Last weekend, Gay Bum made a SEVEN HOUR DRIVE to Doncaster to play at Tattoo Jam and the associated Tattoo Masters Ball.
We were invited up after we played at the Great British Tattoo Show and, much to everybody’s surprise, were actually a little bit good at what we do. Who would have guessed, after seven years?
It was grand. We arrived about 35 minutes before our stage time, thanks to the disgusting traffic, yet managed to storm on and pull a largely improvised set from somewhere deep within our rock glands.
Then, friends, we proceeded to drink. Everything.
X-hours later, we found ourselves
People ordered pizza. We turned it down out of politeness, then proceeded to miss the pizza-ordering deadline, and wind up devouring a box of reduced-to-clear doughnuts charitably donated to us by the pizza delivery boys.
These we ate whilst sitting on the floor, feeling about as pathetic as humans can feel.
Then we went for a race. We were on a racecourse after all. I don’t recall who won, but I expect it was me – I’m surprisingly nippy over short distances. Like a dwarf.
Then I taught Puma to toss the caber, using a piece of the race course that I…well, destroyed. I think that’s the right word for it.
Then we went to bed.
And woke up. Feeling how dead things probably feel, about six months into their experience of being dead.
Despite this – and despite a minor panic when we realised Puma had spilled and lost all his plectrums during our 3am jaunt – we went on again and tore into what was an equally powerful set, if not even more powerful due to the sheer desperation and feeling like we might actually perish at any given moment.
Thus far, the feedback has all been extremely positive. Luckily a terrible hangover just adds to the image, when you’re god damn gods of rock.
Hopefully from this, we shall find ourselves at more tattoo shows! Keep your peepers peeled!