Well we haven't finished the tour yet; is this tempting fate?
But Birmingham has to take the biscuit for a weird experience.
We were booked into the city's worst hotel, the Paragon, which featured a hole in the bath in Chris's room, an electric socket falling off the wall and serious damp issues in John and Kate's room, a full-on argument going on next to Willie's room, an an air-conditioning unit (or perhaps just a noise nuisance unit) that switched itself on at mega-volume outside our windows every time you tentatively dropped off to sleep. The car-park was lethal, a symphony in insecurity; the pavements were larded with dog-sh*t, and the hotel housed a huge number of refugees and a man with a clipboard barking out names at the desperately-miserable-looking crew the next morning. Oh yes- and a dealer on the corner when we got back late at night. Read the hilariously awful reviews here
Just before the gig- which was fab (the audience were definitely stars as well as the band!) we went for a Chinese meal at Ming Moon. The food was great but I'm not so sure about the electric fiddle player, who got ten out of ten for being sinister and who leapt from his podium and serenaded people at their tables (but not us... perhaps he realised that it wasn't a good idea). He peered about the room from under his lashes and strode past the tables with a frightening sense of purpose, swapping to an electric mandolin for some inappropriate soft soul covers. Extraordinary.