It is commonly believed that the rock’n’roll touring lifestyle is a moving feast of non-stop glamour: glitzy parties, free booze and supermodel consorting. This is partly true. Once bands reach a certain stature, gig promoters will ensure that their charges don't want for anything. Before a show, a group will be indulged with great food, comfortable dressing rooms and as much alcohol as they can handle. Afterwards they'll be thrown a big party, before being whisked off in a tourbus or private jet to prepare for the next show.

Sounds good?

Well, that’s only part of the story. Most of the time touring is spent travelling in cramped conditions. Boredom is a major problem, as are hangovers. Everyone lives for the hour on stage, which passes in a flash. The other 23 hours creep by. Still, when I was invited to join Feeder for the weekend, flitting from Donington to the Isle of Wight, to a supporting gig for U2 in Germany, I jumped at the chance to live the rock’n’roll lifestyle. How did I fare? Read on.

DAY 1

Feeder’s press officer Gillian is waiting for me at St Pancras station in London for the journey to Nottingham. She is calm, but becomes slightly agitated when Martin, our photographer, is late. He struggles, laden with equipment, on to the train with seconds to spare. We exchange glances. Or at least we would if he could see: sweat has already blinded him. “Blimey,” I think. “We’ve barely started and the panic has begun.” He just mutters: “Bloody cab drivers. They should all be shot.”

On the train I listen to the latest Feeder album, Pushing the Senses. I like Feeder, although most critics do not. They are a band who have had to slog throughout their 15-year career and, while their music has not always been hugely distinctive, their way with a melody and a crunchy guitar riff means that they’re not only big enough to support U2 but also headline the first night of the heavy rock orgy that is Download. The train is full of heavily pierced, black-clad fans.

The closest I’ve yet come to getting pierced was stabbing myself with a school compass, but at least I’m wearing a black T-shirt. Even if it does bear the slogan BigBaby. We meet the band at the hotel. As is often the way with groups that have struggled for their success, they’re charming people. No ego and no pretension. However, as we board the tour bus to head for the festival site, Martin realises that this also means no smoking.

“Don’t you dare light that bloody fag,” says Mark Richardson, the drummer as Martin lifts a roll-up to his mouth. The photographer looks sheepish. It’s a poor start.

Backstage at Download we’re pleasantly surprised that this most “rawk” of festivals is very nicely appointed. The catering is great and, yes, the beer is free. Martin and I take full advantage. I will later regret this.

Feeder go on stage at 8.30pm, just after Garbage. The crowd is suspicious. Grant Nicholas, the lead singer, is not dressed in black. Neither is Taka Hirose, the Japanese bassist. Only Mark, the drummer, really looks the part. Forty minutes later, Feeder have blown the crowd away with a muscular set. Nicholas smashes a guitar at the climax. Afterwards, the diminutive Welshman tells me that it’s the first time he’s done such a rock’n’roll thing. “It was a £2,000 guitar. I never do that usually, but it was such a rush winning that crowd over.” He pauses. “What did you think of the set list? Did we pace it right?” This will become a familiar question. Guitar-smashing rock stars can be sensitive, too.

DAY 2

We’re up very early. Grant has had some radio interviews to do. The rest of the band and crew headed down to the Isle of Wight festival on the tour bus last night, but myself, Grant, Martin and Matt, the band’s manager, will take a helicopter from the East Midlands to the Isle of Wight. I’m not a great flyer and, nursing a monumental hangover, I’m now really dreading this flight. As is my custom before a flight, I call my girlfriend to tell her I love her. Grant hears me and smiles shyly. “I do the same every time I fly. I really don’t like flying either.” I gawp at him. “But you must fly at least a hundred times a year.”

“I’m in the wrong job,” he grins.

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