UK Tour Journal Part I

Dear Diary,

I'm in Ireland.

Southern, Ireland.

I am at a hostel in Galway,
waiting to see if the gig that
got cancelled will get moved to
a different bar.

I'm clean shaven, showered,
full, sober... and I'm wearing
clean underwear.

Those are all a first
for this tour so far.

I landed on Sunday,
but first my plane got held
up in Chicago, with a stopover
in New York City.

Upon landing,
I had to sprint,
literally sprint,
from one terminal,
about a mile to the next,
to make my plane,
the last of the night,
as they were closing the gate.

phew.

I landed in Manchester, England, on time,
only to find that my work permit had not
gone through, the permit office was closed,
and UK immigration didn't think they could
let me into the country....
until Wednesday.

It was Sunday morning,
and I had a gig that night.

Eventually, they decided
to let me in on a temporary Visa,
but not until they held my passport,
held me waiting for two hours,
took my picture,
and finger printed me.

"we just have to run your prints
through Interpol"

wow.
I felt like Jason Bourne.

"it will only take ten minutes
to run the prints,
you can wait on that bench in the hallway"

Almost exactly ten minutes later,
two heavily armed policemen
rounded the corner and started walking
purposefully towards my bench.

Oh...
shit.

My mind quickly
riffled through any and
all experiences that may
have landed my fingerprints
on some database somewhere.

The only thing I could think of,
was three years ago,
I was in Amsterdam with Pauly and Donehoo,
and I was so high on mushrooms that I
flipped out, tried to walk to the hotel,
got lost, found myself, talked to god,
got back to the hotel, and folded my underwear
for two hours while I talked to myself in
a British accent.

What if I did something stupid along the way?
There is a good chunk of a time I don't remember at all.

I was getting ready to explain myself,
and call Ed to tell him I was going to jail,
when the policemen very purposefully...
walked right past me.

Phew.

So they let me in,
but with no passport,
and I had to be back in Manchester
airport by Wednesday, with my permit,
or they would deport me.

Also,
with no passport,
I could not rent a car.

The gig that night got cancelled.

phew.

I took a train to Preston,
met Ed,
and we picked up where
we left off last tour.

In a pub.

I sat and drank with
strange locals, some guy
shared his joint, I played
my harmonica for some drunks,
and I was happy at my home
away from home.

Still..
there was tomorrow's gig,
Monday night,
three hours across England,
with no way to rent a car.

We called our faithful driver,
a four foot gentleman named Adam.

He is my personal hero.

Adam drives as fast as anyone
I've ever seen,
and we were off.

105 mph down the motorway,
to our first gig, in Sunderland.

Sunderland used to be one of
my favorite gigs in England.

It's still cool,
and I got to see Westy,
who took all my new promo pictures,
but it hasn't been the same
without Big Irish Hobo,
aka,
Scotty.

Scotty moved to Limavady,
in Northern Ireland.

That was our home for gig number 4.

I'll tell you more stories later,
about the private VIP booth at the movie theater,
the trip to the cliff in Ireland,
the Giant's Causeway,
the wrestling fans,
the tiniest rental car in the world,
and the dirtiest hotel, I have ever fucking seen.

This marks day seven,
with thirty five more days,
and 27 more gigs,
to go.

-p