I’ve been to London twice. The first time was chill. There was an old school spot light at the show, and a dude whose job it was to illuminate me as I scampered up and down the venue’s elaborate duct work. I felt very rock star. We played with a dope boy band that wasn’t famous. I didn’t really know they made non-famous boy bands, like boy bands that are just trying to make ends meet in the seedy world of underground boy bands. They had synchronized dance moves and perfect hair and everything! It was tight. I can’t remember their name. What if it was like One Direction before they got famous? It probably was. We had just been to Paris and opted to stay in one night to watch She’s All That and I guess I felt dumb about it, even though that movie fucking rules, so we went to an indie movie theater to get cultured by an artsy film. The only one playing was about an evil tap dancer. The movie stars him being a jerk to old ladies for 3 hours and then killing himself. Not as good as Freddie Prince Jr doing hacky sack poetry.
My second visit to London was more dire. I was shitty at having money then and had to spend maximum wallet on plane tickets. It was cool cause the shows would pay me back, but in between JFK and our first show 2 days in, my life partner/sometimes drummer/My Weekend at Bernie’s style enthusiast/deodorant sharing brother/homie Tyler and I had $20. We arrived at one of London’s numerous and impressively far away airports late at night. We went straight to Pickadeli whatever or however you take the chunnel to France (our first show was Paris and then we were looping back around – it was the cheapest way to do both countries I promise) and set up camp for the night. I say camp cause we use the parachute we throw on the audience at the end of our show as a make shift bed thing when we’re spending the night in a train station, airport or mini golf course. I don’t really believe in spending money on hotels, not cause I wanna be punk – I love pedicures and the Transformers movies – money rules let’s all get some, but I just would always rather have 50 tacos than more white towels than I would ever use in any other situation and a bed to sleep in. London train station cops were surprisingly chill about our fort, paying us no mind as we quickly discovered that London in the fall means harshest winter imaginable at the North Pole. Also that the train station had massive doors that would remain wide open all night. Spirits were fading fast. I had dragged Tyler halfway around the world on the premise this would be fun. In situations where I’ve ruined everything I find it’s best to offer atonement in treat form. I located the only open restaurant and perused their desert menu. Everything cost at least 12 cursive L’s which was ruffly 3000 american dollars. Luckily a friendly boy named Toby accepted the meager bills and coins my $20 had converted into. We sat huddled together in the train station, too cold to sleep, eating tiny pieces of brownie, hoping to make it last longer. Then Toby showed up with some mother fucking complimentary tea. What a life saver! Toby rules! Where ever you are Toby I fucking love you! The tea warmed us up, giving us the strength to fight off the pack of wolves that had been stalking us. “Not this time wolves” we yelled.
We were waken by the sounds of the bustling station; Harry Potters everywhere. We quickly made our way to our platform, no fake brick walls that you can run through if you believe enough. Bummer. There we met a beautiful French girl named Fanny. I think she liked Tyler better but you know when people’s smiles make everything that was sucky not matter anymore? She had that power. A few weeks later we came back and played a show at something called White Heat. Those dudes were super nice. They got me some pineapple coconut juice that definitely ranks on my top ten juice experiences list. Fanny came to the show. Successful tour.