just stashed my shitty clothes in the bass drum. They never found it.’ He shrugs and continues stuffing merch into his suitcase.

The passport courier finally arrives around midnite. We try to sleep 4 hours before getting up to catch the ferry at Dover. Periodically, Charlie rouses and comes downstairs to the living room where we’re sleeping. ‘Simon, don’t forget, we’re getting up in 3 hours.' ‘Simon, don’t forget, we’re getting up in 2 hours.’

We pick up Mack from his place on a lovely street of townhouses near the Hastings waterfront that Charlie assures us is actually teeming with crackheads. We pass the darkened beach front, Charlie pointing out the local landmarks. ‘Mack shagged a bird at that bus stop once’.

The ferry is late by a couple hours and we’re given meal coupons. We eat the worlds shittest toast (mine stale-stiff on the crusts, soggy in the middle) on the short hellfest cruise. The motherfucker dishing out the food wouldn’t load up Chris and me with enough hash browns. We had hardly any of the items on offer as they were mostly meat, so we thought he’d throw us a bone but just ignored us when we asked.

The French staff keep yelling at the truckers, who apparently have their own separate lounge on the deck below and aren’t to mix in the regular ferry passengers’ restaurant. They lumber in every few minutes with wobbling bellies and the uniformed staff, who deny us our blessed hashy B’s, start shrieking, ‘TRUCKERRRR - DOWNSTAIRRRSS’. I’m not sure the reason for the segregation, maybe the truckers stink of speed, prostitutes and refugee trafficking, or there’s an esoteric French ferry class system in place that we are unaware of.

A couple of old English lesbians approach me and ask if we’re a band or motorcycle group. They are very friendly and wish us a good tour. All the same, I am fucking ecstatic for England to see the back of me, and the shite cliffs of Dover in the distance fail to inspire any last vestiges of possible patriotism.

Getting off in Calais, I curse the border fascists on both ends. They checked jackshit. We didn’t even have to exit the van. We could have smuggled people, let alone Jack, and more importantly I could have brought my hash with me. The only security we’ve seen was occupied with preventing the truckers from using the gen-pop dining room.

We drive thru France and Belgium. I want to sleep after only getting an hour or so last nite on the living room floor, but I’m too hyped by the road and all its possibilities. The music playing in the van propelling us/me/the van along European highways, feeling like a Tom Petty album.