Stuart to swap with me as van driver and we won't be split up from them for the whole day and I won't have to do the entire drive Bristol to Brighton.
The Rat shouts out to George bloke from his bed in the back of the van "TELL HIM TO JUST FUCKING DRIVE THE VAN". I shout back at him that I'm going to do what I fuckin' well feel like - just like he does all the bloody time. Silence from the van. After a bit George calms down and apologises, saying he didn't realise that I wasn't going to do anymore driving at all. I calm down and eat some fucking breakfast, then I go into the Asda cafe round the corner and take a shite.  At least it's stopped raining.

The Asda cafe's packed with old codgers all wearing beige. Ever noticed how all old folks wear beige all the time? Keep an eye on yourself in that mirror, when you're wearing a beige coat with slacks in 'earthy-tones-of-dunn' and a pork pie hat in brown tweed with brown brogues, then Alzheimer's is on it's way and it's time to top yourself. Death before beige.

George girl and Stuart turn up at 10am.

I get to relax all the way to Brighton. The car does not have anyone smoking in it. George girl puts Radio 4 on and some classical music, and I love it. I'd normally hate this stuff, but after days and days of rock mediocrity from the bands at most gigs and constant big beat on the van stero ('til the last lot of batteries went) this is like a sweet sea breeze. I sit with my feet on the dash and drink Vitamin C and eat bio yoghurt to try and keep my voice together for the gig.

The Free Butt in Brighton is part demolished and in the middle of a building site. It's shut when we get there. We do not care. Phil the Rat looks so happy to be back here! It's the first time I've seen him look happy since the tour kicked off. Turns out that his flat's still there for him. I can't help but feel glad for him - even though I wanted to murder him twenty times over just two nights ago. George girl drives him over to a mate's house to get his keys.

Me and George bloke and Stuart wander off to a pub.

I fit in a walk on the seafront and a fish and chip supper in the same cafe that me and George girl went to when we came here for a weekend - years ago when we were still going out together - I ended up buying my current best guitar and amp. George sat patiently for hours while I tested my new gear, grinding out the crap riffs that were all I had together at the time.

I'm running short of time before soundcheck and I burn the hell out of my mouth to get over there on time.

Will, the landlord turns up and unlocks. And starts to build the stage out of the pool table, beer crates and converted pallets.  It turns out to be OK, a lot sturdier than you'd think. The place is tiny, like a big living room. The demolition job is the first stage of building an extension. There's some big drunk guy who's hanging about the place and talkin' at anyone he can get hold of. I give him a body swerve.

We're due first on out of three bands so not only do we soundcheck last, but we can't load in 'til just before souncheck. No problemo. We know what we're doing now. We set up and soundcheck in seven minutes. And then we're on.

The place is packed, there's forty people rammed in here (mainly to see Rachel's Basement who're a local band doing their first gig). We give it our all. 25 minutes, just the strongest hardest best numbers. We're all knackered and ill, but we just burn it anyway. We're playing great. We're tight at last and the feeling's really there. This is why we put up with all the shite. The crowd's into it. We give away a bunch of free singles to celebrate the end of the tour. Some Japanese guy takes three and gets George girl to sign them and give him a kiss.
Then we have to load out through the crowd and the next band coming on. We're all rushing and chuffed as hell. One great gig.
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