Yesterday I took a load of gig posters up to London to get them distributed and did an interview for Radio 2, where I gibbered nonsense for 10 minutes. They’ll edit it into something relatively normal (with luck) for Steve Lamacq’s show tonight. I was looking forward to seeing Steve (we haven’t crossed paths for a long time) but he’s on his way back from Texas.
Afterwards, I suddenly realised that every single time I’ve been asked what Capital is about, my answer has been wrong. It’s not a violent love affair where the London-at-war backdrop reflects the relationship (which is what I’ve mostly said), it’s just a fat metaphor for money. The other day, this bloke interviewing me for the Metro – perfectly nice, charming guy – opened up with: “How come Jamie T and The Streets are famous, and you’re not?” and it 100% stumped me. I can’t even remember what I answered but it was more waffley bobbins. Note to self: get some succinct fucking answers that make sense, before it’s too late!
Then after delivering the posters, somehow I fell asleep on the tube, with a bunch of CDs and my laptop lying at my feet for anyone to help themselves to if they fancied a free MacBook. Thank fuck they didn’t get stolen, though I’d’ve deserved it. No drinking or anything (though no lunch either, maybe that was it) – must’ve looked a right dick.
Today I’m not leaving the house.