Cardiff/Manchester 2nd November 2009

Woke at 5.30am. I could hear Sonny shouting from his room which was normal but something wasn’t quite right. Mary was breathing gently beside me, lost in a house of dreams and as I got out of bed the whole room span around me and I had to sit straight back down. My stomach was cramping and I felt sick. I’ve had food poisoning recently and that’s what it felt like. I got up slowly, Mary woke up and we took Sonny downstairs for his breakfast.

As the morning slipped by I felt progressively, worse still Mary had taken the van to be serviced and it had taken far longer than expected. I was home with Sonny so by the time the prearranged meeting time spun around I hadn’t packed or even showered.

Finally we left around midday. Steaming up the M4 in our beloved Mazda Bongo. The band is me, Bernie on drums, Mark on Bass and Stuart on keys. Bernie played on ‘Advertisements for Myself’, ‘Ye Gods (and little fishes)’ and has played live with me in the past. I’ve known Mark since I moved to Cardiff, he owns the studio where I record and rehearse. He is also one of the sweetest men I know. Stuart plays with Mark and Bernie in the band Vito.

Soon after joining the M4 I had to concede that I was too ill to drive and Mark took over. I napped, bent almost double in the front passenger seat that had been pushed forward with the weight of our gear and bags. We arrived at the Royal Northern College of Music, a hushed, velvety space on the Oxford Road. We dumped the gear on the enormous stage, found the dressing rooms and plugged all our machines in. We used to get into dressing rooms and start demolishing the rider, we wouldn’t have had anything to plug in but now everybody is armed with laptops, phones, sat nav, bluetooth speakers, electric mangle etc

The Webb brothers turn up. I haven’t spoken to them for four or five years and it’s great to see them. There’s James, Justin and Christian plus Cornelius who I’ve not met before. Glen Campbell’s son, Cal, is drumming for them and Englishman Tim is pedal steeling. Romeo Stodart from the Magic Numbers is also part of the line up. No sign of Jimmy, apparently he doesn’t show up for soundchecks. Fine by me, I’m scared of him.

I don’t feel well at all at this point, my guts are performing acrobatics within their rib ringed arena and I can’t stray too far from the gents. I just want to do the gig and go to bed. The sound onstage disappears, only to reappear elsewhere, the floor monitors are important now, to pin down this elusive noise and make some sense of what’s going on. All this will change once the audience take their seats, the sound will settle. I no longer fret about such things. I don’t fret about anything anymore; I know the songs, I trust my band so other than unforeseen technical dramas there isn’t much that can go wrong. I don’t have to worry about my voice because i don’t smoke anymore and haven’t had a hangover for over a year.

We go on early, just after half seven. I can see that my mum and my sister and her partner are here just as the lights go down. It’s very quiet out there. The soft seats rise up in front of me, occupied mostly by middle aged couples and I find that I actually prefer this to the squall and chat of a normal gig crowd. I find it easier to collect and pace myself. I feel relaxd and rwlly enjoy the concert. We’ve started playing ‘Good Life’ as well which is one of my favourite songs to sing (odd that I got Sice to sing it on record). The audience listen and are appreciative, the boys think it was the best we’ve played and I manage to sing in tune and not break anything. Win.

I get back to the dressing room just as Jimmy Webb arrives. I’m introduced to him by Justin and he fixes me with a steely glare and says he is pleased to meet me. I am scared of him. He is a formidable presence.

I head down to the bar to have a drink with my family, Bobby Boo has turned up with his lady, Claire (they missed the gig) and I decide to try and drink my way through my illness. Never the best idea but one that my limited imagination often pushes forward when decision times comes around. I spot my old friend Andy Jones who used to run a great record shop in Liverpool called Pink Moon. I bought many records there that I still cherish today. It’s great to see him albeit briefly as he has a train to catch. The rest of us chat in the bar, Mark, Stu and bernie join us and we decide to head off the Big Hands and get smashed.

The whole crew gig bar Jimmy ends up in Big Hands, Bobby Boo manages to steal, smash or knock over everybody’s drink in the club and gets thrown out, nothing changes. We stay until they close and then pile into the kebab place next door. By this time I feel alright and demolish an enormous kebab back at the apartments.

Apartments? Oh yes, Mary booked the hotels and discovered that it was cheaper for us to stay in an apartment for three nights (we now have two days off) than in a Travel Lodge so we’re swanning about in a swish Deansgate Apartment block, getting kebab everywhere and lowering it’s market value every minute we’re here.

Then, bed.