EUROPE - MALMÖ, PLAN B

Hungover in frozen Copenhagen. Have one of the best meals of my life at a curious place called Daddy’s Boy (didn’t order the ‘Love Waffle’...). Absolutely best cup of coffee I’ve ever had, total caffeine-amphetamine, every atom in me vibrating with Scandinavian pleasure. 

I learn I made a boo-boo last nite, via shitfaced miscommunication (any other kind?). Picked up a tiny “hells angel”. Apparently he didn’t like our patch jackets, told some of us he would ‘take care’ of us, before rolling up his sleeve to show nazi tattoos. I wasn’t there for that and when it was relayed I thought it was regarding another person in the bar. Oh well. He seemed to enjoy the lift, the little nazi cunt. 

Grey, dramatic drive across the windy bridge of hell to Sweden. Super cold, stormy, Swordwielder blasting in van. Chris can’t take his hand off the wheel for a second, the wind will send us off the side of the bridge, plunging into the icy abyss below (never seen such a miserable looking sea). 

Roll into Plan B in some industrial area beside a big Amebix-looking power grid. There’s so many beers tonite. Keep telling myself to have a chill one but each nite I see the extensive riders and am compelled to accept the generosity. Would be a crime not to. Bourdain’s Grandma Rule - don’t be an ungrateful guest. 

Pretty good show, 50 or so people in. Guy in a wheelchair at the front rocking out. Right fucking on. Couldn’t leave the beers so I got a big plastic bag, packed a good haul. Member of staff thought I was cleaning up and bagging empties. ‘You don’t have to do my job, really.’ I stagger away, clutching my sack. ‘I’m not, this is for something else.’ 

They’ve got us in an amazing, plush hotel. I’m wandering round it with my carrier bag stuffed with beers like an alcoholic Santa. Party in hotel room. Good chats with the Chris’ but the only thing I can remember is one of them saying to me ‘You’ve chosen this life of misery.’ Sounds like Chris Drums, he loves a narrative of suffering. 

I’m the last to stay up, hit the lights. I creep to bed and my eye catches the street lights spilling in thru the curtains. I peel them back and the skyline stuns me. I stand in the dark room staring out across the city. The milky light pollution on the clouds is beautiful. Traffic and shop lights spatter and smear thru the raindrops on the hotel window like a work of impressionism. Every month I struggle, partly because I’m exploited, partly because I’m a workshy dumbass. And my material conditions are a lot better than most. So to be in another country, in a swank hotel, with endless food and booze provided, all so I can act like a dipshit on stage for 30 mins (or less) a nite? I don’t know man, shit’s pretty fucking good. Happiness is a confusing concept. And right now I am happy/confused/drunk/happy. 

Too shitfaced to enjoy the big lovely shower/ridiculous complimentary breakfast/ everflowing coffee, I of course sleep right up until van call. Another wildly stormy ride to Gothenburg, whole van shaking, Chris fighting to keep it on the road. In and out of sleep. Dreamt the van tipped over and woke very confused. It would’ve almost been a relief, with this hangover. You choose this life, they tell me.