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The Watersports Centre, Falmouth - Fri 28-Jan-2005
Falmouth and Newquay was exactly the kind of ride we expected.
And then some.

The trip down to Falmouth was as boring, slow and tiring as we dreaded. You find yourself thinking of a topic of conversation and then saving it till the next Services or some other landmark up ahead, just so you don’t use up all your A material at once.
Upon arrival, we found the place pretty quick and met up with our most congenial host fot the evening, Barry.
He of the name check in ’Buy Me and Stop One’, that Barry.
Not only had he gone to the trubs of getting the place for us to play, advertised the gig in the local rag, and arranged for accomodation, he’d also used his skilled hands to create the new backdrop.
Which, while looks impressive in the pics in the Gallery, is even more captivating up close.

So after a quick chip shop supper, during which some meaty slag-wagon flashed her saggy tits at us through the window, we headed back to the gig.

The support band we had were an outfit called the Electric Frenz.
Quite popular down there we were told, which would be fortunate for us, since they would bring more people to the gig.
The guitar player played a distorted acoustic, a la Wheatus.
Call me close minded, but thats just wrong.

We struggled with the PA throughout the gig, which was a bummer, but otherwise it appeared apparent that the good people of Falmouth don’t get many live bands down there.
From the first notes there was plenty of jumpy aroundedness, friendly pushing and a shoving, and all round decadence which was most pleasing to our tired little eyes.
Things did get a little dicey at times, some of the furniture was starting to feel the rough end of it, but we made it to the end with only a few minor injuries.
After that a DJ turned the place into a rave, which made us beat a hasty retreat.
Not knocking it of course, i daren’t knock anything anymore for fear of repercussion, but it’s just not for us, especially when we were narcotic free.

We hung around outside while the evening wound down to a close, saw THE most pathetic ’ fight ’ outside, i gotta say i witnessed worse when i was at
playschool, but the winning protagonist appeared quite pleased with his ’ victory ’.
Then it was off to Barry’s for some beer, some crackin curry, and some burning telegraph poles, which i believe are still coated on my lungs as i type.
Accomodation was a spiffing RV, which came complete with Grot mags for the long, lonely night ahead.

In the morning, it was decided the van wasnt running up to speed, and some minor maintenence would be required before both the journey to Newquay, but more importantly, the journey home.
Sparkies were cleaned, HT leads replaced, Distributors cleaned, and the timing adjusted.
Again, ta to Barry for his skilled hands, he may do a fine line in Backdrops, but thrust a spanner in his hand and you wont go far wrong either.

So off to Newquay we went, got the regular B and B, rested, ate and set up.
On the surface, there was nothing to indicate this would be anything other than another gig at the vic Bars, good though they usually are.
But, for me at least, the gig on that night was my favourite one.
Maybe it was the fact that the vocals were crystal clear and audible, maybe it was the new strings, maybe it was the crowd, maybe it was coz our newest song, Waiting, went so damn well.
Im sure it was all of these and a whole lot more, but i haven’t felt so sad to stop playing a gig since i started doing them.
The word perfect shouldn’t be bandied about willy-nilly, but for me it was as close to a prefect gig as i think we’ve played because it wasn’t
perfect. Let’s not talk about Gay Bar huh?
Everything felt right and so damn easy.

Which is why the next part of this story is so depressing.
Despite a pretty average night out afterwards, one that ended in a blur of Sambuca, the worst was yet to come.
The van decided it was still poorly, and required a jump start outside the B and B.
Thats okay, nowt wrong with that. We loaded up and hit the road.
Travelling home it became clear that our van was pissy. It didnt want this, and it was gonna let us know.
We made it as far as Cullompton, a hideous place.
Badger stopped for a Latte, and we thought it best to fill the radiator as well, since over-heating had been on the cards for the last 30 miles.
Once stopped, she didnt wanna go again.
After an attempt to join the AA, which failed, after me having a hissy fit, which succeeded, we then managed to join Green Flag, and a ’ mechanic ’ came out to see us.

The fat waste of flesh ambled up to the engine, and get this, checked the OIL and WATER, then claimed he couldnt see the problem.
I guess they dont train mechanics like they used to.
Which is a fuckin good job.
So for a 20 quid bung, he could take us to a services in Taunton.
This we did, and thankfully our roadie Sarge was in the know with a breakdown driver who could tow us home for a very cheap rate.

It was a hellish time, tired and irritable and that feeling that you just wanted to be HOME, but couldnt get there.
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