All is well on the Frank Turner/Franz Nicolay tour. We left London yesterday bound for Stockton and the beacon of hope for all humanity that is the ARC, a beautiful glass-fronted arts centre and the site for last night's all-conquering shows. The people of Stockton and neighbouring places are super-friendly and, in a couple of cases, mental, with general fervour at the merch table and a good reaction to my set, especially when it ended and I gave a rock-star-salute-exit only to find the door offstage was shut and I had to turn back to face the crowd in a manner which clearly said "holy christ, I cannot get off this stage".
Mr Nicolay is a Brooklyn gem, sharing stories of various times spent on the road in previous bands, watching 9/11 on a tiny black and white TV and such. I feel Turner can match him in terms of bizarre gigging stories but, alas, such a head-to-head competition hasn't yet come to fruition.
Post-show we stop off in Stockton's Tesco - which must be responsible for about 40% of all Stockton's missing persons cases such is its ginormitude - and then we're off to Dundee. And here we are in Dundee! The system works.
I blearily share a lunch with Scotland's own Dave Hughes where I try and order stuff from the breakfast menu and he conforms to all Scot stereotypes by drinking Irn Bru and then gives me a tour of Dundee's dual carriageways, whilst later on trying to find a shower me, Franz and tour manager Graham have to traverse the biggest non-mountainous hill in all of Scotland. THE END.
Next: to tonight's show. It's in Dundee.