Day 2: The Hangover Ritual

I’m not quite sure what happened last night, but when we got back from the Norwich gig, I must have wandered all over Mark Jones’s mansion undressing myself as I went - I found my clothes this morning, scattered throughout the many rooms of the rambling pile. Very embarrassing. I can’t remember much about the evening overall, for which I humbly apologise. I can only imagine that the keen Norfolk air blowing in from the dark, tempestuous North Sea, combined with the two or three pints of Jodrill’s Chode (a deceptively powerful local ale, ABV 11.3%) which I consumed during the course of the evening, took me unawares. Luckily, I kept detailed notes of the evening and will assemble these into a coherent account of the gig sometime today.

Unhappily, I’m feeling quite delicate this morning, and so had to decline the band’s invitation to join in with their curious al fresco morning ritual. As I write, I can see from the vantage point of my room Mark Jones, Robert Lloyd, Paul Squires, Ted Chippington, and Andi Schmid, all of whom appear to be sitting on chairs in the garden below, stripped to the waist. They are all holding large glasses of what might be cold tea (is this an English custom? I must investigate further...) and they are all sitting facing Fliss Kitson who, dressed in a leopard-skin body suit, appears to be demonstrating a series of ritualistic movements to the others. Presumably, at some point the others will emulate these strange, esoteric motions which, it must be said, look curiously like tap-dancing. I will talk to the group later about this strange ritual, but for now I must rest and recuperate, for we have the second gig of the tour this evening – in the great metropolis of Wolverhampton itself.