Letting The Snakes Crinkle Their Heads to Death [by Joe Wilson]
	North America, Winter 2002 [by David Westlake]
	Huddled Masses [by David Westlake]
	Joe's German Diary [by Joe Wilson]
	The Germ of Panic [by David Westlake] HAMBURG. I wake from my sleep and drowsily poke my head out from behind the curtain. It is very high up and I take my time assessing the task of clambering down ten feet from my bunk. Yet again I am the exception in the band in that I enjoy sleeping on a moving bus and find the bunks that others refer to as coffins rather cosy. They have something of the cradle about them. Every night, after playing our songs we draw our curtains and are rocked gently to sleep by a middle aged driver from the north of England. He holds our lives in his hands. We wouldn't know if he had had that extra drink before setting off, or if he is bent on suicide, but somehow, once the curtain is drawn I feel perfectly safe. It is an extension of the mistaken belief of the child who, when afraid of monsters will bury his head under the covers for protection. I stare down into the aisle where Chris is just stirring. We had been drinking the night before. What else is there to do on a fifteen hour journey? We had started at the pub near our studio at 5pm, drank through to Dover where we boarded a ferry (the worst mode of transport, we all agree), then drank through France, Belgium and Holland. The whole time Chris was mute, scribbling occasional comments on scraps of paper as his voice had collapsed into a husky nothingness during rehearsals. (He has been placed on the same antibiotics as are being prescribed in America for anthrax cases and is quietly pleased with how zeitgeisty even his medicine is). He kept a resolute silence throughout the whole journey but had the air of someone who was judging our every action. When someone is unable to speak it changes the way you perceive them quite profoundly. He¹s been like this for a couple of days now and he appears aloof and miserable until you read his scribblings and they are all pithy one liners and jokes. No time to waste, I might as well get up. Swinging my legs out from my bunk I lazily say, "Hey , I slept really well" His reply is short and furious but marks the return of his voice. "WELL I DIDN'T GET ANY SLEEP COS YOU WERE SNORING LIKE A CUNT ALL NIGHT." This trip is unlike any other that we have undertaken as Liam is absent, preparing for the imminent birth of his first child, and we are working with a whole new crew. There is an underlying sense of everyone on the bus trying to get a measure of one another: sound engineers, drivers, roadies, band, management etc. Taking Liam¹s place is an old friend and collaborator Chris Tate, a.k.a. HUNCH. We've known him since college days and are excited to have him along. To avoid confusion we have taken to calling him "Tatey" or sometimes "Taters" or sometimes "Potaters". He is expecting some rock¹n¹roll thrills from this trip but stepping out of the bus he is hit by the stark reality of a freezing cold car park in Hamburg. The air is white with fog and the town appears deserted. Looking down from on high is an enormous stone bull, half collapsed on to its front legs, its head scarred by a gash of red paint left by a vandal. Such a bizarre thing to see on such a scale. We have been using bull imagery in the music and the visuals for a year or so now and the presence of this one seems almost inevitable, as if it was just meant to be somehow. (Our manager, Caroline has been trying to indoctrinate us with all things psychic and astrological of late and she is leaping about the car park in spasms of excitement at this supposed omen). There is no time to waste for we are behind schedule already. We are to rush to a nearby hotel for a day of promo, starting with a photo session. Look at us here, shivering in this icy cold car park, hungover, our faces still creased and dimpled from sleeping. We have just minutes in which to become pop stars. We shave and drink coffee simultaneously before being introduced to our photographer who turns out to be almost criminally strange. It¹s like we¹ve been spiked with acid. The three available pimps in a hotel in Germany, minutes after waking up, wrapped in a densely patterned duvet cover, with a madman making growling, slurping noises into his camera. Things don't bode well. This duvet idea of his isn¹t really working, we look not only ridiculous but uncomfortable too. He senses our displeasure and slurps all the more worryingly, panting and coughing as he manhandles his tripod into place, trying to find his shot. I'm not sure that he got it, so I guess our faces are plastered uncomfortably across a German magazine somewhere. The rest of the day is taken up with interviews. Chris is resting his newly regained voice so it's Joe and I answering the questions. Interviews can become repetitive very quickly and over these four days in Germany we found ourselves finishing each others sentences or adopting each others answers as our own. There were few surprises. Then we played a gig. And it was good. COLOGNE. We wake up in Cologne. I am now quite sensitive about the possibility that I may be snoring so I sleep fitfully and inefficiently. Straight to press. Couple of interviews and another photo shoot. Too much caffeine again. Rabbiting on about any kind of nonsense that springs to mind. Making excuses, thinking up meanings to things we hadn't fully considered. It's strange but you know, we don't always know the answers to most of the questions we are asked. Why did you call your album "Bloodsport"? "Whim." Whim is the real answer but journalists don't really