It's late at night and with the stale summer warmth, I just wasn't in the mood to do any more than vegetate in front of television. If ever a device was made for couch potatoes, that was it. Let's find something to watch. Channel 1... Nope. Channel 2... What? Who's interested in watching that? Channel 3.... I don't think so... And so on, until on one of the extra BBC channels I discovered a pleasant suprise.

As chance would have it I stumbled upon a documentary, a rock-umentary if you will, detailing the sights, the sounds, and yes, the smells, of a hard working rock band. The band in question was Canada's very own Anvil, and with the program looking like a modern remake of Spinal Tap, I half wondered if this wasn't a spoof-umentary. Truth is, it brought back many memories of my own efforts in the music business.

So let's take a trip back in time to witness one of our gig's in the north of England. A pretty typical day for Red Jasper. We all congregated in the village where the van was kept, parked outside a quiet local pub. It's an old Iveco, once a commercial bread van, now a somewhat rickety old machine that was painted an overall red with a white roof. Very Jasper indeed.

With the bands equipment already in the back there's little packing for the trip to be done. Dave is fussing as he always does, striding back and forth in riding boots and fur lined bomber jacket, with a pipe hanging out of his mouth. Robin is standing around in a state of comatosed boredom, guitar in hand. Never leave home without it. Tony and his girlfriend are standing near to the van discussing where to sit. In the van might be a good idea. Anywhere will do, though inevitably they'll want to sit together. Tony was a man built for comfort and the looming possibility of having to rough it in the back was clearly on his mind.

I had already taken my position as the driver. As usual, I was ready to go three hours before anyone else. Unfortunately the pub landlord has seen me. He rushed out to demand I park the van elsewhere. It seems our late arrivals in the wee small hours were a bit noisier than he could bear. I hate to admit it, but he has a point. Half the village must have been woken up by slamming doors and cheery goodbyes.

Having been thoroughly admonished by the locals, I wait patiently for the band to get in. Jean, Daves partner and our reluctant sound engineer, was with Dave in the front. Robin grimaced as he got in the back. To be fair, it wasn't the discomfort that bothered him, more like my own devil-may-care driving. And off we went.

The rule was that the driver decided which cassette tape as we travelled, which meant since I was driving, a heavy metal band was called for. I could hear Robin grinding his teeth in the gloom behind me. So with the maniac guitar solo's of Vinnie Vincent reducing the band to a state of psychological stress, we joined the motorway and began our cruise north.

Aha! There's a petrol station. So we pull in for a refuel and a chance to escape Vinnie Vincent. Van refuelled, I switch on the engine, put it into gear, and... Huh?... The gear lever came off in my hand. Things usually fell off the Iveco from time to time, such as the side door once or twice, but this was a suprise. Jean was much amused by the expression on my face. No matter, the lever slotted in and away we went.

Several miles further on I finally reached third gear. Quite an achievement with two tons in the back and one cylinder deceased. The gear lever came out in my hand again. This time, with the vehicle in motion, it was impossible to replace it. So we enjoyed a leisurely drive up the slow lane with half the cars in Britain queuing up behind us to get past. Yes. Thank you Sir... And you...

At the next petrol station we pulled in. Jean flagged down a passing AA man (what knight of the road could resist coming to the aid of a dishevelled maid in distress) and he pinned the lever in place. "That repair will last longer than the van" He announced. He was proved right in the end. The journey was from there very ordibnary. We found the gig, found ourselves at the bottom of the bill, and after an argument with the event promoter decided it wasn't worth playing to a few stray hangers-on long after the headline act and their audience had gone home. So we drove back again.

I have to say that usually we did play to a few stray hangers-on. Usually we got paid too. So I parked the van carefully outside the pub. We all whispered to one another, closing the doors as silently as possible. The bedroom lights of the pub went on. Uh-oh... He's woken up, quick, scarper....

Sweaty Night Of The Week

Last night was impossibly hot. Yet for a short while, I found myself shivering in cold. What is going on? Either the local weather is going completely nuts, or my neighbour downstairs is playing with an air conditioner.

Gasp....

Can't sleep....

Tired....

The sound of a door emanates from somewhere below. He kept that up nearly all night. Can't sleep either, mate? Read the instruction book, you wally...