Nottingham: Nice club. Nothing amiss. Things seem A OK. The Sheriff of Nottingham notwithstanding. Oh I mean that and the fact that Satan is afoot.

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT? YES I AM THE SHERIFF OF NOTTINGHAM!! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LAUGHING ABOUT?!?!?

The promoter, whose name I forget of course, is a great guy. Great. And I have this amusing sensation that I imagine stand up comedians must get where I think/feel that he's just gonna wait for something "HILARIOUS" to happen because we are so fucking wacky and well goddamn it, I know it's afoot. I mean I READ about it. And so I amusedly watch him all night and when I ask him to pass the salt I say "please" and "thank you" but he's not fooled and his unflagging good mood is infectious. Or I mean it would be if I wasn't insane.

ANY...SECOND...NOW...HE'S GOING TO JUST FUCKING BLOW

Anyways, the bands opening before us have obviously read the same press and while I watch the Jeff Goldblum-esque singer for the support band play and disrobe and drool I wonder when it was that I wondered how long it would take before the sincerest form of flattery had touched our heads.

Let's see. So far the bands I've counted that have ridden my personal angst, suffering and insoluble emotional difficulty into fame, fortune and possible infamy have been

1) 54-71: the Japanese band who though we stole their manager and the singer's girlfriend managed to get signed to Sony and are now riding around Tokyo in limos
2) Baton: the French group whose lead singer is the great photographer Richard Compte. Baton is now defunct.
3) Knut: have no idea where these guys are from but they've heavily borrowed from my choice of stage apparel. In return homage I wear their t-shirts.
4) Metallica: Oh yeah. I'm sure. They came up with that Marianne Faithfull idea ALL on their own just a mere 11 months after we did. In all fairness Metallica had arrived before they started raping our exquisite corpse and
5) These guys.

I want to tell him about THAT FACE Syndrome and that after awhile it won't what he's doing but who he is that's changing but fuck it. He'll figure it out on his own.

But then things get interesting.

These two girls walk in, see me, confer with each other and CASUALLY come, out of all the seats in this swank club, to sit right next to me.

Over the music and the screaming they ask me

"what are you reading?"

"About Stalin and Hitler."

Silence.

But from inauspicious beginnings strange things get stranger..

"My brother told me to come to see OXBOW."

"Have you seen OXBOW before?"

"No. But he told us to stand real close."

MY BROTHER IS THE ONE WITH THE KNIFE

And I'm watching them and they're all tricked out in the latest finery and I start to think that they don't KNOW that I sing for OXBOW and so I'm sort of flattered but then there's that conversational moment wherein it's revealed that they KNOW it's me and then things get stranger.

"I'm 17."

OK. And she adjusts her fulsome breasts and smiles at me, while her friend smiles at me as well and I start to suspect Vice Squad. I mean really. No amount of egomania will lead me to believe that a threesome is afoot with these women after which I won't be immediately dragged to hell by either the Sheriff of Nottingham or Satan himself. It's not that I'm not a REAL ego maniac. It's just that I know OXBOW too well.

I excuse myself to never return.

But during the show they ARE standing up front but those British crowds that we love so much are starting in, glass is breaking, guys are fighting each other, screaming, shouting, cheering and to join in the fun I jump down into the melee and I feel some hands tracing their way down my back and I turn and it's THE GREATEST MAN ALIVE'S sister and her friend and they're sandwiching me and I'm about to start turning the OXBOW show into a SAUSAGE show before they stumble me sideways into our stage incense that burn a tunnel into my gut an inch deep. And I scream and they disappear and finally the noise stops screaming and we're standing on the sidewalk in front of The Social hearing, probably not for the first time, that we have to drive all night to get to the Ferry so that we can get to Ireland.

THERE. THAT'S MY CUE. Another long trip, another mystery pill, another 7 hours of godknowswhat.