Oxford fallout…Me & Thom Yorke   1 comment

Scattered sense data from the last month or so:

Last night dreaming of Burt Reynolds performing my song “Operating Myths” (unreleased) in a tuxedo with a band inside a big film/TV studio. I think this is telling me I should be thinking big.

Hanging out with Dimitri in Oxford waiting to do my gig. We go into a pub recommended by Steve Adams, who isn’t much of a drinker. A woman comes in and sits down at the next table. She looks exactly like my mother, only 15 to twenty years older. I clock her and look away. Dimitri is talking to me. I look back at her. She is staring straight at me. I look away and then back. Still she stares. Then she gets up and leaves. Didn’t buy a drink or anything. Just came in to pull a David Lynch number on me. Freaked out, we drink up and leave. Two minutes later Thom Yorke walks past us. He looks a bit small and gay.
The gig is shit. I sell one CD to the barman. “So, are you meant to be funny or what?” he asks. Not the first time I’ve had this question.
I get really fucking hammered, because I’m on tour (Oxbridge tour – 18th-19th March, 2003).
Wake up about 10:30 AM, which is about the latest I’ve risen in over two years. I feel fucking awful. One point Dimitri interrupts me, then asks me a question, and then cuts me off as I begin to answer, just because he’s a hyperactive motherfucker. My brain can’t handle this kind of rapid gear-change and I get a really heavy, shaky feeling. I woozily pack my bag and head out into the sunshine. I immediately find a bus stop for station-bound buses, but the stupid cunt in me has a plan to tour charity shops. I visit one, which is impossibly cluttered and busy, and soon discover that the combination of the heat, my hangover and the large backpack I have with me rule out the chazzer option. I literally stumble to the station, with crowds of young French kids snarling up my progress. I also experience that hungover phenomenon where I am rendered invisible. Halfway there I realize that I’ve left my cheeba.
On the way back I do really bad things like drink medicinal lager and buy Satanburgers from McDonalds in an effort to sort myself out. Realize I’ve left my CDs in Oxford. I never do this kind of shit.
A little miracle happens in London and suddenly I’m OK. This never happens. Evidently Satan is watching over me.
Even so, by the time I get to The Portland I’m in a rough old state and can’t make small talk whatsoever. I spend a desperate twenty minutes watching these two young lads who are taking a bit of time out from selling household crap (dishcloths and the like) door-to-door. One guy is feeding the fruity like the world is going to end. There’s no question in my mind that he was not only spending every last bit of his wages, but also the money they’d taken that day and would have to give back to whatever beggarmaster cunt employs them. His mate kept trying to stop him by saying “right, I’m going”, but he never did. One of the saddest things I’ve ever seen. Matey kept crouching down to look up into the machine to see what was coming next.

Gig goes spectacularly well. For some reason I’m a funny asshole and everything sounds great. I sell the three CDs I’ve managed to find at home in about three seconds – two to the main act (The Chap). I raise the price to seven quid because I’m so confident of flogging them. Some poor bastard bought a recycled Grievous Um for seven notes!

Last night they were down to a fiver, and I was happy to get it. Worst gig I’ve done ever, probably. I like chaos. Chaos is my friend, but last night too many gremlins got out of the bag. My minidisk player kept stopping, fuck knows why. I borrowed one off a matey in the audience (cheers dude!) but then the monitors kept cutting out randomly, giving me the impression that the music was going quiet/loud/quiet/loud, although I later was told that the house speakers were cool. I’m still not sure because I went out into the audience at one point and it sounded like a really quiet, sad joke.

Vichy Government on fine form, but hardly any punters.

Posted April 10, 2003 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

One response to “Oxford fallout…Me & Thom Yorke

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  1. I’d like to point out here that we did actually walk past the lead singer of Radiohead, and I wasn’t just trying to be surreal. It was bloody surreal though.

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