Skegness Embassy Thurs August 11th

So while we were slumbering peacefully in our little truckle beds in the Washington Travelodge, the band, we thought, were relaxing in the opulence of the New Ambassador Hotel in Whitley Bay, where we had visions of them sipping cocktails in the Vegas Bar and generally being Rock Stars. It would appear, however, that the reality was a little more prosaic. From the borderline psychotic desk manager with the bottle of Jack Daniels tattooed on his arm and the casual mention that he could no longer sample his favourite tipple as it made him vomit blood, to the totally over- the- border psychotic woman who followed the band from the hotel to Stavros’s Kebab & Salmonella Emporium, all the time flashing various parts of her anatomy, to the attractive smell of damp which pervaded the building, right through to the interesting collection of other people’s pubic hairs which were to be found in most of the beds, the New Ambassador experience seems to have been one which the boys will always remember, but possibly for all the wrong reasons. Still, got to be pragmatic…at £ 20 a room including breakfast ( which none of them, surprisingly, sampled ) it’s a bloody good deal ! In deference to the band and their variety of nasty, itchy little red bites, however, the “ Roach Motel “ has been struck from the list of accommodation. Lightweights…… Now, when you look at a decent – sized map, Washington to Skegness is about…..oooooohh….three inches, say, but when you’re driving there it’s actually bloody miles. About 220 of them, to be precise, many of them winding through the dreary Lincolnshire fens past odd-looking little hamlets with names like Much Trubbling and Lower Splunt. It gets even more jolly when you find yourselves following a house, as Nick, Junior, Arthur and I did for what felt like much of my adult life. OK, so it was just one of those prefab jobbies on the back of a flatbed truck, but it was BIG and it was SLOOOOOOOW. So slow, in fact, that we were an hour late arriving in Skegness, and even the heady aroma of fish, chips, candydfloss and chav couldn’t divert us from our mission. Normally, if you haven’t done a show for a while, it can all get a wee bit rusty and slow, but we were like the proverbial greased lightning today. So greased were we, in fact, that we had the show in, built, soundchecked and finished within three hours, which is pretty bloody good going by anyone’s standards. This gave us a bit of time to consider our options. For a brief moment we thought about riding the Log Flume in the amusement park next to the theatre, which seemed like a wizard wheeze, but one look at the primordial soup which passes for the water that the logs have to go through changed our minds…perhaps if we had our waterproof biohazard suits with us, but not this time, eh ? Although it was raining on and off, the streets of Skegness were pretty much rammed with the very finest type of British holidaymaker, and the difference between now and the last time we were here is remarkable. The place is palpably alive in a kind of kiss-me-quick, all-day-bingo, end-of-the-pier kind of way, and after all the images we’ve seen this week of this country’s cities being laid waste to by a rioting sewer - effluence of feckless hoodie-rats, sink estate scum, wannabe gangsters and other oxygen thieves, it’s somehow comforting to see this tacky display of traditional Britishness in all it’s tawdry glory. In fact I’m SO comforted that I buy two big sticks of rock and a bag of cinder toffee, as I reckon I’ll need something sweet to follow the fish and chips I’m just about to scoff..The other thing that was missing when we were here last was an audience, but the venue’s assertion that a summer season gig would be different is borne out as we see a healthy flow of people making their way to their seats. All is looking on course for another stress-free show, when just five minutes before lights down the main projector starts flashing, then goes off altogether. Tomps is never a man to get his boxers in a bind, but even he has a little bead of sweat on his brow as he wrestles to get the thing working. With a tweak and a tug he gets it up and running again, and we’re off. All is great until the second number, when my computer freezes, and steadfastly refuses to show any more of the slides. I’ve mentioned before that things which would once have had us blubbing with fear are now dealt with almost nonchalantly; there’s a BIT more tension around than normal here, but the feeling is more that we’re annoyed we can’t give people the best show rather than “ It’s all gone wrong and we’re all going to DIE !!!” which was my previous default setting. By the end of the first video insert it’s all happening, though, and from then on we’re in cruise control. The band are even more on it tonight than last night, and more remarkable still is the fact that Phil got some very disturbing news from home in the interval, yet has played the second half as if his greatest care in the world was what colour guitar pick to buy next time he needs some. Strong stuff indeed. There’s a great response again tonight, and once more we get the message that the theatre management are really happy with the way things have gone….this definitely won’t be the last time we play here, and we’re all very, very happy about that. Some places just feel right, just make you so welcome, and this is one of them, from the bar staff to the technical boys. More, please !!! We now come to the weirdest part of the night….we’ve done two shows, we’re in the groove, we’re back on the road…..except we’re not. We’re going home again after this, and it’s sad, frustrating and annoying in equal measure. Oh, we’ll all be seeing each other in Liverpool in a couple of weeks , of course, but I don’t think there’s a single one among us who wouldn’t rather be getting on the bus with Big John, cracking open a brew and heading off into the night to the next show. As it is, Rodders has the drive from hell. He came to Whitley Bay straight from Edinburgh in a one-way rental car, and has told us that he needs to have it back by 10.00am tomorrow morning…..in Penzance. That’s about halfway to the Moon by my reckoning, so we waste no time in hitting the road . He’s very kindly agreed to drop Tomps, Junior and myself off on the way, so we cram into the small Japanese saloon that was only ever intended to carry four little sons or daughters of Nippon and not four big British blokes with enough luggage to sink a battleship, and off we go into the night. So it is that at about 2.30am I’m standing outside my house and watching Rodders’ tail lights disappear into the night , and I’ve got a bit of a “stunned mullet” thing going on. Just forty eight hours ago we were driving up the A1 on the eve of the Whitley Bay show, all excited about starting the shows again…..and now it’s already finished ! I’m definitely left with an air of “ What happened here today…..?” right up until the moment I put my key in the lock and realise that my partner’s put the safety chain on, and I can’t get into the house. Nor can I phone her, as there’s a problem with BT so the landline’s off, and her mobile has no service inside. I can’t climb over the gates and we don’t have a door knocker. Add to that the fact that she sleeps like the dead and the prospects aren’t looking good. I can’t explain why, but somehow it fits…..I’m not on tour, yet I’m not at home. It’s over, but I can’t close the door on it. Through this maelstrom of maudlin musing I gradually become aware that I need to pee, and at my age, when you need to pee you need to pee NOW. Not wanting to upset the neighbours by hosing down their prize azaleas, I try her mobile again….and miraculously it starts ringing. She eventually answers and sleepily slurs “ Thought you said you were coming back Friday ?“ when I tell her I’m standing outside the LOCKED front door with a bladder that feels like it’s a rat’s handbag filled with the contents of a swimming pool. “ It IS f*****g Friday !!” I manage to reply. Eventually doors are opened, bladders are drained, and beds are wearily clambered into. Meanwhile, somewhere on the M6, Rodders is cranking up Saxon on the car’s CD player and trying not to thing about the six hours of driving that still lie ahead of him………