When we arrived back at Gus’s house from the Bristol show it was gone four in the morning.  “Take Maud’s bed.”  He said opening the door to his own rooms.  He turned back with a dejected look in his eye.

“There’s a hog in my bed” he said, “sleeping.”  He returned to the Landing with a genial smile and said that is was no mind and that he could take the settee for the night.   It can often be the case that at Iron Mountain the sleeping facilities are liberally dished out in an instance for the common good.  I could hear the hog grunting and tussling with sleep behind the door.  He sounded like a large fellow.  I thanked Gus for the hospitality and went to bed.

I woke late the next morning and pulling myself out of bed, dressed and went into the Kitchen.  There, I was confronted with a large pig, stood on his hind legs tending to a smoking pan on the oven top that hissed at intervals with alarming volatility.  He was dressed in a three-piece Harris Tweed suit although the jacket was hanging on the back of a chair.  His shirtsleeves were rolled up and over his waistcoat he wore a plastic, chince-patterned apron. I guessed the suit was tailor-made because there was a deliberate hole at the back where from his tail protruded with just cause.                  The kitchen was in chaos; dishes were piled up over and around the sink.  A blackened pan was melted into to the linoleum floor, bottles and jars filled the sideboard in a sticky, blind panic.  By the kettle eggshells created a nest for a soggy heap of watery tea bags.

“Good morning.”

“How do you do?” He said.

“Well” I said, “my name’s Sam” I said extending my hand.

“Oh do forgive me!” he said dropping the spoon and wiping his trotter on his apron.  “I’m afraid I can quite forget myself when at the stove.  Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Arnold and whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

“I’m Sam.” I said again, raising my eyebrows and dipping my head back into the conversation with a prompting gesture.

“But of course! I’m terribly sorry, you’ve already told me that, I’m afraid I can quite forget myself when at the stove.”

“No problem” I say.  “A pleasure to meet you.  Would you like some coffee?”

“Ah but relax my dear fellow you have had a long and tiring excursion as I am to take it. No, you just sit there and relax, allow me.  Coffee is on its way along with breakfast – Kippers and eggs. Sunny side up!”  The hog chuckled to himself contently.  He soon handed me a large plate of grilled kippers with two fried eggs and a slice of hot buttered soda bread.

“Bon appetite” he said with a wide brimmed smile.  His smile blanched as a look of grave apology formed when he saw me eye the disarray “Oh but I’m afraid I’m a terribly messy house guest” his countenance lightened again “but I make an excellent pot of coffee” he poured me a steaming cup fresh from the peculator.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, “I don’t think the guys will mind.”








By 5 past 10 in Exeter we have finished playing a modest show to a modest audience.  The van is loaded and we are ready to depart, but the parting is far from us yet.

After our show there is a live hip-hop performance and it is slowly forming around us.   The whole night has unraveled with an odd pace and has left us slightly deflated.  To remedy our sunken spirits Phil ‘Owley suggests a last drink and we readily agree.  The audience filters out and filters in and we find ourselves amongst a new generation.  Saggy denim, languid smiles and nubile breasts fleet past and exhaust my lust and confusion all in one unexpected blow.

The MCs are on stage now and they spit ferociously and cause these young, magnificent creatures to grind their firm bodies through the silty air as if Dionysus himself was present.  We take it in turns to go and stand in the pit and experience the vim – one of us must stay above ground at all times to slacken or tighten the rope when necessary.  Back at the table whilst complaining that we can’t hear the words Nathan’s face becomes sullen as he looks at his beer and lets out an exasperated snigger.  “Are you ok Nathan?” Gus asks.                                                                                                                        “I’ll let you be the judge of that fool.”  He says with venom we’ve never seen in him before.  With that he jumps up pushing the chair to the floor throwing a dagger look to the stage.  As he walks toward the stage he lets slip his belt a notch so his trousers fall a little and hang steadily in accordance with the parlance of the room.  He twists his cap 20 degrees to the right and adopts a kinked left knee in his gait.

