Powerfully tired today. I seem to be waking up at 6.30am, even though I am going to bed late and that makes it very hard to operate. I more or less shut down until show time and had to perform with a headache, but although (for the second time in a week) I nearly jumped to the wrong part of the show, I think I did a good job. And it was a sell-out! Admittedly only in a 120 seater venue, but it sold out months ago.
I tried to sleep in the dressing room, but to no avail, popped to the loo and just as I was standing up the door opened and the tech guy walked in to what I imagine wasn't the nicest of sights. I had locked the door, I thought, but it was one of those doors with two locks on it and the one I had seen and turned was obviously old and redundant. But in a way that guy was lucky as he got to see the WHOLE show, though as it happened got a better view of my arse than my cock. I suspect he was more scarred by the experience than me. I didn't see him again and imagine he watched the show from the tech box, rocking back and forth and trying to wipe my arse. From his brain.
Giles had made me dinner tonight. A healthy chicken and pasta salad and some freshly cut pineapple for pudding. It was very nice and a much better pre-gig meal than the huge pizza I had foolishly consumed in Tring. It was a very nice gesture from The Cannibal, although I think it might be peace offering because he almost murdered my father two days ago. I can't believe I didn't write about this at the time, though maybe the trauma made me forget. We'd all gone up the gorge so I could buy my folks a nice lunch to thank them for putting us all up. We were going to
Franks, Cheddar's poshest restaurant (in that they serve food on a plate rather than expecting you to eat it out of a trough with the pigs). We had all gone in different cars as we were heading off to separate engagements (I had a date with destiny in Tewkesbury) and parked semi-illegally in the car park of the White Hart pub. My dad took the prime spot and got out of his car, but mum hadn't left too much room for Giles to get into the only other available spot, so there was a bit of reversing to engineer. Giles reversed the car and only the beeping of his parking sensor warned him that something was behind him. He braked and said, "I think I just hit your dad."
This was quite a faux pas for a tour manager. Running over the act's father is probably something that will look bad on your CV. Dad did seem to be bent over a bit. Even a low-speed impact could have had devastating consequences on his old bones. I jumped out the car to check on him with Giles trying to pass off his assassination attempt as something minor. But luckily dad had not been hit and had jumped out of the way just in time. He had been bending over to pick up his dropped keys, hence him being out of sight in Giles' rearview mirror. It was a lucky escape and a testament to those parking sensors that I know annoy many drivers who think they're observant enough not to need them. In this case they saved my dad from a nasty knock. I think the last week of the tour might have been awkward if I was being driven around by my father's killer.
But as it was I have got a tupperware tub full of chicken and pasta out of it, so I am very happy. And apart from nearly killing my father Giles has been a good tour manager (he's no Malcolm Kingsnorth). I would recommend him to anyone. With the caveat that he nearly killed my dad.
So if you don't really like your dad then he is the perfect tour manager. Except I suppose that he couldn't even complete that simple task. But he makes a nice salad. He said he'd do another one for me tomorrow. But he might not after reading this.
Please God and Baby Jesus, let me sleep in tomorrow.
