Culture Show… oh god.

Quick preamble because it’s a red letter day: Monmouth Coffee has finally reached Brighton, albeit in a small way. Coffee@33, so fresh on Trafalgar Street they don’t have a business card or website yet, is using Monmouth’s espresso blend and - joy of joys - they reckon they can sell me a kilo of any Monmouth single estate beans/grind without a mark-up, if I give them a week’s notice. Trafalgar Street is notoriously tough to crack, so if you’re a Brighton coffee ponce and want to taste something to compete with Red Roaster (well, better than really, though in not such nice surroundings), check it out and, once you’ve seen the light, encourage them to train down the whole range.

I know I’ve got on the Culture Show’s arse before in The Morning Star about their overall turdiness but this week takes the fucking biscuit. I was so excited about the David Simon interview. The Wire sits alongside The West Wing as my favourite TV ever and those in the know will agree, Simon is not only one of the finest television writers but has revitalised the whole art. Well…

“…he now stands accused of breaking the laws of writing for TV. David Simon has been detained by The Culture Show for questioning.” 

Geddit!?

Yes, Lauren Laverne does the eight-minute interview (with heavy clips, so less than two minutes of actual insight from the subject) in a mock-up Police interview room, using a cassette of ‘controversial’ statements and challenging him on ‘breaking TV writing laws’. For fuckedy-fuckedy-fuck’s sakes!

Laverne: “We’ve intercepted a few of your communications… That is your voice on that tape… Can you explain yourself?”

Cripes chief, can someone put the programme-makers out of my misery?

Simon patiently plays along (“This may be something you’ll have to lock me up for…”) but, Christ, I wish he’d pulled rank and told them to fuck right off. The man had fascinating, probably important themes to develop, if they’d only let him.

“Wherever an institution has been given free sway, it has devoured individuals.” 

Yesterday I watched the first episode of Generation Kill, new HBO mini-series based on the book by Rolling Stone journo Evan Wright, who was ‘embedded’ with US marines during the invasion of Iraq. Adapted by Ed Burns and David Simon, it is vivid, downbeat, realistic, without over-embellishment and, so far, bloody brilliant. They are reaching toward truth - and can TV drama do any more than that? 

Surprise, no mention of this series in the interview. And since the only actual Wire plug was Season 5 starting on the FX Channel, it makes me wonder if the BBC has bought the rights to show the whole of The Wire from Season 1 in the near future and was getting some early familiarisation in, without telling us. At least that would be cash well spent.

The thing is, like Mark Kermode, who is one of the best critics on telly, Lauren Laverne’s no gimp, she can run a show and pull off a heavyweight interview when needs be. The Chris Addison chat in the same show is absolutely fine. Now she has to face whichever monkeys are throwing out shit idea after shit idea and stand them down. It’s time to climb off the gimmicks. This was the first time I’ve seen David Simon on British TV, though admittedly I haven’t gone looking. Now wouldn’t it have been fantastic if it was a straightforward lengthy and detailed interview. I’m tired of your weak shit!

By the way, same programme: if you take a talented folksy sounding new band (Clare & The Reasons) and give them their first TV exposure, please give us a teensy bit of background and PLEASE let them sing one of their own fucking songs, instead of a Tears For Fears cover given a sub Michael Andrews acoustica treatment. And could we have more homegrown bands please, instead of obsessing with already-signed American acts?

Honestly, someone should give me a TV channel.

 

sin causes burning lips

Most of what happened last night was excellent and still being processed. But I’ve just got to tell you this:

Last night, around midnight in SIN nightclub (that used to be Rouge) in central London, just as I was about to jump onstage to play piano with Frank, I bought a pint of orange juice and lemonade from the bar (£3). There’d been no water left in the dressing room by the time I got there (I guess a lot of bands went through that place last night and ours was the last set).

Anyway, my drink came in a plastic pint glass. I took a couple of big gulps before realising it tasted almost entirely of disinfectant. Then I smelled the glass and fuck me it stank! I didn’t have time to complain because of the impending gig and rammed bar, so I slammed it down and went on. It wasn’t in my imagination though, my friend Mel smelled the cup for me (!) and confirmed it was awful.

