If music be the food of staring pointlessly out of the window, then who will tip the waiter? (You.)

There's not much to tell, all told. This has become a bit of a recurring theme.

Trewin, I assume, is working on new material. He's all holed-up, as it were, in a little flat overlooking Brighton beach with just a computer and two huge monitors to keep him in healthy company.

Ed, I assume, is out and about; teaching, going for bracing walks, singing and/or whistling as he trundles down the road to the bakery for a fresh loaf and perhaps a glazed doughnut - half for now, half for later. Skip-a-dee-doo.

Jeb, I know, is at Glastonbury. The line-up looks rubbish. I hope he's having an awful time. He's definitely having an awful time.

Seryn, I assume, has been queuing for the merry-go-round for about six hours now, not realising that he is in fact stood behind a plastic man meant to entice holidaymakers into Brighton Fishing Museum and so never getting the rush of wind in his hair that he so dearly craves. The attraction attendee also, going out of business, wishes only for a friend, and kills himself on a polymer unicorn's spike as the Wurlitzer plays on, and on.

Me, I assume, is/am staring our of our first floor window at a brick wall belonging half to next door, coffee in hand, listening to

 

for the first time.

This is time that is down, or 'down-space', as I believe it's referred to in popular culture. (I don't look at any popular culture except the interactive show 'Unrestrained Reverend Warfare', which is on a channel only I can access, though is made by a group of people popular within their own peer group (battery licking nuns), which I assume qualifies it as 'popular culture'.)

So now it is Saturday, and the sun is struggling to come through the dusty clouds.

I hope you have a lovely day, however isolated, however slow.

Tim.

Like Hesse without the beads.

The five young men were hurled from the city gates, their flimsy shoes skipping against hard dust..

'We'll resist you!' said the gatekeeper, as he threw the smallest one to the ground.
'We'll resist you!' said the tallest one, lamely.
'That doesn't make any sense.'
'You don't make any sense.'
'Hem. Hem Hem.'

And with that, the large wooden gate of the walled city was closed; the twin living thickets booming against one another like a warning shot.

The five looked at one another.
'What are we doing here?' asked Jeb
'Tim's being clever.' said Ed, 'he can't find it in himself to outright describe how the band is going at the moment, so he's writing a kind of story to explain what's going on. He's being silly and slowly disappearing, rather than just doing something that he won't enjoy and just boring everyone.'
'Yeah.' said Seryn.

The five stumbled to their feet.
'Thanks for noticing.' said Tim, 'I hate when I have to explain everything.'
'I hate you.' said Jeb.

Ed approached the walls of the city, probing the crooked stone with his fingers.
'What does this represent, then?' he asked.

'That's me!' beamed Seryn, 'Tim's saying that I'm a massive wall. Right, Tim?'
'I'm afraid not,' Tim replied, 'the wall is a barrier. Inside that wall is worldwide success, stardom, and all the Shreddies you can eat.'
'Coco Shreddies?'
'All the Shreddies of the rainbow.'
Trewin choked on the dusty atmosphere.
'But we're out here?'
'Yes, I know - that's the point. We're out here. It's tricky right now, trying to sort Europe dates and stuff, trying to get UK dates - not being able to actually gig at the moment doesn't help when you're trying to book shows. We're trying to get new stuff recorded, we're trying to sort out our merch, and we keep coming up against obstacles! It's not anyone's fault, but we can't pretend we enjoy being thrown out of metaphorical doors by big burly geezers, can we?'
The five nodded, solemnly.
'He looked like Justin Beiber.' said Jeb.

The five took time to look about them - to see that without the walls of success surrounding them they were still free to venture wherever they wished. They stayed put, mainly. Sat around, jamming. There was no life outside the city walls. It was filled with office jobs and standing on street corners holding signs advertising hot dogs this way.

'I need a glass of water.' said Trewin.

'Seek Merlot.' said a great thundering voice from above. The five retook their balance, staring at the sky; shocked.
'Pardon?' screamed Ed.
'I have booked you an appointment with the great Merlot this Wednesday. You should go - he'll sort it right out. Then you can get on with your lives and hopefully get in the walled city of success through the gates you were just kicked out of, which is what put you into the situation you're now in, if you weren't aware.'

'Yeah.' said Seryn, 'Basic causality!' before becoming the same character he was at the start of the story.

And so, under keen instruction, our intrepid idiots set off in search of the great Merlot.

...and who knows where the road will take them? 

To the Doctor's. It'll take them to some specialist Doctor or other. And to a band meeting today, where we're gonna get everything planned and sorted and get this show back on the hot-damn road for real. One subject to be discussed: timetabling of new EP.



Next week: A biography of Prince written by describing a BBC period drama reflected off a midwife's eyeball.

I'm getting marred in the morning.