Arriving at the stage and making eye contact with one of the MC’s he taps three fingers to his chest twice and asserts them loftily into the air.  The mc reaches down and hoists Nathan up onto the stage.  He grabs a spare mic.  “Yo yo – let’s raise this motherfucka!”   With this gallant cry Nathan grabs his trousers by the balls and begins an onslaught of the lurid vernacular.  A stream of verbs, nouns and adjectives fly forth from his lips as he sways in time to the rhythm of his inflections.  Two girls leap onto the stage and flank him, grinding furiously up and down his torso, one straddling him by the thigh and the other using the force of her buttocks to express her satisfaction with his rhymes.

The rest of the crowd is in uproar, wild undulating cries and ecstasy.  The beats get louder and faster, intense and flawless as Nathan gets fiercer, predatory in his instinct for the English language.  As he leaves the stage he is grabbed and swayed by outstretched hands adorning, desperate to touch the vessel that contains the mighty flow.

We finish our drinks and set out for the hotel.  Renewed by the vigor.  Satisfied with content.  Cooled by the sagacious night stream…

We are in Birmingham.  We are playing at the Glee club.  I’m not sure which of us is laughing and which of us the joke is on.

This is England…

Gus is stood at the entrance to the venue with a bought out coffee when a man approaches him looking for spare change.  It is hard to decipher whether the man is in need of money for food and shelter or in need of fare for travel, either way it is apparent that his need is greater than that of my friend.  He, after all, instigated the approach. It seems Gus has no spare change.  As way of compensation the man offers to take the coffee.  Gus complies and in spirit also offers a humble blessing.

Later.  As way of a rider the venue provides us with 4 bottles of water, 2 bottles of coca-cola and 6 modestly sized bottles of beer.  Oh and of course a triple offer pack of custard creams – this rider is after all for Liz Green.

Of course when our refreshments are depleted we are welcomed to quench ourselves at the bar.  The drinks are not cheap, not even to performers and Gus soon finds himself, in the spirit of humble blessings, at the mercy of a £20 bar bill.



Later on after the show Gus and I are locked out of the building taking a post show cigarette.  There is no one at hand to let us back in.  In fact, during the whole course of the evening we see no sign of the meet the promoter – perhaps too busy promoting.

Outside a man wearing remarkable Nike air trainers approaches for us some spare change.  He was angry that we didn’t have any and confused at our excuses.

“If you’ve just come of stage you would’ve been paid by now eh?”

In need of compensation for our lack of contribution he wondered if perhaps he should take Gus’s tobacco.

“All of it?” Gus asked.

The man nodded.

“And with it please take my humble blessings.”  Gus added as the well-clothed man walked into the night with a full packet of tobacco and grumbling at our unjust denial of his personal allowance.

I followed his tracks innocently and hovered over an outside mezzanine looking onto a precinct of nightclubs. Young girls crossed the courtyard to and fro wearing nothing but shoes.  I figured their compensating must have been, like Gus’s in the spirit of a humble blessing.


“Ah Paris!”

Crow commands a deep breath as if consuming in it, the city’s pregnant history and implanted future all at once.

“This is the place for me.  My kind of city, my kind of people. ‘Fuller of wonders and wickedness than all the cities of the earth!’ Dickens.”

“Ah” I say

“Of course narratively speaking the comment was for London but in his heart I think he referred to that great city of love.”

“Oh” I say

 “I lived here once you know?”

“Really Crow”

“But of course.  I thought you might have noticed that in my stance.” A slight pause carries undecided quiet.  ” Agh! You couldn’t sense something like that.  You lack a universal comprehension yet.”

“What took you to Paris” I ask trying to keep the conversation focused on his story.  It is always a more genial experience for everybody that way.

“I spent some time at the Sorbonne.”

“Wow, what did you study?”

“I’m a crow, I didn’t study anything.  Good grief!  No no, I spent time with the faculty there.  Instilling the prerequisite of excellence and scholarly perfection through image.”

“A bit like what you do for us?”

“I suppose so,” says Crow with patience.

Crow sees himself as our Ambassador.  ‘The integral representative of our easy disposition and good nature as we travel from city to city.’  That’s how he puts it.  He always reminds us about the weight of responsibility he carries and pleads with us not to ruin his good work with rudeness or bad manners.

