Every Day is Like Sunday-London
Got up and checked out of the garish Tiffany Hotel, but when we looked around for the Ol Orange Bionade van, it was gone. And suddenly a shiver ran through each of our spines, for we were alone–so alone!
You just can’t do that to a man, suddenly thrust him out into the wilds without the Mothership. Alf immediately huddled in a phone booth, suddenly agoraphobic outside of the humid matronly interior of Orange. I tried to hide my moist eyes as I said a silent prayer–Please Come Back, Please Come Back–and all right, I’m not afraid to admit I actually clicked my heels three times.
But it was apparent that the shows were now over and we were tossed to the streets— useless as yesterday’s Racing Form, crumpled and soiled, floating across the Santa Anita parking lot….
Alrighty then–Blackpool North to Preston, and First Class on the Virgin Line to Euston London.
Ditched the gear at the Hyde Hilton, and back to Punch for Pasties and Guiness….
The crew were feeling silly, no moving mountains of amps to earn our streetfood, no merch to haggle over…the sparkle came back to the eyes, and Anthony’s nose felt moist and cool!
Over to Camden for a few final cocktails of the journey. Things got tense in the rhythm section, but they worked it all out as they always do….
A fitting end, at the World’s End. Tonight we dream of cool Pacific breezes, beer chilled in ice and–for the God Sake!!!—Mexican Food.