EUROPE - STOCKHOLM-COPENHAGEN

5pm in Swedish November may as well be the dead of nite and there’s no highway lights when you’re out in the countryside. Chris Vocals driving, a man standing in the road flashes up. We’d run the dickhead over had Chris not swerved in time. He stood in the middle of the lane, not moving as we almost barrelled into him. Think he was waving a petrol can but was so dark, went by so quick, who knows. Us at full speed, as full speed as shitvan full of backline and ice hating tires can go. 

Get to Copenhagen speakeasy late where Ashley has ensconced herself for most of the evening. ‘I hope High Command don’t embarrass me here.’ A scant 60 seconds later they arrive banging on the windows, being loud Americans, freaking the whole bar out. Delicious synchronicity. 3 weeks flown by. Words fail for these guys, they are the best tour partners we’ve ever had. Could do another 3 weeks with em. 

Much yelling/chanting/picking each other up, parading in streets. 5am van call but last nite with the boys. Warnings issued from those going to bed. ‘Sad in the van is all we know,’ we reason. ‘Gonna be unconcious, don’t care,’ we say. 

At dive bar full of ageing wreckheads, they love us. We entertain a gaggle of cokedup blonde Danish milfs. ‘You are English? Oh that’s not good for you!’ That’s what I’ve been saying momma. They are wired, heavily tattooed and look like they could beat the shit out of us. Tell em we are famous rockstars but they think we’re jazz. One aryan gorilla woman throws her beefy arms around and bellows about coke. I ask if she has some. ‘NO! I HAVE DONE IT ALL! IT WENT - raising her arms to the sky and convulsing, eyes widening, nostrils flaring - RRRIGHT UPPP!’ 

Everyone unbelievably shitfaced.You can neither move nor stand still it’s so small/busy. People a level of drunk you rarely see without some sort of disclaimer. The bartenders spend half their time serving, the other half picking up sprawled out lunatics who have fallen down and can’t/won’t get up. Tried to leave but Danes kept shoving bottles in our hands. Mentally challenged homophobe tried to push bad coke deals. 

Our hostel isn’t much better despite its surface niceness. So we stay out. I snort Milf Meth (likely just very good speed), go to a niteclub. Make friends with bartenders but no real action, almost a drugfree zone. Ben had to drag me out. I vomit out of the taxi. I vomit as I am lead places. Once again we manage to go to the wrong hotel. I pass out in reception. But we make 5am van call. Professionals. 

Lost weight/money/braincells these last weeks. ‘Did a lotta livin on this tour,’ McArdle said the other nite. Too fucking right, partner.