Haverhill Arts Centre Thurs March 25th

Although we don’t get back from Crewe until silly o’clock this morning I’m wide awake at 7.00am with budgets, payments, invoices and bills all jostling for position in my ( totally knackered ) head. Each time I manage to knock one of them out, another creeps in through my lughole or somewhere and I’m off again. Unfortunately this has been my mental default setting for most of the tour and I have to say that it’s a smidgeon wearing, but the finishing line is in sight now, so I’ll just keep drinking my daily pint of absinthe and I’m sure I’ll be fine. We’re in the sleepy little town of Haverhill today, and thanks to an overestimation of how long it’d take to get here we have half an hour to grab some nosebag before load – in. Gay bars are a bit thin on the ground round these parts, so we make do with Gregg’s bakers, and I’m here to tell you that I thoroughly recommend their chilli beef lattice, Faithful Blogreader. Piquant, with just a subtle overtone of cumin and a dash of jalapeno, the pastry is light and flaky, and made to be savoured. I eat mine in one mouthful, but you get the picture.
We’ve sold out tonight, and discover when we arrive that they’ve also sold our “ company “ seats, the ones we use for our guests. Apparently a clause in their contract says that if they haven’t heard from us within a week of the show they can sell them, but I get a soupcon pissed off at this point by the intimation that I’m going to be able to recall every clause from forty – three contracts, most of which were signed about two months ago. Fortunately it doesn’t escalate into anything unpleasant as the house decide they can put our guests up in the balcony next to Arthur and Rodders. Sorted. It’s quite a small stage so we’re all a bit cosy, but this usually means we get a more powerful show. There’s still a lot of rehearsal going on today for this German TV show which has started to loom over the band like some huge, German looming thing, and the only good thing from our point of view is that we get to hear lots of snippets of new songs we’ve not heard the band play before. From THEIR point of view it’s a constant wrestling match, trying to force unsuitable songs together into medleys chosen by the TV folks, or working new starts and finishes into songs they’ve been playing a different way for years. Had this arisen at the start of the tour we’d have been Donald Ducked as they were still so focused on the show, and soundchecks were long, methodical affairs. These days the actual band soundcheck is knocked off in minutes to allow them the maximum rehearsal opportunity; they can literally do it in their sleep. The familiarity with the show reaches new heights for me tonight as well; I can’t find my set list so for the first time I do the whole thing from memory. Which accounts for all the mistakes.
We also have our first major potential gig-killing event….about six songs in, Steve looks up and over at us in alarm; the main bolt on his bass drum pedal has sheared right through, and there’s no spare. A drummer can no more play a show without a bass drum pedal than a guitarist could play a show without strings, so this is a terminal problem. Nick dives onstage and takes the pedal off to see if he can carry out some sort of repair, leaving Steve to try and soldier on. The lad’s a trouper, though….not only does he manage to get through two whole songs, he also plays his drum solo in Pretty Woman, and more to the point, does the whole thing pretty bloody well, and with a smile on his face. As with the soundchecks, this is something that might not have been possible when we started the tour, but Steve takes a cataclysmic kick in the cods like this totally in his stride now, and gets the applause he deserves at the end. A special mention must also be made of the tour’s real unsung hero, our very own Nick Liddard, father of Lids and general wonderbloke. Whereas I’d personally have reacted to the bass drum breakage by sitting in a corner and weeping hopelessly, he somehow finds a bolt and wingnut which will fit, and whips it into the pedal tout suite, literally saving the show. I make a mental note to buy him a Crunchie. Collapsing drum hardware apart, it’s actually a wicked show tonight…folks are up and dancing at the front of the stage , but there’s also one character in the crowd who used to come to Overtures gigs, jump up onstage and make an arse of himself; Nick keeps a close eye on him in case he repeats these antics but I take a slightly more draconian approach to security by firing off the flame projector pyrotechnic just as he looks as though he’s walking towards the steps at the side of the stage. Barnet suitably singed, he sits back down and we don’t hear another peep. We’re also graced by the presence of the three “ tired and emotional “ ladies from the Stevenage show, this time all wearing cute little matching pink and black quartered sleeveless minidresses. Alcohol may been involved again as one of them keels over while dancing and hits the floor like a sack of spuds, but apart from all the ribald heckling, knicker – flashing, general misbehaviour and falling over drunk they’re no bother. We also discover they were the source of the underwear thrown onto the stage at Stevenage as we see them hurl yet more scanties this time; there must have been some chilly buttocks on the way back to wherever they live…It’s Clive’s last show of the tour tonight, and that really brings home the fact that this is nearly all over, especially when he says his goodbyes to the band and I think “ That’ll be me in three days “. Dartford Orchard seems like it happened a lifetime ago, and yet at the same time the tour’s just flashed by….now how does THAT happen ? I’m musing on such metaphysical concepts as we leave the venue for the shortish drive home, only to be brought crashing back to reality by the incessant glowing of the “ Refuel Now “ light on my car dashboard. I check the onboard mission control computer to see the mileage left in the fuel tank, and it yields a big fat zero…Ah. “ No worries “ I think, “ We’ll fill up at that Sainsbury’s superstore on the way in. Not so bloody super, as it turns out, however…as with everything else in Haverhill it’s closed, and I mean CLOSED….we don’t see another car on the road or person on the street. It’s just like the film 28 Days Later. Only at night. And not in London. And without zombies. This could be a disaster. I phone the local police to ask if they know of a 24 hour garage in the area, and after a short delay of only about a year the nice lady on the phone finds one and “ talks me in “ to it. It’s closed. She then tells me the only other one is ten miles away and wishes me good luck. Thanks, Suffolk Constabulary. We’ve no option but to put up the sail, cross our fingers and do forty miles an hour. Amazingly we make it, but the Death Stares I get from Rodders and Pug who are in the car with me bore holes into my skull all the way home. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…….