It all gets very complicated so I just go and sit in the front row of the balcony, sling my coat over six seats and wait for them to arrive. My sister waves frantically as she comes through the door with mum, so I settle them down and my phone rings. Apparently, the verbal instructions I gave to my wife were so good that she is halfway down the Uxbridge Road having overshot the green, so I put my coat on and go out to retrieve them. Both her and Molly are soaked so I bundle them backstage and, as is customary in mine and Ade's dressing room, tea-making facilities are now de rigeur, so they have a brew and dry off. Ade and I strum away on our ukeleles and idly blather about the band we could form so we can do this more often. My suggestion is that we call ourselves Tribute Version and do a gig in two halves, each being our version of a well-known album. Then at the end of the gig we take nominations for the next two we should do in a month. Ade likes this but also throws into the mix that we should only play instruments we have never played before! I blame the trumpet. Showtime has been pushed back to 8pm for the London shows and we stand around in the wings waiting to go on. Time creeps on and, as word gets back that people are still waiting to get into the venue, Neil is a bit fractious about this and is on the verge of walking out to say something to the crowd.
It's one of the things I adore about Innes is that he doesn't like rudeness, and it obviously strikes him as rude that you would keep 1,500 people waiting unnecessarily. Suddenly it's all systems go and the penultimate show starts. It's the usual hoot, but I think the nerves of the tour ending is giving a few wobbles. I totally blank on the penultimate verse of Monster. Ade forgets a verse on I'm Bored. However, as Shepherd's Bush is a standing gig he does get to crowd surf as the parrot and, this being London, the crowd are a tad more robust so he gets carried all round the room and looks fantastic doing it. As I wander out for Big Shot, one wag in the crowd shouts "Don't you do that Phill...". At the end of the song I commit the rookie mistake of saying, "A punk stopped me in the street and said, 'Excuse me, Mac'". Idiot.
We slowly start to get everything back on track and Rockaliser and Tent bring the first half to a resounding close. I have to say that, if you ever get the opportunity to play a very loud Gibson 335 in front of a baying crowd, then do grasp it, it's highly cathartic. As is also now customary Sam Spoons comes round with a Bonzo drum skin for us all to sign. At every gig he does this and he'll be putting them on eBay for charity at some point in the future. The second half speeds by and I indeed spare the crowd the prospect of my crowd surfing as Elvis during Canyons, instead opting to straddle the divide between the stage and the crowd barrier. Having to hide from the crowd when I'm dressed as Elvis means I never got to see them do Urban Spaceman once, which is a small but significant disadvantage of being part of the gig as I love Urban Spaceman. The noise at the end is tremendous as we take a bow, and after the show we all amble to the backstage bar for a beer. At the aftershow party I meet the Sardinian Bonzos who in halting English ask why we didn't do Hunting Tigers? I can only shrug and apologise. I am accosted by a lady who I can only describe as "blousy" who slurs her intention to get "absolutely slaughtered" tonight. I wish her well with her endeavours, shrug and run off. I meet another dude who has come all the way from Los Angeles. I also bump into good friend Hank Wangford who is effusive about the show. He's an old-school fan of the band, a diamond geezer and I always bathe in the grip of his sincere handshake. People bloody love this band, and who can blame them. I introduce the family to Ade, Neil and Sam Spoons who is like an arty doppelganger of my old man, so I have to get a picture of them together. All done and dusted, me and the missus and Molly wander back to the car for the drive home. Molly is so taken with the whole night that she wants to come tomorrow as well. I pull on to the drive and turn the key in the ignition. Last night of the tour tomorrow... already?
Thursday - Day Off
Up at 7.15am
Got home: 12.25pm
Watched: Deadwood - Season 2, disc 1 and disc 2; South Park - Season 8 disc 1; Daily Show coverage of mid-term elections.
Slept: 8 hours during the day
Ate: Marmite on toast, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, M&S sundried tomato stuffed chicken.
Got to sleep: 1.55am
Tuesday 14th Buzzcocks / Wednesday 15th Manchester Apollo
Getting out in the morning and getting some air, has become an oft repeated ritual on this tour, and having lost the leads for hooking up my computer to the iPod and camera gave me an excuse to get out and go shopping. The air in Edinburgh is cool and crisp, and cuts through the muzziness brought on by another late night of lager and laughter. I'm not sure exactly where this hotel is, but after ten minutes it becomes apparent that it's nowhere near any shops, so I turn back. Vernon Dudley Bowhay Noel accosts me in the lobby. This vibrant saw-playing septuagenarian has the bearing of a kindly headmaster, and seeing me in the lobby he inquires where I have been. "Nowhere sir, I'm just going to geography sir," is what I'd like to say. I stumbled straight upstairs last night as I'd assumed everybody would be in bed. Turns out Innes and a few of the others were up until 5am. While everybody plans what to do with their day off, I'm off to London for my weekly appointment with colleagues Bailey and Amstell on Never Mind The Buzzcocks. Having been on the road I have no idea who our panellists are, but it's a lively bunch. The insanely handsome John Barrowman from Torchwood, Liberty X chanteuse Kelli, comedy writer and stand-up Robin Ince and soul marvel Daniel Beddingfield. Ince is nervous but very keen to have a go, which is nice and Beddingfield is like Tigger on benzedrine. His boundless energy fills up the team room before recording, which is about half an hour shorter than last week which is a blessing and at ten to twelve I climb back into my own bed.
