This weekend I was in Falmouth supporting Seann Walsh on his tour. It’s interesting being a tour support. It’s great fun being on tour with a mate, but you do have to get used to taking a lot of photos of him with various people. Sometimes people ask if you can do it, but most of the time, they ask Seann for the photo before thrusting the mobile into your hand as if you are actually his official photographer. If I sound bitter and resentful, please be assure that I am. I think the best photo we had was where an elderly lady wanted a pic of both of us, and reminded her husband to turn the flash on otherwise “we’ll never see this fella.” A perfect example of a joke that I would happily make, but hearing it from someone to me made me want to
I watched that film the other day, and I have to say – it is the first film that I have seen that has answered the question : “Can you get fed up of buildings being smashed shitless?” I mean Superman is upset that he has to kill Zod because he was going to laser a family. WHAT ABOUT THE THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE WHO DIED IN THOSE BUILDINGS SUPERMAN? YOU SAVED LOIS DIDN’T YOU? SO BASICALLY I CAN EXPECT HELP FROM YOU IF I’M WILLING TO GIVE YOU A BLOWIE.
Anyway the point of this story is that we were in Falmouth, which is the furthest I think that anyone has ever had to drive to a gig in the history of gigs. It took an eternity. By the time we got there, I had divorced and remarried twice.
After the gig, we went to the hotel. We were heading out, so were just dropping our stuff off before taking the party into Falmouth town. I was given my room key/card thingy by a woman who used the word “sir” way too much. “Yes sir, your room sir, is just down the corridor sir, turn left sir, and it’s just opposir.” I suspected that this overly friendly tone might conceal a level of incompetence, but she seemed completely capable.
I got to my room, and as is the way for almost 50 percent of these occasions, the key did not work. I tried every configuration, flipped the card, tried a quick swipe, a slow swipe, a double swipe, red light every time. Just as I was about to kick the door in, a porter came past and asked if there was an issue. I resisted the urge to respond that everything was fine, but i just fancied spending the night in the fucking corridor.
I explained the situation to which his first response was of course to try the key again, because I would have obviously only tried it once and then waited for help. He then offered to use his master, and i could get a replacement once i’d dropped my stuff off. Excellent plan from a man who, up this point, had not shown much promise. He let me into the room, for me to dump my stuff off.
It was at the point when I wondered if all hotels now include a bag full of clothes as part of the room charge, that I realised that there might be a problem. The confirmation was the man in my bed, something that is very rarely included.
In order to avoid any embarrassment, I followed British protocol which was to run out of the room repeating the words “oh shit” over and over again.
I then returned to reception, informing Seann of what had happened, which obviously was a delight for him, and then have explained to me that I was in room 37 despite my card saying 17. I of course completely understood, as there is no way that a room number mix up could possibly cause any issue at all. Thankfully I realised that all that I needed was to be called sir an additional 23 times which fortunately happened.
BYE