We pulled the cargo van with cardboard duct tape on its back windows in front of two British guards. They were facing each other and began to march in place like synchronized wind-up toys. People were gawking at them, then us. A policewoman arrived to announce that we were on Imperial Property and must move immediately. So we defused our awesome bomb and carried on. Stuffy old tea bags.
Greg graciously volunteered to shuttle the Magnolia crew and gear from Slough. John and Esther patronized the museums. Alan went to the Karl Marx cemetery. I had a pint at the Bag O’ Nails, saw Daniel Radcliffe immortalized in the National Gallery of Portraits, heard Big Ben strike two o’ clock, and relaxed among the gutter punks in Soho Square. Mike walked in circles around the Piccadilly Circus, lovesick over Margaret Thatcher.
For dinner, Greg, Esther, Mike and I went to St. John, world renown for its appetizing use of the nasty bits. The six o’clock menu offered pigeon, (served cold with wild sorrel and cobnuts) sprats (tasty, headless-less smoked fish), ox heart (deliciously lean – the table favorite), duck neck (a Thanksgiving-flavored rope), puffball (a crepe-like mushroom served with British bacon), cured middlewhite fat (band-aids of pork fat wrapped in a _____ flower), and something called Stinking Bishop (cheese that smells like homeless, gangrenous taint). We ate all of these things and it was incredible and nummy and all that they say.
Meanwhile Jason Molina from Magnolia gave Alan and John a musical mystery tour of London, pointing out Regent Studios (where Black Sabbath’s Paranoid was recorded), the12 Bar Club (an intimate hole George Harrison once played), and a rehearsal hall used by Pink Floyd (to kick Syd Barrett out of the band).
The Institute of Contemporary Arts is located on The Mall just down the way from Buckingham Palace on Imperial Property. I wore earrings made of hummus packaging and Greg painted a religiony cross on his chest. “Black Skin” began the set, though our Dutch soundman Jan prefers “Grieving” as an opener. Alan’s monologue in “Moline” received applause(!) Sometimes during a 32nd note drum fill I would burp up the recent taste of sprats. Overall, we got a fair amount of titters from the notoriously reserved British audience. Some folks from Secretly Canadian and the Jasons from Magnolia were up front to provide the occasional heckle. I must reiterate how great they have been to us during this tour.
While the rest of the group stayed in a grumpy, hand-me-down hotel in Kensington, I opted to sneak a bus to Hackney, home to my friend Lindsay and her +1, Matthew. There we talked politics and comedy and Lieutenant Pigeon while munching ironically on terrible Worcester–flavored crisps. After a can of Lech I hit the couch at 2am and dreamt covetously of the Queen.
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