Then within seconds, halfway through the first song, my lips were burning.

This morning, my lips sting like fuck, a bit like when you’ve got really bad chapped lips from cold or hot weather. Cunts. Makes me nervous about what I swallowed - and you won’t find me saying that often.

tour-itis pt 1

We’ve parked the van at Bristol Temple Meads railway station and we’re hanging out, waiting for Thomas, who stayed with The Mission and Magic Numbers’ manager George last night. Jen is idly watching pigeons mooch around, when suddenly she starts, making a “euch!” noise. She’s just seen a pigeon get caught under the edge of a taxi wheel and squidged onto the road. The other pigeons ignore it, except for the dead pigeon’s girlfriend, who is stood frozen still, staring at the body. Then another taxi wheel rolls in front of the corpse, momentarily obscuring it from its transfixed partner, who immediately forgets it happened and wanders off, pecking at the tarmac. Out of sight, out of mind. Then, down flies a seagull and tries to carry off the pigeon’s body, but it’s too heavy, so the seagull drags it around the car park, trying to get as far from people and other seagulls as possible, eating big chunks of pigeon as it goes. I’ve got some super-gross footage of it.

Anyway, up by the taxi rank there’s a signpost that says: “Do not feed the pigeons or the seagulls. Let nature look after itself.”

After Bristol we’re at Matt Eaton’s in Stroud, though he’s on holiday with Alice on some Scotch island. I finally score a copy of Finish Your Chips, which is a quiet masterpiece. Richard Harris should’ve heard this album. Also, wondrous and for too long inactive Brighton band The Tenderfoot are staying as well to use the studio downstairs. They seem to be distracted from music-making by Seinfeld DVDs though - and so are we, to the point where leaving is dragging out til just the end of the next episode.

After Birmingham Glee Club we’re put up by Tom’s friends/fans Roy and Debbie of Tinternetradio.com in Tamworth. It’s an impressive, slick Midlands online broadcasting operation run out of their garage, which has been done up to a pro standard. They do that cool thing of combining a sweet family domestic life (me and Jen stay in their daughters’ room which is Bratz To The Max), yet they ain’t forgotten how to party - half the gang are still up at 5am and we get through a serious amount of Roy’s brandy before flaking out. The morning brings a mint (as in lovely, not mint-flavoured) omelette, followed by a messy messy interview for the radio.

In Cardiff I can’t find anywhere to park. I drive around in a rage for 40 minutes and end up in the Civic Hall, miles from the venue. They need to sort out that alley! Black Kids are upstairs and it’s sold out, except that when Thomas pops up there, apparently the sound is awful and there’s people leaving. Tough on a band to be so hyped that you have an audience who predominantly don’t know yet if they actually like you. I thought Myspace got rid of that - but no, nothing defeats the desire to fit in. No dis to Black Kids though, I’ve not heard them live, they might be wicked. Also I get a warm feeling when I notice they’re in one of Tarrant’s vans. Looks well swish.

Afterwards we’re put up by David Mysterious and our old friend Welsh Tim. Except it doesn’t quite work, calling Welsh Tim “Welsh Tim” when you’re actually in Wales, since everyone else is Welsh too. Here, he’s just Tim. David is an ace bilingual psyche-folk artist from the same Aberwystwyth antifolktronica clique that produced Pagan Wanderer Lu and he only just moved down to Cardiff two days ago, which is problematic because he doesn’t know where he lives yet. He’s a sweetheart with William Hague’s laugh, though he won’t thank me for saying so. I like William Hague’s laugh… The next morning we have the finest breakfast of the tour (in fact the finest since that hotel on the A1 two months ago and possibly better) at a café opposite one of Cardiff’s tertiary colleges. Welsh Tim, if you read this, what was the café called?

