S Is For…Someone Call An Ambulance

S Is For Swansea

I’m assuming that it was because Swansea presented us with the coldest, wettest night I’ve ever seen that the crowd were so dull. We rocked the pish out of it despite all the broken strings and tired bodies, but the gig was irrelevant because the after party was so good. After Ash’s set, the venue (kinda like a bigger version of the Limelight if you’re familiar with Belfast) turned into a club and instantly filled up with hundreds of tweenies drunk on energy drinks and fags. We were on a mission to set up the single members of our party with some lovelies, so we headed out with Josh (Ash’s American cameraman : bold, confident, funny, gay) and got involved in ‘interviewing’ the finest Swansea had to offer. I was making great progress by asking stupid questions and hamming up the Belfast accent, but it was useless trying to play the wingman since most of our tour party were more interested in other vices that night. Anyway, I met some new friends who Stevie would later dub ‘The Sundays’ (gorgeous, yes, but I’m quite keen on Frankie if she ever happens to read this…) and brought them back to the dressing room to see what was going on.

I thought nothing could shock me after what I’ve seen so far on this tour, but the sight of Stevie in nothing but a pair of pink pants being dealt a red hand of Ulster so hard it literally left his skin bubbling and blistered really brought tears to my eyes. As a way of teaching our new Welsh friends about Ash and the Panama Kings, we proceeded to have a food fight with kiwis and squirty mayonnaise and have an adult drawing contest on the walls. Things were getting messy when the bouncers suggested we leave. I run to Ash’s bus and get involved in some intelligent conversation when there’s a bang on the door – “Franko! Hurry up! He’s lying in the street!” For flip sake. When a man falls down a flight of stairs, smashes his face off the ground, stands up, walks a few feet down the road and the collapses and falls fast asleep in the middle of the road, normally you’d ring 999. But we’re used to it by now, we have our own techniques to deal with it, but the good folk of Swansea were too kind for their own good. Off duty paramedics and that, we salute you. The night was over, but me, Ricky, Niall and our crash test dummy had to somehow get to a travel lodge miles out of town. Getting a taxi wasn’t too tricky, but getting the big man in and having to endure the driver’s brother’s indie-blues demo and full welt was. Relief, we’re home safe and soundish. But when people decide to sleep in the bath in their XXXXL woolen winter coat, and then fill the bath while they’re in it, flooding the bathroom and crying, the whole evening seems like nothing but a success! Thanks Swansea, and we’re sorry about the mess.

Luke