Saturday May 27

Managed to make it to 12.00 noon. Why is sleep such fucking hard work? God I hate people who can do it easily… “I’m just going to take a nap” what, without 60ml of horse tranquiliser? You mean you just shut your eyes and relax and all the lights go out on cue? I need only the flimsiest pretext for all my sleep-workers to call a random stop-work meeting, everything starts buzzing and flaring and the faces of ex-lovers are hysterically looming in and out of view, effectively putting the old ticker on 3 minute warning. Sleep is a tough job. It takes it out of you.

Thus, I woke up knackered, and the day never really got off the ground after that. True, I tried to get some blue-stained white shirts washed, but: “So sorry, sir, but afraid I am zat we have no – how you say…” “Bleach? no bleach.” True, I summoned up the nerve to order a £7 room service pot of coffee. True, I even went for a long walk with Peter (during which he congenially said hello to a duck on the foreshore and looked at world maps to see where on earth we were – “Do you realise we’re on the same time zone as Greece ?”… “No, really? Who would have ever thought as much!”), visiting cathedrals and achingly searching for a hotdog stall. (Fucking icecream stalls everywhere. Who the fuck eats icecream these days, anyway?) But the day really never got off its knees. I went to the Amos Anderson art gallery and bought 12 cards; one, entitled ‘Primadonna’ by Hakan Brunburg, was an instant limpid sub-Chagall favourite, and put me in a jolly mood for all of seven minutes. By 4.00 p.m. I was back at the Intercontinental for a couple of beers (“Shall I try and go to sleep, or shall I try and stay awake? Eeenee Meenee Minee Mo…”) and a hearteningly excellent haircut from Ms. Collins; thus I joined the illustrious company of Rob, Tim, Justin, Graham and Dugald as a member of the exclusive “I got pruned by Sally” club. Should I have kept a lock of hair for my old age?

Apparently about half the entourage have been suffering recently from bouts of sickness symptoms, allegedly some food poisoning. This only reminded me of what Dottie Parker was reported to have said when told that Calvin Coolidge had just died “… Really, How can they tell?” I mean, we are on tour, after all … God, I don’t even have the get-up-and-go for a sleeping jag, let alone a crying one. Is everyone else’s life such an undignified blur, or is it only me? I’m sure everyone must have variations on the “undignified blur” theme. Save for a few hideously orderly, stoic individuals. To cut a long evening short, we proceeded en masse (ugly sight!) to an excellent Indian restaurant. Various parties and shindigs lured others out into the off-white Helsinki night, but I attempted to hit Club Fartsack. The mighty zzzzzs, however, were not immediately forthcoming, and had to be coaxed, gently but firmly.

Sunday May 28

11.00 a.m. Hmmm. Definitely do not feel on top of the world. Gather up a roomfull of bombscattered debris, sort wheat from chaff, cram into suitcase. Checkout. £7 pot of coffee actually £10. Thanks. Swell. We waste the six hours until ferry departure time at a blues festival (a wh-a-a-at??) in a park, and at a lakeside coffee shop with Kimo (Radio City DJ/journalist) and his girlfriend. This day never really gets off its shins. At the ferry bar Graham says “I’m going to die if we keep touring” and we talk to some Finnish rock musicians and to Jailbait and her mother. I went to the disco for all of 30 seconds. Not very inspiring. Try to sleep but instead end up lying in the bunk having a long conversation with Sally and Graham about sexual frustration (particularly on tour) and how the process of chatting someone up is too repellent for words. I can remember simply repeating the phrase “Oh it’s all just so depressing” over and over, before drifting off.