I hate the bilingual road signs in Wales. I know the Welsh language is being culturally regenerated at great effort and expense (and fair play to that) but the problem is, when you read a road sign you need to interpret it very fast in your brain, while doing several other things at the same time (and remaining in control of a half-ton piece of metal hurtling along at high speed). Bilingual road signs trick your brain into briefly trying to interpret what the second bit means - while for a split second generating enormous adrenalin, because your subconscious thinks that there’s something you ‘need to know’ that you haven’t understood yet. Then - every single time - your consciousness catches up a split second later that it’s just the Welsh version of the same information. Thing is, it doesn’t matter how much you drum into yourself while driving that these are bilingual signs, the brain goes through the same, immensely irritating, process, over and over.

I’ll challenge any scientist to tell me that doesn’t happen. And unlike, say, California, where there’s a large Spanish-speaking population that doesn’t speak English and needs information in Spanish, in Wales there’s not a single non-English speaker left alive. So the roadside imposition of bilingualism is purely a cultural statement and in practical terms utterly unnecessary. Fuck you Wales, for your insistance on making the roads a tiny bit more dangerous for reasons of pride! I’d rather the signs were JUST in Welsh and us Englishers had to learn the familiarity of language to get about - at least we’d know in advance that was the score. But of course, Plaid Cymru couldn’t stay out of bed with New Labour when it came down to it, so you don’t even have a proper SNP-type thing going on. Look at Scotland, they’re not bothered so much about Gaelic and they’ll be independent in a few years, if the Tories get in in Westminster!

Ahem.

In Wolverhampton, the Little Civic smells of sick. It really does, I know venues are traditionally stinky places (and, if anything, got worse since the smoking ban) but the Civ really properly smells, til you almost gag. We were also nervous on arrival because there were 3 support acts listed and me and Thomas were each only allocated 25 minutes. Luckily the rep Juliet is well on the ball and sorts things out toot-sweet, squeezing the timings up without having to kick anyone off. Nice.

The smell is offset by seriously one of the best curries any of us have ever eaten, when we splash out and go to Bangladeshi heaven Bilash up the road, on Jon Clayton’s texted recommendation. As usual where food is concerned, and even when he’s not on tour with us, Jon is Prince of Rightness. I can’t praise their ochre (sp?) or their paneer dishes highly enough, Ben argues persuasively that the special pilau is the best rice ever and the fresh mango lassi is spectacular. The tour party contains several good chefs (both Thomas and Johny boff on about food preparation quite a lot and Johny does it for money) and we’re all blown away.

the meat trade

Having a fun time on tour, to the extent that me and Thomas have vaguely talked about taking it to the USA in autumn - now that would be wicked. So far on this tour I’ve seen 9 lizards of one kind or another, which must be a record.

In Glasgow we managed to lock the keys in the van - left them still in the ignition! This was because the key had a hairline crack, so we’d got in the habit of locking and unlocking doors from the inside, to reduce wear until we had a chance to get a couple new keys made. After swearing quite a lot and getting nowhere with the AA, we just left the van outside the house overnight (you couldn’t see the key in the dark and it was a posh area), then I got up at 5.45am to watch the van til we could phone a mobile locksmith. £45 later, we were rescued - and of course it took him about 15 seconds to get in, with one of those scary locksmith devices.

Then we went and got new keys cut. We were told that the key cutting man used to be an infamous local pimp before retiring into ironmongery. What a career change!

So it’s a week later and, during our day off, I catch up on laundry and watch some films. Across town, Thomas makes a gourmet meat paté from a Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall book. Thomas White is a meat freak, people… he’s got a dream and it involves a whole pig’s head. I suggest (how good an idea is this!?) that we cut the paté into manageable slices, clingfilm it up, put a sticker on it saying “Thomas White Paté” and sell it on the merch. That would SO rule, at least for the few days before it went off in the van.

What is it with classic fantasy literature being ruined by shitty films? It grinds my gears! Watched The Golden Compass and Studio Ghibli’s dismally embarrassing attempt at Tales From Earthsea in the last few days and they both need someone to get a severe beating for their sheer shiteness. Goro Miyazaki (son of their legendary master Hayao Miyazaki) is simply not up to the job. I can see why Ursula Le Guin was so uncomfortable with the cartoonised Earthsea - I wonder where Pullman stands on The Golden Compass.

