So the day finally dawns that I have to get my arse down to the San Francisco International Airport with all my shit. I have a nice Anvil flight case for my bass, which weighs about the same as the car I drove down there in. I have to check it in to oversize luggage and answer endless stupid questions from security, like "what is it?" I'm tempted to say, "it's a chicken", but I'd still be there now if I did. Finally I get the bass checked in and hope that as I see it go off on the conveyor, it's not for the last time. I shall spare you the details of my Transatlantic flight, because it's just as dull as you might imagine it to be, although I will point out that there seems to be an agreement between all the major airlines to make you watch Mama Mia as many times as possible.
I mean, that fucking movie has been on every plane I've been on in the last six months. If you really want see Meryl Streep strangle ABBA tunes in a confined space with coughing, farting morons, then you know what to do. And they wonder why people rip off their clothes and start flinging poo on planes.
So into London we go. My bass is helpfully left in the middle of the baggage hall so that I can have a nice search for it and for once, I'm not pulled over by customs. It's been nearly 16 years since I was in England in December, and as soon as I step outside, I remember why. It's crap, that's why. It's about 1 degree Celsius and pissing down. If I remember correctly, this will cease for two days sometime in August. Off to the car rental place toute suite I think, where I pick up a car that is exactly the same size and horsepower as a roller skate. Everyone else seems to be driving them too. When the hell did this all happen? At least I can look down my nose at Smart Cars still. For those of you that are not familiar with Smart Cars, they are essentially the pantomime horse of vehicles. If you're not familiar with pantomime horses, they are the Smart Cars of lowbrow theatrical entertainment. There you go.
Anyway, a nice drive through the sleet to Northampton is in order. This is where The Shapes shall convene for the first time in 28 years. Northampton is a town once famous for being the centre of the British shoe industry. However, it is now famous for being shit. Anyway, after being up for 36 hours straight, I'm damn glad to get there to find that Dave is out. Oh well, I suppose that I only do pop around once every quarter of a century. After a small detour to find a phone, I gain entrance with a key that's been left out for me and promptly fall unconscious, but not before I accidentally walk in on Dave's teenage daughter in a state of undress, which was nice. My joy at this was only eclipsed by hers at seeing a complete stranger wander into her room unannounced. Oh how we laughed.
It's been over 25 years since I've seen Dave, and his email address handle is bald_fat_bloke. I'm glad to say that there's truth in advertising, as here indeed is a bald fat bloke coming up the front steps.
It's either Dave, or another stranger coming to traumatize his daughter. Indeed it is the man himself and we therefore celebrate in the traditional manner, by putting on the kettle for a nice cup of tea like the rock and roll bitches we are. We then catch up. It doesn't take long, as Dave is still drinking, chain smoking and swearing, just as he was when I last saw him. All there is to do now is to wait for the others to show up.
Next to arrive is Steve who arrives in a car that if it doesn't shriek, "I have a tiny penis", it at least mutters it under its breath. I wait for him to get out of it, and then after a short period of time, I realize that he already has.
Then shortly after, Seymour and Tim arrive in Seymour's elegantly appointed Volvo. Tim looks every bit as excited about the whole adventure as I thought he would be. In fact he looks like he's been tranquilized for the journey. At last all five Shapes are together in one place for the first time in 28 years. At least a fight hasn't broken out yet, but it's still early in the evening. We celebrate with tea and buns and a visit to the local hostelry, where I put on Rolf Harris tunes on the jukebox, and where despite our best intentions to catch an early night so we'll all be fresh to rehearse the next day, no one gets to bed before 2:00 a.m.
The next day dawns and we're all up at the crack of noon, sitting around doing nothing in particular when the phone rings. It's the venue that we're supposed to be playing that very night asking what time we'll be turning up and playing. This reminds us all that we should probably rehearse as it's about five hours until we're supposed to be there, and we, as befits The Shapes, have done fuck all to prepare for it. It's therefore off to the studio for the moment of truth, because if we can't get it together in the short time that we have, it's going to be a train wreck.
We set up the gear, and with a deep breath, launch into the set opener, the unreleased third single, "Let's Go (to planet Skaro)". It's surprisingly tight, and we start and end it at the same time. This is surely pure coincidence, so we move on to "College Girls" which I insist is early in the set because it doesn't get any easier to play the more I drink, and I certainly am intending to drink. It goes by without incident. So we move on through the set song by song, and apart from Dave looking as though he's about to have a cardiac event during Bedtime Story, it's not only sounding good, it's sounding considerably better than it did 28 years ago. I suspect that going away to practice for nearly three decades might have something to do with it. We do the whole set once, and celebrate with a nice cup of tea. Whooo, rock and roll. We do the set another twice, once to see if we can do it again, and once more to see if we can kill Dave, and then it's off to the venue.