Heathrow Airport



A lego convention

The similarities between Heathrow Airport and the various lego projects I began as a child, only to abandon them halfway through, are many. Parts of Heathrow Airport’s infrastructure seem to be the victim of the same form of apathy and carelessness I applied to many of my half-baked legoland police stations, hospitals, space stations etc. Someone started building it and then thought “Oo’er, this is bloody ‘ard innit” and then went outside to play with their Action Man instead. Simply put, it doesn’t work properly and nobody seems to want to fix it. There are differences too, of course. For example, I remember my lego projects to be quite vibrant and colourful, but had I only had access to grey, green and mildew coloured blocks, perhaps this wouldn’t have been the case. Also, the people who staffed and patronised these projects of mine had squat, cylindrical, yellow heads with big smiles on their faces. Many of which had their arms in a fixed waving position. Substitute these with pallid, unhelpful, grunting hunchbacks, with their hands fixed in “pocket billiard” position, and the differences become fewer and fewer. It surely has secured it’s position in the top ten “places in the world made to test us”, and it is no coincidence it is only one interchangeable letter away from being named after the worst part of a prison.

Perhaps I’m being a tad harsh. I mean, it seems to work for the locals. When you find yourself behind a planeful of people, all content to stand two-abreast on a slow, slow escalator, without a care/thought in the world, you have to wonder if the problem is indeed, you. You’d swear by the relaxed expressions on some of these Briton’s faces, that they were inside a Japanese bath house and not this hellish people-processing unit. Is it possible then, that these people are CONDITIONED for such an oppressing and shoddy environment? Quite possibly. In fact, places like these are where the stereotypical “whinging poms” really come into their own. After walking through endless twisting tunnels, only to find their path has been detoured through to more endless tunnels, due to some leaking pipe, or glowing-rat stampede or something, you can almost see a strange, gleeful expression cross their face. For they know that they are home now, and they are happy to be home. Perhaps one shouldn’t assess anything after twenty-three hours in transit.

Who’s the whinger? My apologies. The Melbourne to London haul is not the most therapeutic of experiences. So let me say something positive.

The new Qantas in-flight entertainment system is the business. Great movies, easy to navigate controls and superb hi-fidelity sound and vision. The food was pretty good too. The fish-in -gravy being the winner of the day, albeit a dark horse. Actually, it may very well have been dark horse. Regardless, my compliments to the chef/robot.

I was also detained for some time upon my arrival by customs officials. The details are both far too fresh in my head, and boring to elaborate on. Suffice to say, it was stressful and shite.

After arriving on separate flights, The Drones are to be reunited in the seaside town of Myrtleville, Cork, Ireland, in a few hours or so………


Myrtleville, Cork, Ireland

Tonight, the Drones play in the small seaside village of Myrtleville, around twenty miles out of Cork. Myrtleville, it must be said, is a most picturesque little place. Rolling volcanic hills, covered in the most lush shade of green one can ever recall seeing. A fine mist blowing in from the ocean in the late afternoon, blanketing the town in a ghostly fog. Quiet as a church mouse, nay for the distant barking of friendly dogs covered in sea salt, and the “top of the mornin’ to you”s exchanged by the locals every so often. It boasts one general store, which specialises in the selling of newspapers, sugar-based foodstuffs, and the none too popular fruit and vegetables, and one pub called The Pine Lodge, which is where the action all takes place. One thing it doesn’t have mind you, is a restaurant. Luckily in the neighbouring village of Crosshaven, they had a restaurant, and a Chinese one at that, where we ate dinner two nights in a row. There’s a Melbourne based musician who some folks may be aware of, by the name of Paddy Chong. He’s the bass player in The Fuck Fucks. Could it be that we had unwittingly stumbled into the heart of his ancestral home? Let me tell you folks, you haven’t lived till you’ve been served by a Chinese waiter with an Irish accent.

Throughout the day, as we had access to the pub at all hours, we seized upon the opportunity to test out all the hire gear that we’re to use for the next fifty-something shows. It was quite bizarre, to be strolling up the hill from the beach, listening to the sound of the gentle waves, the seagulls, the aforementioned distant barking, and Gareth’s Fender Jaguar bursting forth from his new Vox amplifier, like electricity through a giant knife jammed into the peaceful little toaster that is the town of Myrtleville. I imagined all the dear old ladies hiding underneath their musty blankets, as Gareth’s apocalyptic guitar-visions held the community under siege for an hour or so. Unfortunately the Fender Twin I’m to use, which looked so sexy and new on first glance, has turned out to be a real lemon, and we are trying to figure out ways to fix this piece-a-shit, while remaining constantly on the move. Boring snoring.

The show itself, by any realistic standards, was a success. Even if the band room did resemble the dining area in Fawlty Towers.
At the very least, it was an ideal way to get this hairy behemoth’s ball rolling.


Dublin, Ireland (2)

Our first drive in our All-Terrain Assault Vehicle or tour bus, appropriately christened “Van Morrison” by the words guy in the band. The man and the Van have some things in common, it’s true. Both are squat, grunting, uncomfortable beings, full of irritation on the inside. Yes folks, the vessel that is to guide us through our sixty- three day musical odyssey is a bit of a dud. Having been promised a vehicle that, in this guy’s mind’s eye anyway, looked like something the folks back home would be jealous of, we are now in command of a school-locker on wheels, with a C.D player generously thrown into the deal. On first sight, you could hear the glug-glug-glug of five little hearts sinking (Myrtleville IS that quiet), but very soon after, the hammering sounds of five people constructing a brave, new, steely resolve (this resolve is still under construction, and construction didn’t even begin until a lengthy bitching session was completed). For it takes a lot more than a crappy van to make The Drones say “bugger this, we’re going home”. “Bugger this, we’re going home” Mike said as he despondently threw his backpack into the holding area. “At least have some breakfast first” suggested our mixer, Ryan. And sure enough, after this cereal-based tribute to sugar was over, the dark clouds of doubt and despair parted, and revealed a blue sky of wonder and possibility. We grabbed our luggage and bounded down the stairs to the car park, looked at the van again, and then it started raining…..