When we were kids, our house had a ban on any Disney cartoons that adapted (read: ‘fucked up bigtime’) classic books, like Winnie-The-Pooh and The Jungle Book. Good move T-T Snrs, I’ll be carrying that one forward if I ever have sprogs of my own. There’s honestly not much worse in the world than a Walt Disney re-imagining of Winnie-The-Pooh, it’s on a par with Robert Mugabe or those idiots in Burma.

Tour diary #2 - laterooms.co.uk

I want to compare two laterooms.co.uk bookings of last week.

First there’s the Classic House Hotel in Edinburgh. Kitted out nicely like a vintage austere Scottish B&B, it could’ve been well sweet but unfortunately the place stinks. A supremely grumpy landlady, truly piss-poor shower (the word ’shower’ breaks trade descriptions it was a ‘dribble’), a continual sense of fish in the air, a TV that didn’t work and a mere 8.30am-9am half-hour window for breakfast add up to a clear vibe that they don’t want us there. Three stars on the door meant nothing.

“Baconandeggs.” says the landlady, using one word and no question-mark. “Um, I’ll just have eggs please.” says me. Then what arrives is one fried egg, a small cheap sausage (huh?), half a raw tomato and an enormous sprig of parsley. It’s almost like a contemporary piece of art mocking the concept of cooked breakfast. Thank god for cornflakes and an extra round of toast on request. “Oh… well, alright then!”

Even the snow falling in the lovely little back garden can’t improve matters. In their guestbook comments section (filled with stuff like “chilly reception” and “not satisfied” - yet they’ve still got the book out on display), Johny writes a single word: ‘mackerel’.

Secondly, it’s the following night, after York, and we’re in the Bridge Inn on the A1 near Wetherby. This time the rooms are spotless and fantastically comfortable with enormous bathrooms and power showers. The welcome is warm (they’re happy to check us in after midnight at short notice) and the breakfast is almost impossibly brilliant. It’s like a luxury resort in the far east. You know; a buffet of every imaginable brekkie from porridge and fruit salad to full english and cooked meats. There’s even one of those crazy egg bars where they cook them in front of you, which I’ve only seen in Malaysia and India. Johny and Ben make it up early enough to have a three-course breakfast. I’m briefly terrified I’ll get billed an extra £50 but no, of course it’s all included.

Turns out this place caters primarily for huge conferences so, just as we leave, thousands of excited suits arrive for their insane sweaty 3-day sex and booze binge with (possibly) some corporate showcases shoehorned between.

To conclude: the latter booking was £15 cheaper than the former. And at £45 a room, the Bridge Inn came in well under Premier Inn (or even short-notice Travelodge) prices. Fuckedy sploo. Interestingly I’ve just looked at a website for the shite Edinburgh place and they’re advertising rooms actually cheaper than they had on Late Rooms, so not only are they horrible but they’re tricking people into thinking that they’re getting a bargain on a good place, when actually it’s just cheapo cheap. Tards!

Tour diary #1 - a house full of crisps

Settling into it.

One advantage with having a lovely Big Proper Booking Agent is you tend to get an actual rider, instead of someone dragging out 24 cheap lagers and some Coke. The upside of that is the bottle of whiskey we scored in Birmingham. The downside (relatively… well, no, actually it’s another upside) is my house is now full of crisps. I could eat a pack twice a week for a year and we’re still only 3 shows in. Maybe we should make like China Drum did in the 90s and throw a party after the tour to feed everyone Walkers cheese and onion.

By the way, before I start, should mention I had a letter from Brighton Council about my last entry but, despite shrill tone, they don’t say anything worth repeating. Legalese / splitting hairs aside, they’re a bunch of culture-crippling farters. Anyway…

Jenny drove us from Brighton to Oldham by 3pm for a radio session, during which I broke a string. Impressive driving.

