EUROPE - INNSBRUCK

Incredible drive from Salzburg to Innsbruck, passing by the Alps. Stunning scenery, dramatic weather alternating between blinding sunlight and heavy gloomy rain clouds. Ears pop and the van struggles going up the steep mountain roads to the alpine plateau town of Seefeld, outside Innsbruck. 

The atmospheric change (or the McPlant I had earlier for lunch - I’m on tour/poor, spare me your judgement) gives rise to a catastrophic gastrointestinal reaction. As we pull up to a launderette (at that halfway point of the tour and things are getting close) I realise I am on the verge of shitting my pants. 

I leave the guys at the launderette, surrounded by mountains, forest, lodges, and I run to a nearby burger stand. The woman working the counter pretends not to understand ‘toilette’ or WC. I scan the surrounding buildings. Nothing screams ‘facilities available here’. Like a headless, pantshitting chicken I dash around the area, up and down and back and forth across roads. There are no shops or obvious places. 

I run amongst beautiful alpine scenery, checking ski houses, chalets, hotels, casinos, bars, restaurants. Everywhere is closed. Misty snow capped mountains loom above, surrounded by pine forests. Church bells toll as I shuffle-run so as not to loosen the turd between my trembling cheeks and blast my pants in this pristine mountain town. 

At one point I run into Mack who is also scrambling around trying to find a shop to buy detergent for the laundrette before it closes and we miss our chance to wash our clothes. He is as frantic and pissed off as I am. ‘You found anything?’ ‘Nothing, everywhere shut, fuck this town.’ ‘Fuck this place.’ 

I tear into the one open establishment I can find, a deserted souvenir shop, walls packed with cuckoo clocks and shelves full of porcelain alpine children frolicking. The staff tell me to try the train station. I find it and make it to the toilet just in time. When I get back to the laundrette, Mack still hasn’t returned. 

Mack arrives even more fucked off as the shop he found wouldn’t give him change unless he bought something. I don’t pry that he was already buying the detergent, I just want to get this done with. As we fill the machines I glance up to a sign that says ‘Do not put detergent in the machine, it is automatically supplied with liquid detergent.’ Mack turns red. ‘That’s 10 Euros I won’t see again.’ 

I investigate the digital display of the machine. All cycles cost 7 Euros and Band Grandad and Band Dad Simon and Chris have only given us 2 Euros each (as per the sign outside indicated), have long since driven off to the pub. We pool our coins and share a machine. The bastard thing is entirely in German, completely indecipherable. We push buttons, try to select options. It seems like we finally crack the code when a message flashes up. I Google Translate it - ‘Out Of Service.’ We push the coin refund button. Nothing happens. Mack collapses into a chair. ‘Well, fuck it!’ 

Just as I’m about to drive my steel toe boot into the machine a nice woman who speaks English enters the shop. She helps us, gets us change, we wash our clothes. Later, we get into our accommodation and immediately find a washing machine. Today was supposed to be a sober day for me but there’s not a chance after these ordeals. 

Ashley makes dinner and we watch films, get shitfaced in our luxurious mountain lodge for the nite. Soon, our inebriated attention span demands tunes. Great chats with Berg, Tom and McArdle about the inherent fascism of cops, and ideas for abolition, community, while Tragedy plays Mexico City on YouTube. 

Ashley comes out to tell us to keep it down. Razzle, the most feline of us all, is curled up on the floor, irking Ashley. ‘Stop sleeping on the floor! There’s so many beds here, I would have booked a crappy motel if you were just gonna sleep on the floor! Really, all of you should think about going to bed.’ ‘We’re talking issues, Ashley!’ McArdle protests. Berg, who has hijacked YouTube to put on a demented live set by Oingo Boingo: ‘Listen to these xylophones, Ashley! Oingo Boingo!’