To round off the flurry of gigs, roving journo Katie Spain tracked Nat down for a bit of a chin-wag on Clapham Common. They talk tour antics, dancing cows and future plans - but the identity of the girl called Pixie... the mystery goes on.
The next day we played another last minute Bristol show to an intimate crowd - in fact, a crowd so intimate that one guy decided to scrutinise my performance from about an inch in front of my nose while a gang of kids practically danced on our amps.
Once finished we were off to Shrewsbury for the last gig of the tour. Arriving felt somewhat of a home coming having played before in the very same town and venue to many of the same folk.
As we sat around in the sun drinking cider and reminiscing on last weeks festival, it was good to see some old faces and to recount stories from exploits in the preceding towns.
We left Manchester in the midst of a storm, drenched, cold and in bad moods. All the way to Bristol we drank crudely mixed gin and tonics and listened to terrible songs on our crackling and distorted radio watching for sudden bursts of sunlight through the clouded skies.
On arrival we went straight into a small tavern like pub run by an old friend mine. Sitting crammed in around a little table, welcomed and warmed, we drank out the night out in peace and tilting back in our chairs, played elaborately complicated card games, listened to Elvis and Bowie tunes on the juke box and consumed massive amounts of cheap rum.
Having loaded our stuff into Manchesters Academy 3 we went to wader the streets and find our bearings. We had only been sitting in a pub a minute or two when a guy walked calmly up to our table pocketed Bilbos phone and wallet and ran like the wind across the road. The next thing I knew I was rocketing off after Bilbo in a chase down the backstreets. It was at this point that I realised how unfit I truly am. The scores of cigarettes I had smoked while hanging around waiting for sound check did not help things. Whats more, what in the name of fuck would I do if I actually caught up with the guy, shout, fight, hit him with a brick, run away again? Im hardly a hero when it comes to this sort of thing. In fact Im a turn coat by nature...
I woke up on the road out of Workhouse. The sun was shining through the mudded window panes of our now sweated and beaten tour bus and we were rolling out of the valley towards the open road. Once wed cleared the mud and lunatics of the Workhouse we made good time to Liverpool, wedged in once again between the old familiar amps and wires.
On arrival we began our usual quest for free booze. The headline band, whose name on account of its total mundanity escapes me, had a fridge full of beer which we helped ourselves to generously. This done we moped about the venue, moaning about the smoking ban and nipping in and outside like restless maniacs to fill our lungs with quick gasps of smoke before returning again into the dark club to wet our pallets with warm beer...
Having completed a heavingly drunken gig at the Prince Albert and said goodbye to our friends and loved ones we piled sweatily into our van and set off on the road. We drove speedily through the night down empty rain washed streets drinking rum and listening to violin concertos - the only tape we could find in the crowded and already rubbish strewn bus. After a few heavy night caps we settled down to sleep in puddles of warm beer. Wedged in between amps and drums we waited for the morning...