Day 12: Great Scot! It’s the McNightingales!

After the gig, an exhausted Robert ‘The Chief’ Lloyd is helped back to his hotel room by Edward ‘Ted’ Chippington and Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell, leaving the remainder of the Nightingales' entourage – including myself – to our own devices. The equipment and merchandise has been packed away and is to be collected in the morning, so we decide to find a bar in which to wind down for the evening. Paul ‘Carpet’ Squires, who knows the city well, leads us to his favourite Tiki bar for cocktails, and we sip our impossible concoctions – I’m drinking a Flaming Hogshagger (ABV 76.2%) – whilst Apperley, back in his trademark Marigold gloves to protect his delicate guitar-playing fingers, collects the glasses from around the venue and places them on the bar.

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Today the Nightingales head north of the border, to Glasgow in the soon-to-be independent Kingdom of Scotland and, I learn, to one of their favourite venues – Nice ‘n’ Sleazy – which is located on what Dave ‘Big Dave’ Wassell tells me is the city’s most famous thoroughfare: Saucey Hall Street. The gig has also been promoted by one of the band’s favourite promoters, the mysteriously-named Fielding. I look forward to meeting this character later, but there is a long way to go yet as we depart Manchester’s busy commercial streets. “I don’t know about you guys,” says Fliss ‘Sticks’ Kitson wistfully, “but I’m looking forward to seeing that lovely big cock again.” I have no idea what she is talking about, though the rest of the band nod understandingly.

The journey north takes us through some of England’s most beautiful countryside. We pass through the famous lake district, with its undulating landscape and its rolling heather-covered hills. “Let’s see who can list all the lakes,” shouts Mark ‘Ace’ Jones from the back of the tour bus. There is no response, and so Jones continues: “Windermere, that’s one. It’s huge. Millions of gallons of water. Then there’s Thirlmere. Millions of gallons of water! And Coniston. That’s huge too, Millions of gallons of water...” “First services, Dave,” shout the rest of the band in unison, as though to thwart Jones’s ambitions.

As we approach Glasgow through the lowland hills of Scotland, Kitson suddenly becomes more animated. “We’re close to the cock, I can feel it!” Suddeny the whole band is on the alert, staring attentively out of the window. “There!” It is Kitson’s voice again. “There! I can see the cock.” Suddenly her voice is wistful, dreamy almost. “I do love that cock.” It turns out to be a glade of trees on a distant hillside, trimmed into the shape of a giant penis, no doubt marking some ancient, pre-historic site of worship. The whole van falls momentarily silent – even Big Dave. A mark of respect as we pass this clearly-important landmark.