“It would be nice if you acknowledged the job I do of keeping up morale also.” Says crow, looking over my shoulder as I write this.  He flies out of the room leaving behind a stony silence…

“I think pleasantries childish and improper” says Crow as he vacillates portentously on his perch.           He addresses Nathan but I know the comment is for me.  The night before I had asked him why he never conversed with the staff at venues or ever thanked them for their hospitality.

“Firstly” says Crow, with a piercing eye pitched right at mine, which I am released from only when he closes his eyes, slowly turns his head toward the mirror and flashes a murderous glare at my reflection instead.   “I reserve conversation for dignities sake.  For the people who share my brow of existence.”

It’s actually the integral belief Crow has in his own opinions that makes me feel that he cannot really be a bad soul.

“Secondly one should be able to do ones job without praise.”  He averts his eyes back to mine still with the same, piercing glare. “It is a matter of duty, of métier.  The wage taken home by a worker should be thanks enough.”

“But what about good nature?” I ask him naively.

“No.” Demands Crow.  He pauses for reflection.  “But perhaps if one were to provide addendum. Tickets to the theatre or the facilities of a spa for example, then it may be proper to acknowledge such a gesture.  With tact of course.”  Crow has a weakness for spas.  He says that if cleanliness is next to godliness then the spa is a Pantheon of the immortal spirit.

“A workers role is to make us feel settled and welcome in these strange, foreign places and an attitude of crude recognition on our part could only cause future complacency in their subservience.”

Crows eyes soften and his tone changes to one of blasé erudition. “Take the colonial period.” He offers  “The last truly great advancement in civilization, and all accomplished by our own, now tragically recumbent monarchy.  Now, how far do you think the Empire would have progressed if we had gone around obliging the savages with compliments on their strong limbs and keen work effort?”

Crow sees nothing wrong with his use of the word savage here.

“I mean, you do not see me asking for thanks or praise for keeping you fellows in a light and spunky mood throughout your little tour do you?  My Jocular spirit and humility are all part of my duty as much as is my personable attitude with the crew and other ones further down the line.”

“Your doing a very humble job Crow and we really appreciate it.” I say

“Thank you” he says.  His eyes close again.  This time with contented pride.

Paper money flutters into the air. With that his hands are free.  He fills the void with whiskey and hugs a friend sitting beside him.

‘What does it matter?’ he asks.

For all of his stillness the Fisherman moves relentlessly.                                                                                 He fills his soul without regret.                                                                                                                             He invests in time like a swallow to a breath of air.                                                                                             He holds the night in his hands.

Home is by the river.                                                                                                                                                 An abandoned smokestack is his gatepost.                                                                                                     Fast-against-the-wall windows are embossed by craft and character, which he ministers with the care of a surgeon to a rose.

When heart is absent from toil this is where heart is.

‘Shall we have some breakfast?’ he asks.

So we climb out of the kitchen window, cross the wooden bridge and walk the length of the small island to the jettee on the waters edge.

Late at night the Fisherman buys his cigarettes from the girls who work at the local Bordello, politely declining drink and dance with a quiet charm and a codicil smile.

He defends the fool from himself.                                                                                                                         Work means his fellow man’s progression.                                                                                                     Even exhaustion will never stop him searching.

The river works at an endless pace like kind words.                                                                                           The sun reflects the sparkle in his eyes on the waters bright surface.

There are a section of rapids 200 yards upstream.                                                                                         The Fisherman gladly chooses to swim the other way.

We have bought a crow.

He perches himself providently on the dashboard of the tour bus whilst Nathan chases down the miles behind the wheel.  He gives us frequent weather reports with a keen sense of authority.  “It’s fairly cloudy,” he might shout into the back.  “We know crow. We’ve got windows back here too.”  “Very well” He says, his pride a little damaged.

We found him at the back of a cluttered bazaar in Frankfurt.  He was browsing a 3 for 2 classics section that stood separately to the shelves on a cardboard point of sale stand.  “I simply adore Balzac” he said unprompted as we passed.

We suspected that he might actually belong to the shop so we bartered his price at the counter in secret.

We asked if him he would mind coming along on our trip to keep Morale high and he said he would not mind.  He told us as we left the shop that he normally traveled with leading Symphony Orchestras.  “But what a quaint little experience this will be for me, chaperoning an ensemble of twee folk musicians.”