In Manchester we liked the venue so much we went back for breakfast. Trick came out and also top composer and old friend Ian Vine and his missus flautist Jen stayed out late drinking, so the nervous first night of the tour felt like a proper one straight away. Jen can identify single malt scotches by smell, to a startling degree for a well-spoken American. Starfighterpilot finally made it to a show, which was nice, except we didn’t get a chance to chat properly. And Jimmy Doherty - but he couldn’t talk at all, silenced by laryngitus and trying to write everything on a notepad.

In Birmingham, the Academy’s safety barriers (in front of the stage) were so tall - and support act Lucy & The Caterpillar is so tiny - that you could only see her head poking over the top, as she sang her songs about homemade stuffed-toy owls and meeting boys at Kings Cross Station. Sweet. Ben Calvert opened. Both were very good but having two acoustic acts on made the atmosphere slightly too ’songwriter club’ rarified for my taste. Lucky the (small) crowd was lovely and dealt with the shift in volume. Ended up doing solo encores on the floor and did Hedgehog Song by request, which is an odd thing to close with. I wish Lucy had heard it because she does animal songs too.

First signs are, people really like the ‘Fighting Fire’ t-shirts, which is a relief.

We stayed at an Etap. It’s a French version of Travelodge I guess. The rooms are like pods - the family room has a child’s bunkbed horizontally above the double-bed. Then there’s the shower, which opens right out into the bedroom rather than having a bathroom of its own. Johny loved it but I won’t be going back. I’m sharing a hotel room with a woman who isn’t my wife - I don’t want it to be tiny.

Awesome Danish band Efterklang were there, so we said excited hellos (I DJed at one of their Brighton shows a couple of years ago and they know my friend Shaun, who is promoting their next Brighton date) but they were having a tough time: one member was sent home by UK immigration, so they’ve had to cancel a gig and hole up in Brum to re-rehearse as a seven-piece.

Meanwhile they were somewhat dazed outside the Etap at 1am, having gotten tangled up with some dodgy goings-on. Basically, a bunch of local lads had booked rooms and were trying to smuggle in hookers by getting people to take the ir room cards out to them. It already smelled hairy when we arrived and half an hour later the police were on site.

Heading to Bath the next day, we stopped in Tewkesbury to look at the Abbey. Lunch in a lush little tea-room called Crumpets, turned out to be their first day open since being flooded out last summer. All of Tewkesbury was near drowned and the Abbey became an island. They have a plaque showing the height of the water and journalists kept coming by to interview them - they got booked for local TV news the next day. Food was delicious (I got laughed at for bottling out of the cream tea - but the rest of my band can get away with cream teas much better than me).

And in Bath, Moles Club was well nice. Promoter Steve and his mate Al were the best gig DJs I’ve heard for a long time, spinning vintage Springsteen up against Two Gallants. Support was Jay Jay Pistolet (stronger songs than I was expecting, pretty damn good) and a terrific rockabilly trio, whose name I never found out.

Just as we’re supposed to go on I have a mini freakout. Earlier, at the end of soundcheck, we were filmed doing ‘4am’ for the venue website. At the end of the song I broke a string - but I had to go straight off to film an interview. And (aarrgh!) I forgot to fix the string. So just as I was setting up to play, I realised I had to replace the top E. That delayed the start and then I immediately snapped a different string during the first song. Thank god Matt Eaton was there to change it, while we did ‘7 Hearts’ (which uses the acoustic guitar). Must work out better contingencies, or source a second guitar!

Finally, a knackering drive all the way back to Brighton in the rain for Jen, who showed more pluck than many would muster: we didn’t even leave the venue til after midnight and it pissed down.

