We’re cold, we’re hungry.
We’re in Swindon.
Playing a pub in Swindon tonight. Sitting in an Italian restaurant, the only place we could find that wasn’t a take-out.
Sparkling water for Eric. Red wine – a big glass – for me. It’s times like this I’m glad I drink.
Every other car that passes is a police car.
Every other person that walks by is wearing a track suit or dragging a laundry cart.
I think I first heard the word “Swindon” when XTC came out. It seemed exotic in its Englishness – it’s not.
We’ve parked our car, full of every piece of musical equipment we own, on a side street, illegally, because the pub won’t let us load in and we need something to eat.
As we wait for our food, there’s the feeling they’d almost be doing us a favor stealing everything.
I shouldn’t say that…
Now Eric’s gone to check the car. I worry for a second – what if he doesn’t come back? What if he leaves me here, alone, in Swindon? Then I remember I’m holding all the tour money.
The waiter just asked if we’d like some butter.
“Oh no,” I say. “We’re watching our cholesterol.”
Then “Oh hell, who cares? Yes, butter – lots of it!”
If we die – so what? We’re in Swindon on a Saturday night.