Monday May 29

Ferry pulls into Stockholm and we disembark at 9.00 a.m., without drama, without passport checks even. The hotel “O’Henrys” is in a ridiculously BORING part of town, and is only half finished. Surrounded by factories and freeways, once more one is subjected to Super Channel (same 10 fucking pop videos) and CNN cable 24 hour news. A handjob? Forget it, think of the motivation required. Visit the supermarket instead and get completely shellshocked trying to comprehend what everything is. 3.00 p.m. and Marty and 1 do interview at what seems to be a mainstream radio station. The DJ, Ulo, has a guestbook signed by millions of “stars” including “Johnny Diesel” (cue sound of lunch rebirthing) and – wait for it – KYLIE! I am genuinely starstruck. What a girl – she even signed it “Thanks for the chat and the cuppa”. Down to earth, I’m impressed, what a girl. The venue looks good too. A big old seated theatre with our name on the marquee thingy, “Emma proudly presents The Triffids! (0k, no exclamation mark, but still … Stylish. Very early show however – 7.30p. m. is not exactly tres rock’n’roll. Enthusiastic audience, clapped along with the songs (what the fuck??), the old larynx was a little threadbare by the end. After the show the record company took us all out to the obscenely trendy and crowded Cafe Opera where Rob etc. had been refused entry a few years ago. The meal/drinks would have cost about twice the GNP of a third world country but hell, that’s showbiz. I could have bought myself a plane ticket to Perth and THAT would have been productive. It was a sumptuous meal and the G&Ts were top notch but, just between you and me, I hate going out to eat after we play. After we play I like an anecdotal bottle of port, but not three hours being polite to Mr. Record Company; I excused myself and promptly went to sleep in the van. That’s called asserting your own destiny.

Tuesday May 30

Today I’d like to tell you about the Triffid’s drug problem. And in particular my drug problem. It’s a big one. The problem is (pause for dramatic effect) we never have any fucking drugs! I must be in the wrong band – I’d heard that rock bands cannot move for the sweaty suffocating throng of eager young hangers-on desperately trying to press packets of potent powders and condiments upon them. Perhaps we look so sweet and innocent that people assume we like to have a nice cup of Valerian tea when we’re getting loose. Whatever, our drug sagas are notable for their threadbare plotlines.

Today we are to record a batch of early songs for a radio show and hopefully for a live album. Everything is laid on but the absence of dust removes the day of its impetus. Not to mention my impetus, which expires in the late afternoon assisted by a railcar procession of bloody marys and a complete lack of appetite. This is what is known as an inauspicious day. I retire injured to the hotel – I was sinbinned – and the rest of the entourage are wined, dined and partied by the record company. Nevertheless, I get a heartening phonecall from Pamela and finish fine tuning the poem “Prayer For One” which has turned out well, not as mawkish as I originally thought. Literature – 1; Rock’n’roll – 0.

Wednesday May 31

Ooh what a shaky feeling. Keep those dark sunglasses on. Pay for the laundry. Tim and Justin pay £42 for coffee and cognacs in their room. It’s raining. Dougie’s boots, left on the windowsill to “air”, have filled up with water. Our 6 hour journey to Gothenburg gets off to a bad start as the van decides to “overheat”, We push it to a service station. Sort of fun in a completely humiliating way. Van goes again. Write some postcards. Finish Kundera, which was jolly after all. At G-burg we play the “Botanical Garden” Club. We have to extract clothes etc. from the van after soundcheck in front of an amused and curious crowd of Slavic punters, some of whom take photos of us. Hmmm, droll. For some reason they like us in G-burg. It’s a great show. The audience was very funny and clapped along like schoolchildren – come to think of it they probably were. I almost told them they were a wonderful audience but stopped myself at the fast minute.

Thursday June 1

Now this is a profoundly shithouse day. Ripped from the womblike warmth of Club Fartsack at about 6.00 a.m. or some ungodly hour, we proceed to drive and catch stupid ferries for what seems like seven years, to get from Gothenburg to Hamburg via New Zealand. Highlights (such as they were): breakfast of beers and scotch chasers in ferry bar. Teddy nearly goes to sleep in ashtray, reacts violently to ferry bar-band playing “You Are So Beautiful’ (No I’m-not!). Hamburg seems to be travelling away from us faster than we can reach it. This is the third time we’ve played the Markethalle and it’s not improving with age. Have difficulty staying awake for the show. Have difficulty finding the hotel. Small crowd, but eventually they become quite wild, after a Teutonic fashion. Girl yells out for the Alabama Song and I oblige two verses. Somehow I cut my head towards the end of the show – perhaps microphone, perhaps projectile. Girl yells out “Bleed for us, David!’ and I just know I’m in the wrong line of work. Fall asleep after walking off stage. Wake up, eat cold meatloaf, fall back to sleep. Also, the record company gentleman was a cocksucker. Just take it from me.

