What Happens on Tour...
Simon tells of an intoxicated twenty-four hours in Wales.
Birmingham was insane and I was pretty sure it was the worst hangover ever, in the history of all hangovers ever. I am never drinking again. No, wait… I’m never drinking again, until someone buys a drink for me. Or we get free alcohol in general. Other people can pay for me to destroy my liver!
John was asleep on the drive over, despite Gus blaring Circa Survive at top volume and driving like he was still drunk. I pulled out my phone, surfing the internet mindlessly while Fraser mumbled every few minutes he felt sick. Ben was browsing through magazines, glancing up and looking around a lot.
By the time we rocked into Cardiff, we were an hour late the sunshine was blinding. I stumbled out of the van and lit a cigarette.
“Aw, you shouldn’t smoke, mun! It’s terrible for you!” came a familiar voice, and I dropped my fag in surprise. It was Snoz, huge and imposing and the nicest fucker in Wales. He grabbed me in a bearhug, and then the rest of the band appeared from nowhere to laugh and grab and hug me and generally look like we were estranged siblings.
“Where’s the rest of them?” Gavin enquired. I jerked my thumb at the open van, and the Welsh boys gleefully clambered in. Gus, Fraser and Ben all emerged, rubbing their bloodshot eyes.
“We’re gonna leave the Welshies with John and go get lunch,” Ben said, stretching and then drumming his hands lightly against his thigh. “Coming?”
“Sure,” I said, opening my cigarette packet and realising I was all out. Damn.
Gavin turned the camera on Gus while he was lying on the sofa backstage.
“So what are we doing today, Gustav?”
“Today, we are going to play a gig, with our good friends in The Blackout,” he answered, ever the affable front-man. I heard the unmistakable sound of a video blog, though, so I vaulted over the back of the sofa and landed in a heap on top of Gus.
“Yeah, ma! In Cardiif! Caerdeeeev!” I giggled. Gus looked disgruntled, and tried to push me off his legs. “Ooh! Rhys!” I continued, oblivious, and grabbed the bassist’s skinny legs as he walked past, pulling him on top of us.
“And where are you playing today?” Gavin asked, his voice shaking with suppressed giggles.
“The Millennium Moosic ‘all,” Rhys said, looking up at the camera. I tightened my grip around him.
“A moosic awl?” I mimicked. “Millennium Moosic ‘all? Really?!”
Gus squirmed under the combined weight of two bassists and gave the camera a world-weary look. I freed my arms and flung them round Rhys’s neck, laughing.
“Have you had anything to drink yet, Si?” Bob asked from somewhere.
“No, I’m just propah stoked, lahk!” I giggled.
“You do know that is the worst Welsh accent ever,” Rhys said, and rolled his eyes.
At the club afterwards, while I was quite drunk, Rhys was determined to match me drink for drink. After four shots and half a bottle of bourbon whiskey, he was giggling like me and we found ourselves hanging out a lot more in the club, nestling together on the sofas when we weren’t dancing or drinking and just laughing at the world going past.
John and Sean and pretty much everyone ended up giving us weird looks, but we knew we were both joking when we cuddled and air-smooched and generally acted incredibly camp. Fucking alcohol.
I’m not totally sure what happened after we started on the straight-up vodka… but waking up in a bunk, naked, with Rhys snoring beside me, was pretty disconcerting.
Also, I had the worst hangover, ever, in the history of hangovers, ever. Just saying.
John was asleep on the drive over, despite Gus blaring Circa Survive at top volume and driving like he was still drunk. I pulled out my phone, surfing the internet mindlessly while Fraser mumbled every few minutes he felt sick. Ben was browsing through magazines, glancing up and looking around a lot.
By the time we rocked into Cardiff, we were an hour late the sunshine was blinding. I stumbled out of the van and lit a cigarette.
“Aw, you shouldn’t smoke, mun! It’s terrible for you!” came a familiar voice, and I dropped my fag in surprise. It was Snoz, huge and imposing and the nicest fucker in Wales. He grabbed me in a bearhug, and then the rest of the band appeared from nowhere to laugh and grab and hug me and generally look like we were estranged siblings.
“Where’s the rest of them?” Gavin enquired. I jerked my thumb at the open van, and the Welsh boys gleefully clambered in. Gus, Fraser and Ben all emerged, rubbing their bloodshot eyes.
“We’re gonna leave the Welshies with John and go get lunch,” Ben said, stretching and then drumming his hands lightly against his thigh. “Coming?”
“Sure,” I said, opening my cigarette packet and realising I was all out. Damn.
Gavin turned the camera on Gus while he was lying on the sofa backstage.
“So what are we doing today, Gustav?”
“Today, we are going to play a gig, with our good friends in The Blackout,” he answered, ever the affable front-man. I heard the unmistakable sound of a video blog, though, so I vaulted over the back of the sofa and landed in a heap on top of Gus.
“Yeah, ma! In Cardiif! Caerdeeeev!” I giggled. Gus looked disgruntled, and tried to push me off his legs. “Ooh! Rhys!” I continued, oblivious, and grabbed the bassist’s skinny legs as he walked past, pulling him on top of us.
“And where are you playing today?” Gavin asked, his voice shaking with suppressed giggles.
“The Millennium Moosic ‘all,” Rhys said, looking up at the camera. I tightened my grip around him.
“A moosic awl?” I mimicked. “Millennium Moosic ‘all? Really?!”
Gus squirmed under the combined weight of two bassists and gave the camera a world-weary look. I freed my arms and flung them round Rhys’s neck, laughing.
“Have you had anything to drink yet, Si?” Bob asked from somewhere.
“No, I’m just propah stoked, lahk!” I giggled.
“You do know that is the worst Welsh accent ever,” Rhys said, and rolled his eyes.
At the club afterwards, while I was quite drunk, Rhys was determined to match me drink for drink. After four shots and half a bottle of bourbon whiskey, he was giggling like me and we found ourselves hanging out a lot more in the club, nestling together on the sofas when we weren’t dancing or drinking and just laughing at the world going past.
John and Sean and pretty much everyone ended up giving us weird looks, but we knew we were both joking when we cuddled and air-smooched and generally acted incredibly camp. Fucking alcohol.
I’m not totally sure what happened after we started on the straight-up vodka… but waking up in a bunk, naked, with Rhys snoring beside me, was pretty disconcerting.
Also, I had the worst hangover, ever, in the history of hangovers, ever. Just saying.