After one of the most satisfying lie-ins of my life I make breakfast for the lovely Mrs Jupitus, and we try to sort out what we're doing about the family coming to the show in London. That matter unresolved as I type, and after watching a few episodes of The Daily Show that I'd Sky-plussed it was back into a car to City Airport for the flight to Manchester. During the journey, the lady sat next to me engages me in conversation. Normally I'd harrumph my way out of a chat but, I decide to throw caution to the wind and pretend I'm interviewing her for the radio. I find out that she's about to go on the Atkins diet, is a lawyer for a hotel chain, lives in a barn conversion, has a twin sister, is going to Egypt for christmas and has a boyfriend with great legs but a beer gut. Chatting to her was delightful, and it makes me wish I was a bit less surly when I'm out and about. Landing at Manchester and sans luggage it's straight into a cab and on to the Apollo. I've played here before with the Style Council years ago, and I can't believe how big it is, 2,500 seats. Up in the dressing room, Edmondson has consumed at least six cups of tea, judging by the used bags in a cup on the side, and he appears to have come to the show on a bike. He points out that the bike is for his daughter who had hers nicked and is studying, as he did, drama at Manchester University. I have a go on his trumpet as he blasts away at the ukelele; it's a very satisfying feeling making such a big noise without using electricity.
I've invited Guy Garvey from Elbow along tonight, who is one of the loveliest people in the music business I've met, and we meet up in the pub behind the venue. The show goes very well, but for some reason, I forget to take my solo during Tent, because I'm arising around with a pipe I found in my bag trying to make Ade laugh. I realise that rock'n'roll isn't about arsing around like comedy because you have other things to do, and I make a mental note to play the f****** guitar and not act the giddy goat next time. The crowd are as ever very up for it and one delightfully dim heckler shouts "That was slick!" during the long intro to Big Shot. If you want slick, go and watch Take That. At the end as we take a bow, in the audience a gang of six punters in a row have made speech bubbles a la Roger Ruskin Spear which they hold above their heads, they all say "Marvellous!" After the gig I meet Ade's daughter who loves her bike, but the luminous waistcoat and bicycle clips less so. We go back to the pub next door where most of the band are enjoying post-gig pints. Onwards to the Curry Mile in Rusholme to the Al Bilal for a curry. Quite oddly, I get back to my room at about 2am and have to order a load of computer stuff online, I can't explain why, but it was weird to be a bit pissed and shopping for hard drives and McAfee firewall software. While I'm staring at the screen my phone goes and I answer it. At the end a voice sings "Da-da-da-dah da-da-da-da-dahhh!" It is a pissed Guy Garvey singing the horn break from Look Out There's a Monster Coming. I love this job.
Monday November 13th - Edinburgh Usher Hall
Neil Innes and I have been asked to appear on a BBC Scotland radio show, The Radio Cafe, presented by Claire English. This necessitates us being up and on the road by nine. I remember waking up just after five and seeing the view of the city in the glow of dawn, thinking it would make an amazing photo, then passing out. My room is utterly covered in all my crap. I am living out of a huge suitcase which is mostly filled with my Apple stereo dock for my iPod. I do so love to have decent music when I'm staying in hotels. Somehow I get all the stuff back into the various bags and then stumble to the lobby. As I'm packing, I find a rather lovely jacket that isn't mine, and remember that last night I drunkenly swapped it for my "More Cowbell" T-shirt with a young man who should frankly know better. The jacket is destined for one of my daughters, the "More Cowbell" T-shirt cost me about 18 dollars from a website called bustedtees.com.
Peter Jackson and tour angel Scot Chu - whose mum I met last night, lovely lady! - load me and Neil into the car and we tear north for our engagement. Innes is constantly observing life around him; I hear him chuckle at a shop sign that says "The Tempting Tattie". We check in to our hotel and, as always when I travel through Edinburgh, all the drunken nights come flooding back, with every familiar pub sign, doorway and gutter. Neil and I arrive at the BBC to be told we're not due on air for 40 minutes which is a touch frustrating. Innes doodles away at a sudoku, and I read a story in The Guardian about a dad who can't cope with his swearing, criminal and now pregnant 16 year old. I shudder and eventually we wander into Claire's studio. She's one of these Scottish women who exude good health. She glows while Neil and I sit and await our grilling. It's a beautifully conducted interview with, nicely selected clips and a great deal of fun, which will hopefully put a few more bums on seats tonight. In the afternoon I'm away to Leith for tea at Katy's house. Katy is a dear friend who I've known since my time on the road with the Housemartins. She makes me tea and then with great forbearance listens to me laying on her sofa and whining about how tired I am.