By the way, during this leg of gigging I found out that publishing corporation Newsquest has axed our local culture magazine The Brighton Source, which is A) a dreadful thing for many reasons and B) means my porn article may not see the light of day. Gutted x1000 and I’ll write more about this when I find out firm enough details not to libel anyone.

porn, curry and the seaside

I just took my lunchbreak on the beach in the storm and it was outstanding. The pier is shut and the seafront is trashed. There’s bits of plank and rubbish everywhere, with the tidal line of gunk right up by the wall, so the sea has swamped the whole beach at points, way further up than I’ve ever seen. Some kids walked out along the jutting stone cob which has the doughnut statue on it. Then they got utterly sploshed by massive waves, knocked to the ground and left crawling and running away on the ground. I went down to beach level and hung out in what they call the ‘artists quarter’, partially sheltered from the wind and rain but with a worm’s-eye-view of the sea. Magic.

Unfortunately I had some interviews scheduled but my phone was dead - normally it works fine on the seafront, so I guess the storm killed the signal. Now I’m playing interview catch-up.

I’ve been smelling of Indian spices in a disconcerting way. To celebrate my in-laws’ wedding anniversary, we went for a lush meal at Tamarind in Mayfair, which is one of the poshest Asian restaurants I’ve ever been to. The food was delicious and we had a lot of fun. The only thing is, they don’t have a specificially vegetarian main. I’m sure they’ll do all the mains meat-free if you ask, like any place worth its salt, but for some reason I didn’t have the nous to ask, so instead of picking a main, I went for two different side dishes. I had sag paneer and something with new potatoes.

Now I’m guessing here, but I reckon they delicately flavour the main dishes to seal their reputation for subtlety and complexity of flavour, but then, erm, ‘robustly’ flavour the side dishes, so if you eat a main and a side you get a perfect balance of strength and subtlety. Yup, what I’m trying to say is, these two side dishes kicked my arse and I’ve smelled of cumin and turmeric for two days.

Not complaining. The only negative thing was, their lassis are definitely not as good as Kastoori in Tooting, who do the best sweet lassi in London.

The other odd thing I did over this weekend was watched pornography for the first time ever. The local magazine I write for occasionally, Brighton Source, have a regular feature where people do something new, that they haven’t tried before. They aim to go outside comfort zones. The editor James has had colonic irrigation and broken bones snowboarding, plus he’s getting a tattoo in the name of journalism in the near future. Not wanting to let the side down, porn was an obvious choice. Having never seen any before, I’ve now ploughed through a whole range of filthy nonsense in one afternoon. Won’t be doing that again in a hurry! Obviously I’ve got lots to say about it now but I’ll save conclusions for the article.

flying Virgin

I gave Virgin Atlantic a second chance because the film selection is so good and because I have fantasies about being in their Upper Class Club or whatever it’s called. Last time, they gave us vegan options instead of the veggie options we’d pre-ordered - and acted snotty about it - but I slightly thought Rifa had ticked the wrong box (or secretly done it on purpose so we’d eat healthier), so maybe it was worth another go. But no, it’s them, I was super-careful but they’ve got some internal communication fuckup about the meals. It’s complicated because everyone on the flight gets a veggie option anyway (until they run out) so perhaps if you pre-order anything, they get offended.

It’s a noble cause but you can’t imagine anything more heartbreaking than vegan aeroplane food. No puddings, for a start.

They were snotty again, too, after plonking the wrong pile of raw veg and (euch! euch! euch!) bulgar in front of me - and wouldn’t let me have the normal veggie food being offered to everyone else. How stupid to care enough about veggie food that you pre-order, only to lose out to people who’re only eating veggie because they “don’t like the smell of the beef”.

I had to wait and see whether there were any veggie meals left after everyone else on the plane had been fed. Finally, I was given a cold “premium economy” mash potato, with the cabin crew acting like they’d done me a favour - but where were the peripherals?! It’s all about the cheese and crackers and… where was my fucking Gü pudding? That’s now three Gü puddings Virgin Atlantic have ripped me off of in six weeks.

