Restless

I'm restless: I'm flying to Vienna on Tuesday (what's the difference between a ticket and a boarding pass?), playing on Wednesday and then travelling back on Thursday, then going to Rebellion in Blackpool on Friday, playing and showing the film on Saturday and coming back on Sunday. Then I'm going to Scotland with my Offsprogs the following Tuesday. I have three developing travel piles: posh clothes for Vienna, punk scrum clothes for Rebellion and insect repellent and weatherproof clothes for Scotland.

What will happen to the almost-ripe tomatoes? Will the Bad Squirrel eat all the birds seed that the sparrows have bene enjoying? Will my pot plants shrivel without their thrice-weekly dose of bathwater? Will urgent things happen that I can't do anything about?

There's good news on the gigs front- a probable Saturday afternoon gig in Brighton with Wasbo Derek, and a mid-November gig at The Betsey Trotwood with my brother, who was one of the guitarists in The Chefs and who has been writing songs constantly for a year. We are going to play two or three Chefs songs at some point during the evening. In early September I'll be playing in Hereford, Sheffield and Shipley with Howie Reeve, the virtuoso bass player and singer. I have two gigs with David Lance Callaghan (Newcastle and Lewes), another possible one with The Girl with the Replaceable Head, and one in Bristol with the Lovely Basement. My new CD will be out on the 2nd of October: it's been mastered, the cover is being designed and it'll be going off to be manufactured very soon. I've contributed a track to a compilation of Kylie Minogue Covers too.

Is this restlessness or is it anxiety? I can't tell the difference. We tried to go to Scaledown last night to de-stress and see Poor Performer (Simon Rivers) but it was packed from the outset, and we couldn't face squeezing in. It sounded good from the street, and we had a nice chat with Simon and Lee. It's worrying: is the Scaledown secret out? We need a few months with the man from Sheffield with the sensory boot and the fluorescent strip light, chaotic improvisers, and inaudible poets whose quiet voices are no match for the rowdy post-office drinkers downstairs. That'll sort it out!