I'm not quite sure where I can start, what I can and cannot say, who I can and cannot implicate, and how on earth I'm going to make this record of a simple chain of events at all readable given my current state of mind.

On Friday evening we left Brighton for Salisbury. Salisbury being nothing more than a stopping off point for the next day's event: a very secret w*dding at a very s*cret location. Jeb had to be there first thing in the morning, acting as resident film-maker. I'm looking forward to the 360 degree epic that comes out of that computer in six months - get to work, Jeb. Again.

Friday, then, was filled with generous parental supervision, casual chats, a grandmother (not Ed) and not enough sleep.

Saturday morning; we hear that Jeb (having been on a different schedule to the rest of us) successfully screwed up his mission of 'waking up on time' and/or 'picking a tie'. We hear this from Ed as he bounds into the back of the van (shortly before finding the door and getting in), looking annoyingly fresh-faced and 'awake'. I am slumped in the corner at this point, instant coffee scouring the inside of my arteries, and a townified dread of spending the next 24-hours in a shit capped field forcing my features down towards the glorious, life affirming tarmac that streams past beneath us.

'Where are we going?'
'...erm.'

Somehow Ed had memorised a set of directions through unknown territory, in a part of the world, beautiful as it may be, where green fields are all. Turn left at the green field, and there should be a green field on your right. Go past the green field until you get to a green field... Where are my industrial estates and gastrocombustible drive-thrus? Where are my screeching Vauxhall Corsas and blackened brick walls that haven't been touched since 1994? No, this is not home. Here there is sunshine, clear blue skies, and grass everywhere. Don't even get me started on the weird patchy brown things in the fields. They look like they have eyes. And legs. Get me a billboard, some over-priced coffee and some gobby knob to bump into, for I cannot cope out here in the wilderness...

Eventually, with Trewin expertly working the steering wheel of the van I had adorned with a rip-roaringly clever and hilarious swear-word (those masking-tape calligraphy classes clearly weren't a complete waste of money) we pulled in to some indistinguishable field or other and strolled, in jeans, t-shirts, and whatever, into the middle of a w*dding that had to be kept secret. Imagine what that w*dding is like. Yeah. We turned up. Strutting in like a more cocksure tribute to Quinlanck Tarentino.

We were all set-up by 3pm. We were scheduled to play at 8. As we weren't guests, we spent our time in the van. We went to Winchester, and had a picnic in the Tesco's car park. We went into the nearby village, and bought some beers once we realised we were bored of sitting in the van without beers. We sat, we laughed at Ed cleaning an innocent but unfortunately located stain off his trousers, and we realised that if you were going to put an 'Elmon' away, you'd put it in an 'Elmon Cupboard'. We hadn't really started drinking at this point, but fatigue can lead to the worst creative and spiritual decisions of all time.

It is partly to blame for the aimless nature of this account.

So: we played. We played well. The kids liked us. We're not your typical wedding band, but then this wasn't quite a typical wedding. Someone flew their chopper in, so to speak, and I was told there were papa-papa-paparazzi knocking about at the ceremony. Jeb apparently had to muscle in to get the essential shots. You go, Jeb. Later, when people started to leave, we felt safe to enter the wedding area itself and start a party. I don't really recall an awful lot of what happened next, as I accidentally...well, you can guess. I recall winding someone in a suit up to the point of red-facedness, I recall trying to play the blues at 2am with frankly uncontrollable fingers, I remember Seryn and I hijacking the disco, lying in the middle of the dancefloor with Radiohead blasting out and over us. That may have been the highlight, for me.

Morning, then, and it seems to me that Trewin has decided to drive the van around in circles and start altering reality so each individual object has a distinct and moving double of itself around three centimetres to its left. Two days of 'sleeping' on floors or chairs, and I am battered, bruised, and, frankly, still battered. Oh no, not the rumbling diesel engine. Oh no, not harsh sunlight through the new windows, straight into my eyes, hot dusty air prickling my airways...

A stop off at some motorway 'nutri-hut express' or whatever they want to call themselves, and I order some of the worst food I've ever had in my life. It was just a bread starter - the Warm Bread Trio (which sounds like a South-West jazz band made up of men with white beards and wet breath) - so I didn't expect much, but it was still massively disappointing. The 'Olive oil with balsamic vinegar' looked like something that had oozed from a wound, and the bread was simultaneously soggy yet stale. Boo. Still, my bandmates took pity on me, rather than see fit to wind me up, which was nice.

So, back in the van. I slept. Good lord did I sleep. Then I came home, and slept some more.

So now here I am, writing this almost out of a sense of obligation given an eventful weekend. I'm free from all substances but the essential caffeine, which means the animated thing I live with is going to have to put up with a puffy faced, grumpy old man for however long it takes my brain to get its act into gear and realise that nicotine, alcohol, and whatever else are not native members of its community.

Never mind marriage; that's love.

Tim