Anyway, later on they offered everyone a hot wrap and I had the spinach and ricotta - finally something nice to eat. Later still, I was given a cold dry salad wrap when nobody else was eating and, although it looked a bit euch, thought “Finally, I’ve got a bonus, I’ve got the vegan wrap as well as the veggie one,” so without thinking I ate it. But two minutes later the trollies rolled out and I realised I’d eaten my vegan “light meal” and would miss out on the veggie one, which was delicious looking sandwiches and a chocolate fucking cookie. Can you feel my anger? I tried to hide my tray and all the accoutrements down the back of the seat but the woman knew I’d been ‘fed’ already and wouldn’t give me any sarnies. Then I was going to bleep them and demand the chocolate cookie but I realised the sweet old lady two seats from me had left hers and, if I tried to ask them, she’d immediately offer it to me, which would defeat the object, so I gave up and landed in Los Angeles cookie-less.

I’m cancelling my meal booking and, flying home, I’ll deny any knowledge of pre-booked food and refuse the tray, if they try to throw fruit salad at me. Then I’m going to ask for extra everythings, bleep them every hour, and see what happens.

Watched Michael Clayton, it’s a slow burn but punches you hard, Clooney is quietly brilliant and it feels so real, even as it veers towards being a thriller. Also watched the I For India doc, which Rifa recommended, and it’s this beautiful, sweet film built from 30 years of home movies made by an Indian family, some of whom came to the UK in the 60s. They kept in touch by sending video and audio tapes. It really brings home that central heart-rending dilemma about missing family/home but not knowing where life will be better. I don’t know where you’d find it but see it if you can.

When we landed I was bricking it about coming through security, so I waffled buckets of ludicrous shit rather than being cool and remembering what I should say. Couldn’t've been more stupid, yet they just let me through with just raised eyebrows. Also I brought Sarge some coffee and on the customs form it says foodstuffs like that are illegal (actually the lines are blurry between what you can and can’t bring). I ticked the box that said no foodstuffs, then ridiculously wrote the coffee down on the other side of the form as a declared gift! There was no time to redo it, so I crossed my fingers and handed it in… and they didn’t notice, or didn’t care, so that was cool.

Meanwhile Ben, the Independent journalist who travelled out to do a feature on my tour, told the exact truth about why he’d come and got detained for 3 hours.

London to L.A.

Going to Heathrow to get a flight sucked arse, give me Gatwick every time. But we got to stay in one of those insane airport hotels which are like little separate 24 hour universes. If I’d wanted a Costa at 3am and not minded a 3 hour journey to get there, it would’ve been ace.

 

If you’ve ever watched a good disaster movie, you’ll know that it’s bad news to fly on a plane when there are nuns onboard. But we flew Virgin, so inevitably there were two nuns sitting near the back and I spent the whole flight convinced something would go dreadfully wrong. Luckily these two nuns bucked the trend and we were OK, although just as we took off, that other plane from Beijing crash-landed and they shut Heathrow, so maybe the Nun Aircrash Factor sometimes has sends its effects out to a distance. They were classic nun stereotypes: an old wise nun and a nervous young one who would’ve probably been dead hot if she was allowed to wear some lippie. At some point, absent-mindedly worrying about the nuns, I actually opened the door on a woman in the loo, who’d forgotten to lock it. She didn’t have her bits out or anything, I think she was just finishing up. She had a baby as well. I briefly imagined how cool it would’ve been if it had been one of the nuns. How often in life do you get to witness a nun taking a dump, if you’re not Russell Brand?

 

We were accidental vegans on the flight, so our food wasn’t very nice, even though Virgin do relatively tasty airline food. Everyone got veggie options but we got eight different salads and no fat. I was fine, feeling noble, til I noticed most meals had a mini Gü chocolate pudding, while we got some chilled grapes. When the next meal came I rebelled in desperation and asked if there were enough spares for me to swap my vegan meal for a normal veggie one. “No problem,” said the stewardess and promptly dropped a second tray of food onto my foldout table, without taking away the original one. Score. Now I’d got two meals, one vegan salad wrap and one veggie sandwiches which included a chocolate cookie. Obviously, Rifa immediately looked at the cookie ingredient list and spotted powdered egg to taunt me with, which, after that Jamie Oliver programme, gave me severe pangs of guilt as I ate it all up.