The previous night's gig in Northampton was worth the soup, because we play this one almost faultlessly. People are more than kind and want two encores, but they only get one, mainly because Dave has thrown all his sticks away to avoid an imminent seizure. People say things like how they had forgotten how good we were. I resist the urge to tell them that we are better now than we ever were back then, but why spoil the moment? The evening of course is completely shag free as is usual for The Shapes, but there is two for one pizza available in the one place left open when we finally get out of the place, so we declare victory and piss off sharpish before we wear out our welcome.
It's fucking freezing with frost everywhere and we are to follow the van with all our gear back to Northampton. Despite there being nothing on the road at that time of night, we manage to follow a complete different van and get lost.
The only people more confused by this was the van we were following as to why he was being tailed by a motorized roller skate filled with pizza. After a nice sojourn in the middle of fucking nowhere we arrive back just in time to miss loading all the gear into the studio. We tell Dave about our adventure, but he doesn't seem to believe us. I suspect he thinks we did it deliberately to avoid moving the gear. The next gig is in Hastings on the south coast in two days time, so we all decamp the next day to meet up there.
Hastings, as I've already mentioned is a little coastal town in the south of England, and is now the hometown of the great Seymour Bybuss. We will be playing a venue called The Crypt. It's aptly named, as it's under ground, dank, and probably contains dead bodies. It's freezing cold in there too, and this is about to sow the seeds of some problems later. We are to be supported by local bands To The Moon Alice, and The Inconsolables. The Inconsolables are in fact so Inconsolable that they lack the will to turn up, so it's just the two bands. We are told that although there is no soup, there is a free bar and sandwiches, so we repair to abuse the privilege forthwith.
We go on late in the evening and do rather nicely. We get filmed for some documentary or other, and I get filmed talking about something or other, although because of the free bar, I'm not entirely sure what about. I was too busy trying not to throw up the 15 pounds of free sandwiches that I'd eaten. Off to the bar again to find out that the free bar stopped just as soon as we came off stage, so with a great wailing and gnashing of teeth, we weave off into the cold, cold night. Seriously, it was fucking freezing out there.
We have a day off before Andover, so I head back to London to go see The Rezillos the next night. The Rezillos are playing at the Academy in Islington, and for the first time ever, they play the entire of their album in order end to end. They are on fine form as always, and it's a treat to hear them again. After three encores, I weasel my way backstage for a chat with the singer Eugene, who, as you are about to learn, is like Mr. Helicopter, a vintage motorcycle fan.
So after much chat about the intricacies of the Linkert carburetor, Eugene produces William Mysterious's old Precision bass that was used on their album all those years ago. Now, it's no secret that William Mysterious was a huge influence on Mr. Helicopter, right down to the choosing of a fucking stupid name to get stuck with for three decades, so this event is similar to introducing a schoolgirl to Marc Bolan. It was rather fun to play those bass lines on that particular bass, and despite a vain attempt to smuggle the bass out in my friend's rectum, the evening ended as all fine evenings do, with a visit to the pub for restorative pints of bitter. The Rezillos, it should be noted, have released their first new single in 30 years, called No 1 boy. It's a fine track, and you should all download it immediately from this interweb thingy.
It's here -
So, it's off to Andover for the next night to play The George. It's Steve's hometown, so we expect a good turn out. However, all is not well in The Shapes camp. For once, my nausea in the morning is not a result of my drinking. Well, not entirely anyway. It appears that others are also affected similarly. The plan of touring entirely naked in subzero temperatures in a vain attempt to grab publicity has backfired, as The Shapes are beset by the Dreaded Lurgy. Seymour can barely speak, so it's decided that we have to cancel the gig to give ourselves a day to recover. Steve's asthma is also kicking in, but I suspect that being closer to the ground than the rest of us, he hoovers up more dust. Despite the town of Andover getting a reprieve from our nonsense, we promise to return at the first available opportunity. We don't mention however, that on our present touring schedule, it will be in another 28 years, by which time, we'll definitely be playing for soup, as we won't be able to gum anything else down, and instead of playing the drums, Dave will be forced to tap along on the side of his iron lung. We all go to our little beds to recover and to take whatever herbal remedies we enjoy to fight off the Lurgy. My preferred method is to try to kill it with vindaloo and London Pride bitter. It may not get rid of the cold, but it sure as hell makes you afraid to sneeze that's for sure.
So the next day rolls around, and The Shapes, if not fighting fit, are at least up for one more round. It's the big one too, as it's the Rebellion Festival at the London Kentish Town Forum. We are sharing the stage with all the best and brightest of the punk elite. The Radio Stars, The UK Subs, Penetration, 999, The Damned and if he bothers to turn up, Johnny Moped.