Day 10: Derby Day in Nightingales World!

After the crowd has dispersed into the night, the staff of the Adelphi join the Nightingales for a few games of pool in the intimate back-room of the venue. Before too long a kind of quasi-international tournament has developed with Lloyd playing for England, Apperley for Ireland (his mother’s home country,) Kitson for Wales (the country of her birth,) and Chippington for Scotland (home of his beloved Celtic.) Germany being such a large country compared to the parochial UK, Schmid plays for southern Germany and I for the industrial north.

Soon, Wales and Ireland are fighting it out for the prize – a small tumbler-full of Lloyd’s beloved High Commissioner. But it is Wales’ night, and Kitson downs her hard-earned glass of cheap alcohol in triumph before briefly performing a victory tap-dance on the pool table.

From his vantage-point behind the bar, Paul ‘Jacko’ Jackson watches, the faint shadow of a paternal smile on his lips. He has witnessed so many nights like this under his careful stewardship of the venue and I catch him briefly – and, I think, proudly – casting a momentary glance at the picture of Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd which is pinned up behind the small bar, and on which is inscribed the legend “All the best, Jacko. Robert x”.

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But where was Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell? As we assemble at the van the next day, Big Dave regales us with tales of his exploits the previous evening. “Fucking unbelievable, man! This bloke, right, as I was leaving the hotel, he comes up to me right... I swear to god, man. He says, ‘got any spare change mate, I need to feed my wife and kids for the next week.’ Can you believe it? He even had a can of Special Brew in each of his back pockets, man. I mean, catch yer breath! I gave him 21p so that he could buy a tin of Best In Value mince and told him to fuck off, like.”

For the next hour, Big Dave holds us spell-bound as he recounts his various exchanges with the array of characters he seems to have met en route to the venue last night. Yet in spite of Big Dave’s picaresque tales of life on the streets of Hull, I’m afraid that I cannot for the life of me recall precisely why he didn’t turn up at the gig, and I was making notes as he told his convoluted tale.

Never mind. Tonight's gig is in Derby, at the Hairy Dog. The gig has been organised by long-standing Nightingales fans Anthony and Paul, and the band are looking forward to seeing them. It's been a while since the band last played Derby and they are keen to get on the road so as to arrive in plenty of time to have a look around the famous city.

The tightly-disciplined unit that is the Nightingales climb once more into Big Dave's tour bus, where they will sit for the next thirty minutes while Big Dave goes through the complex series of safety checks and pre-drive routines that are necessary before the mighty vehicle can hit the road. Fruit drink? Check! Chewing gum? Check! Newspaper? Check! Hall's mentholyptus cough drops? Check! Tunnock's Caramel Wafer bar? Check! Lighter? Check! And so it goes on. And on. Finally, the checks are complete, and Big Dave navigates the vehicle out into the teeming late-afternoon traffic.
 

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Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson makes it her business to monitor the band’s social media presence and she can often be found poring over her phone, tweeting some nugget of information about the evening’s gig, or sharing a review that has appeared, or reporting on what she’s wearing on an hourly basis. As we depart the Hull Central Travelodge, Kitson announces to the band that tonight’s venue has already sold five advance tickets. It’s clear that the band’s confidence about tonight’s gig is significantly boosted by this good news.

I sit beside Kitson in the tour bus as we make our way to Derby and ask her why she spends so much time attending to the band’s social media profile. Her answer is refreshingly honest. “It’s because I love our fans – each and every one of them. There’s James, for example. He’s lovely. And then there’s Jeff. He’s lovely too. And Damien, Karl, Rocker, Shelley... they’re lovely, as well. Micko, Biffer, Frankie, Dipper, Dodger, Ramjam... They’re all lovely, really. I don’t even like to call them ‘fans’ – I just don’t think the word ‘fan’ really captures how lovely they are.” As Kitson dabs a tissue at the mascara running down her cheeks, I wonder aloud which word might be appropriate if ‘fans’ won’t do. Kitson is thoughtful for a moment before replying: “I think if I had to choose a word, it would be ‘Gailettes’. Yes, that’s it. ‘Gailettes’.”