want to hear that. "We just thought it sounded okay...It was the only thing we could all agree on." That's not a good enough answer. Try again. "Don't know. Stop it with all these questions." Lunch break. Good food in an Italian restaurant, a few glasses of wine, feeling better. Oooh, let's have a snooze, mmm. No! More press, go on, talk gibberish for another four hours. Then let's do some shopping, I have nothing to wear on stage tonight, some kind of shirt would be a useful thing. I lost one of my favourite old shirts at the gig last night and I need a replacement. Our guide, Steiney, takes us to the shops. En route we notice all the posters advertising our gig. This looks good. In Britain our erstwhile record company had been useless at poster campaigns so it's exciting to see our faces stuck on bus shelters and derelict buildings. Time for Steiney's test. It's his job to look after Chris, Tatey and myself while we shop, to show us the best places but also get us to the soundcheck within forty five minutes. He doesn't stand a chance. We have become kids on a school trip trying to escape. All these shops, all these clothes...Forty five minutes? I don't think so. We head off in three separate directions leaving Steiney floundering, his voice lost in the mass of people. "Guys, just forty minutes...okay?" I make a purchase within minutes. Any hesitation and I would have been dragged into the retail guilt vortex, dithering and ending up empty handed. Corner strolls in and sees me making my purchase. "Have you found something already" "Mm hmm" I show him the shirt. "Nice. What shall I get?" I can see the germ of panic in his eyes. Shopper's panic. "Okay, twenty minutes guys." It's Steiney, he's found us. Corner is off like a shot, he's seen a vintage store. I follow. Steiney glances heavenwards checking his watch. This place is huge and Corner is in the midst of it all, scanning the rails like a pro, stopping for the occasional item, a micro second of thought before discarding it. He's getting more tense as the seconds tick away. "Five minutes guys." Steiney has found Tatey and is practically holding his hand to prevent his escape. He too has made a purchase. Corner is frothing with anxiety. He dives into an accessories bucket, throwing a splash of gloves and scarves. "Okay guys, time to move." Corner grabs semi randomly and leaves with a bag of belts and leather gloves. Not what he wanted but the urge to shop has been satisfied. At the gig we do one of the worst TV appearances ever. We are asked to tell anecdotes direct into camera. I cannot look directly into a video camera, I have a supernatural fear. I can't remember what I came out with, suffice to say it was neither amusing nor insightful. And doubtless accompanied by the silent scream of panic in my eyes. Jeurgen, our record company boss sits and listens as we try to sputter out interesting stories. His presence makes us uneasy. After the show we drink in the venue. The staff of Gebaude 9 are very friendly and acommodating, and we meet a lot of people who had seen us last time we were in Germany when we were supporting Placebo. Alcohol flows and we end up back at our hotel drinking whiskey till 6 am. Three hours later, almost hallucinating through lack of sleep, Joe and I conduct another interview where the poor guy cannot stop us talking. We are drinking coffee like maniacs and spewing nonsense into his microphone. Some of it is useful. The day is taken up driving from Cologne to Berlin. We stock up on booze, get our duvets off our bunks and settle in the lounge to watch some videos. We start with "Logan's Run" which is easily one of the best films ever made. Except it goes a bit rubbish towards the end when Peter Ustinov appears and the young folk start feeling his craggy face in awe and wonderment. It¹s like me signing autographs, the fans reaching out in disbelief at my tired, careworn face. Then we watch "Caligula" starring Malcolm McDowell, which was fantastic. Especially the field of heads/monstrous lawnmower scene. We arrive in Berlin at about 1 am and have a few nightcaps before going to bed. I share a double bed with Taters and, despite all my best efforts, snore all night. The next day is the same again. Press all day, the same questions. We are beginning to feel unwell. We sit drinking our coffees while a succession of journalists is brought to us. Our only opportunity for some sightseeing is when Chris and I are driven out to Potsdam to do some radio interviews. Jeurgen becomes a tour guide for half an hour as Berlin shoots by the window. It¹s a shame to be so busy when you¹re in such a great city, but such is our lot. The bars can wait till next time. At the gig we have friends from home visiting and they get to see the slightly unenthusiastic Berlin crowd who, like London, Paris or New York crowds, show you little sign that they are enjoying themselves. They stare curiously for the duration and we leave the stage a little deflated, then they go nuts and we come back on feeling a little better. Our reception in Hamburg and Cologne had been more rapturous than this, but it is still a good gig. Then after a few drinks (unwittingly drinking the non-alcoholic beer from the fridge) we are forced to commence our 18 hour drive back to London. It¹s been a successful trip, we¹ve made good friends here, Jeurgen and Steiney being the perfect hosts, and already they are hatching plans for us to return.
	Clothes That Make You Cry [by Joe Wilson]
	Placebo Tour Diary [by Liam Howe]
	Shame [by David Westlake]
	Diary Abajo del Pueblos [by Joe Wilson]
	The Hum of Plastic [by Joe Wilson]
	What We Do [by David Westlake]