Fi pointed out that if you leave from Cork, it’s a surprisingly short way to Tipperary, and she was right. It’s not that much further to Dublin either, and after a couple of hours in Van Morrison spent plugging up holes that make the windows whistle once you get over sixty mph, we were there. Dirty Old Dublin Town. There’s not much to tell you about our accommodation for the night, except for that the rooms were this wide: ------------------------.


In this room, Mike and I had little choice but to confide in each other.

The show however, was terrific. Our local promoters “Thanks for lunch” Phil, and “Thanks for dinner” Allen had put in some serious time getting the word out, and god bless em’, we played to a pretty full room (250 or so) of first-timers. We had fun, and they had fun. We were loud, and they were loud. Good craic Dubliners! We shall return.





And here we are after getting off stage there. Note the steam coming off our heads......


Glasgow, Scotland (3)


Sunday night in Glasgow, huh. Sure, why not. First though, you have to get on the ferry that takes you from Belfast to Stranraer in Scotland.



The ferry is great! A slick and modern ship with a cinema, amusement centre, gift shop and an inordinate amount of bars. After a replenishing breakfast courtesy of the good folk at Burger King, Mike and I wandered aimlessly for the next hour and a half around this floating Heironymous Bosch painting. For some reason my breakfast came with a voucher for a free cocktail, named “The Cruzin’ Confuzion”, and after some deliberation, we decided to cash it in and share it. I’ll spare you the review.



After a further two hours on the road we arrived in Glasgow, home of the massive seagull. A steady diet of chips and deep fried pizza has caused these birds to evolve into an intimidating, pterodactyl sized creature that you would hesitate to shoo away, for fear of having your head ripped off and eaten, and I suppose I’m writing about seagulls because the details of the performance itself are negligible to say the very least, except for the fact that both mine and Gaz’s amps appeared to have begun the process of dying, and we now have a rather inconvenient problem that needs immediate addressing. Our tour manager, Gorka, fearless road warrior from the Basque Country, is on the case (or is he?....hmmm).


York, England (4)

And this folks, is where the wheels start to fall off……..

Typical dismal weather ushered us into the country of England, and into the town of York. In parts, a charming medieval town with winding cobblestone streets and remarkable architecture from a long time ago, and in other parts, a breeding ground for tracksuit-wearing criminal scumbags who are obviously so fed-up with their lot in life, that they feel they have to punish musicians who dare to house a glimmer of hope and the dying ashes of a teenage dream.. Let me explain.

After a dinner of crisps and water at the venue, stuck there while our tour manager drove all over England trying to find a hotel for the night, The Drones played what Gareth so succinctly described as “our worst show ever”. This show was cursed. Cursed people! Perhaps it all began with our support band for the evening, “The Talentless Twats with the Way Too Big Drum Kit”, and their unconvincing set of Sex Pistol covers and wretched “originals”. Or perhaps when the guitar amp finally did die on stage. As I put my ear up to the speakers, I swore I could hear my amp whisper “Get off the tour. It is cursed” in a Spanish accent. Then it’s little red light went out. Mike and Gareth had to finish the set off with “Sixteen Straws”, a big favourite in York.

Or perhaps it really began when nearing completion of the worst show ever, Fi and I step outside the back door of the venue and find that some hooligans have beaten the hell out of Van Morrison, and made out with contents of his trunk. Yes folks, some genius/genii decided it would be a capital idea to take to the windows of our vehicle with a crowbar and steal the band’s luggage. As Gareth and Mike left the stage, we had to break the news to them that they had better liked the outfit they’d chosen for the night, as it was to be their outfit for the rest of the tour.

As we gathered around the van assessing the damage, wondering what had gone and what had remained (Damn! Gorka’s CDs are still here! Shit!), a small crowd of well-meaning punters turned up and started to offer us words of consolation. “Aye, but it were a great sho’”, “Do yers want a beer then?” and “That’s a shame. That doesn’t happen much around these parts”. Doesn’t happen much around these parts? If you look at the town of York from a helicopter, it actually resembles a shaven-headed guy in a tracksuit, holding a bottle of “Scrumpy Jack”.

Turns out, amazingly, that the police caught the buggers and got most of our stuff back. They watched the whole thing on CCTV and it was a relatively textbook display of “Catch the Chavs”. So there you go. I was wrong about the prevalence of too many cameras, the loss of our civil liberties and the freedom of our movements. Screw them. I don’t need them when I’ve got my luggage. No more Orwellian-nightmare bashing for me.


Leicester, England(5)


CANCELLED DUE TO LACK OF VAN, AMP AND WILLINGNESS TO BOTHER!!

It is to be a while before the windows get fixed and the band stop picking shards of safety glass out of their jeans. We have a show in London next, then ATP, then Holland.

Be sure to read the next instalment where the London show goes awry backstage, Mike has a birthday he’ll never forget, and the band move in next door to Alan Vega………..

Regards,
The guitar player