So the kitchen extractor fan went on at 8am (7am in old money). I was not surprised (and had searched my bag for my ear plugs the night before to no avail) but I was pretty angry. As there was no phone in the room I had to go to reception to tell them to turn it off again. I was probably a bit grumpy about that. I was now pretty much awake though and lay there plotting the tripadvisor review I was going to write (I probably won't bother, but at the time I was pretty adamant about it). I did drop off again luckily but the extractor was turned back on at 9.30, so I got up and went for breakfast. I was fully intending to complain to the manager and ask for a refund, but I wimped out and just left in a slightly mardy fashion. Tiredness will do that to a man, but I was going to get plenty more angry before the day was out.
Even with the two hours I'd done overnight I was still looking at a very long journey. In the end I left at about 10.30 and didn't get to Liverpool until 5 (there had been a couple of stops along the way) and once I was there I had great difficulty finding either the hotel or the venue. I ended up driving down a pedestrianised area that I shouldn't have been in, before finally accepting that I would have to do this on foot, parked up and used my iPhone. I quickly located the hotel - a themed Beatles hotel, that would drive me insane in about a week if I had to work there, or at least make me hate the Beatles and all their music. The venue, Eric's was in the next street, but it was all locked up when I got there and I had no number on my sheet. I was now so tired and annoyed that after banging on the doors had resulted in no response I was considering getting in my car and driving home. I was never going to do that of course, but I was flustered and tired and fucked off. This is another reason why next year I will have a tour manager. I could have been relaxing in the hotel bar, drinking a drink with John Lennon's face floating in it, whilst listening to a rubbish cover version of Penny Lane, while he or she got on with all this. Also they'd probably be organised enough to have thought of ringing the venue in advance.
The lady at the hotel had given me directions to a car park, which sounded like it might be a bit far away from the venue, but by this stage I didn't give a fuck - though she neglected to tell me that the entrance was in the middle of the road (seriously Liverpool is like some kind of future kingdom these days - you had to drive down a ramp in the centre of the carriageway) so I nearly drove into an apartment block and then got lost. I thought about abandoning my car and living rough on the streets. If only I had had an extra hour of sleep this might have seemed less impossible and maddening.
I had tweeted about my problems and someone tweeted me to tell me that someone was coming down from the venue to look for me. I was in such a state that I assumed this was the usual Twitter dickwaddery and someone thought they were being funny and nearly tweeted back a rude message. But as it turned out this lady had kindly rung the venue and told them I was outside (even though I wasn't any more). Surely I was in too much of a funk to do a good gig.
By the time I had found the car park and carried half of my stuff to the venue I was ready to punch strangers in the genitals for just looking at me, but this time at the door I was greeted by the enthusiastic people who worked the venue and my bad mood immediately dissipated. We got set up and someone helped me get the rest of my stuff from the car. I was tired and sweaty and thought that it would be a struggle to do the show, but I had a shower at the venue (something I more or less never do, but it seemed like a good idea tonight for some reason) and when I walked out on to the stage got such a warm reception from the big crowd of Scousers, who were attentive and up for it and whenever anyone commented it was with something amusing and useful. I had one of the best gigs of the tour, which is just insane and blows all theories of being well rested and unstressed out of the window and suggests that not only should I carry on touring alone, but I should insist on only playing venues with no parking that are at least 8 hours drive away from the last place I played. I actually nailed a couple of bits in the show that I have never got quite right before. And I felt sharp as a tack throughout.
Afterwards I crashed quite quickly, but the hotel was just round the corner. I went to the bar for a glass of wine, but was almost too sleepy to drink it. Some couples in their fifties were having a big night out together and an old bald man flirted jokily and harmlessly with the waitress, asking if she was married. His wife seemed keen to get him off her hands. I would have found it funny, but I hadn't ordered yet and their banter was just keeping me away from the booze that I didn't need. But I have had worse ends to the night in Liverpool. Tonight my balls remained unkicked, my clothes unrent and my knuckles were not scuffed against the face of a University lecturer (but to be fair my knuckles remained uninjured back in 2007 because swinging them around in thin air can do little harm to them).
There are days off ahead and a much less stressful schedule and I get to see my baby tomorrow (my Chortle award). The tour gets a lot easier from here on in, which will be as much a relief to you as it is to me I suspect.
Home.