Friday June 2

This morning I experience a brand new sensation for which the term “hangover’ is a woefully inadequate description. “Hangover” implies, a finite condition, and this sensation owed as much to GOD KNOWS as to alcohol. Anyway, as I was saying, the wake-up call screeched as I glanced across the dimly lit hotel room to apprehend Teddy’s torpid bulk in the bed opposite me. Then I tried to move. Nothing doing. My limbs had called a stop-work meeting and were indefinitely indisposed. Then I realised … no, it’s simply not possible to move or talk and M’Iord it is not possible to go on with this tour. Just tell Sally politely but firmly that it’s all off, finito, expired; ship me back to Perth in a padded bin liner, wearing a large pair of Kimbies and a strait-jacket. I have never felt so tired, so completely, totally, desperately knackered, and my body more than anything was determined to stay in this hotel bed, eyes closed, immovable, until it died and completed its part of the bargain. At this point I got up, got dressed, packed and went out to the car. You see I hadn’t known that I was not merely tired but psychotically tired, and under tiredness psychosis a person does these sorts of things, i.e. acts when it is no longer possible to act, thinks and talks when it is no longer possible to think and talk.

Outside, in the sprightly Teutonic morning air, I tried hard to throw up, but was too tired. The day continued in precisely this vein, and I won’t bore you with the details. If I told you everything, well that’d be like enduring a European Triffids tour yourself, and since I have so much fondness for you, dear reader, that’s precisely what I want to spare you. Suffice to say we ‘had an extremely long van and ferry journey back to Denmark to Roskilde, from whence we had come the day before. Why was the itinerary organised in such an irrational fashion? I can only say by way of an answer: Station Agency, I hope your grandmothers die of slow and painful bowel cancers. I tried several times to throw up on the ferry and at various roadhouses, succeeding only in burping up the taste of fast night’s meatloaf (now there’s a painfully naked admission) and occasionally some pungent, thick black concoction.

LATER – the venue in Roskilde was very beautiful; ornate C I9th gold and red walls and a deep proscenium stage. Peter’s lights, films and stage decorations were indeed a sight to behold. I did an exhaustive interview with a breathlessly enthusiastic creature named Lissbeth who knew more about the Triffids than I do, or can ever hope to. (I have a new scar now, from last night, which is big and red. It’s a wonder I don’t frighten small children to tears.) Anyway, this Lissbeth asked complex philosophical questions about the nature of love and the universe and I tried hard to spout reams of eloquent wisdom whilst subtly promoting the new Triffids LP (it’s a piece of shit, dear reader, don’t buy it -totally lacking in unity, which is something I have to deny on a daily basis to interviewers!). At one point I was trying to describe the job of being in a band, and I was going to be impressive by using the Marxist term “non-alienated labour”. Only at this point … ahem … my brain went blank, like a TV station shutting down transmission. I lapsed into silence and mumbled an apology. Non-alienated labour? HAH! YOU KNUCKLEHEAD!! Recovered by lying flat out in the hotel room watching “The John and Yoko” telemovie with Teddy. Now that is one fucked-up movie, very entertaining. Reluctant to go back to the venue, but duty called. I should have been between the sheets, but psychotic tiredness and a couple of vodkas actually enable you to play a blinder of a show. The audience helped too; I’ll be surprised to find more rowdy audiences again. They treat you like a pop group, which is how it should be. In London they treat you like a uni lecturer, in Adelaide they treat you like shit. So in Roskilde I ran about and shook my butt and yelled a lot, all the time using up reserves of energy I did not have, which did not exist. Yeah, beats me too. Presumably some sort of “perform now, pay later” scheme. Made it to the bandroom, spoke to the record company, stumbled to the hotel, collapsed in bed, blacked out. Woke briefly when Graham came back (Teddy and I share a room whilst Peter and Evi are being two little schnookie Teutonic lovebirds) and he banged artlessly around the room. Dozed off again, only to wake to see Graham totally nude, towel in hand, leaving the hotel room to go for a walk down the corridor, presumably to take a bath. He came back five minutes later and did not remember it the next day. The complete somnambulist.