Thanks to the best live act I’ve ever seen for falling backwards off the stage at Slak in Cheltenham. Thanks especially for going on after me. I would not have relished trying to follow that.
Thanks for the whip-round at the gallery in Camden. We got 29p.
Thanks to the sound engineer/landlord at the pub in Hotwells, who called us wankers while we were all sat ten feet away. I like to think he was drunk.
Thanks to the audience in Barcelona for laughing at my awkward jokes in Spanish.
(The jokes were in Spanish, not the laughter.)
Thanks to the couple who’s wedding reception I played at in the posh restaurant.
The groom booked me. The bride didn’t look happy.
Thanks to the lads in Nottingham who spent hours after the gig slagging us in freestyle verse: “You don’t know Nottingham, you’re not from Nottingham, you don’t know Nottingham street life…” Quite.
Thanks to the would-be guitarist at Glastonbury who used my guitar and bled on it. It’s fair to say he wasn’t very good.
Thanks to the band that borrowed my guitar to play at the squat party after the gig. It wasn’t my guitar, I’d borrowed it. I was asked to play, but was far too drunk by then.
I saw that band on TV a couple of years later.
Thanks to the band who e-mailed me after a gig in Cheltenham: “You borrowed a lead and never gave it back. Please explain why you stole our lead.”
I didn’t borrow their lead.
Thanks to the managerer at the swanky-but-slightly-dilapidated old-world-chic Members’ Club in Brooklyn. The burgers cost more than my shoes.
Thanks to the promoter who said “Help yourself to beer” on the way in to the venue, and “You drank all the beer, now there’s none left!” on the way out.
Thanks to the drummer from the famous band in Sheffield who put us up at his house and gave us peanut butter on our toast in the morning. A true gentleman.
Thanks to my friend the talented young poet/rapper for his gracious humour when I “dissed” him in my freestyle rhyme at sound check. I won that battle, but the war rages on.
Thanks to my two road trip companions for being the only people in Brighton who understood when I sang: “Sometimes I want to go home, and stay out of sight for a long time.” They both laughed.
Thanks to the people who called Nick Griffin from the gig in the bookshop. I think my friend and I were the only people in the room who didn’t think it was a cool and hilarious thing to do. I thougth it was stupid. They almost made him sound reasonable.
Thanks to the wasted dude in Brighton, who, after the gig, wouldn’t stop kicking my brother. My brother punched him in the face. He was immediately contrite (my brother, not the kicker). The kicker’s friends said he probably deserved it.
Thanks to the singer at the open mic who said he didn’t know what his song was about. I told him what it was about. Apparently, I was wrong.
Thanks to Big Jeff.
Thanks to the person who, when I said “Hello, I’m Clayton Blizzard”, shouted “No you’re not.”
Thanks to the man at The Croft who bought several CDs and paid over the odds for them. I really hope he is still alive.
Thanks to the man who told me to write shorter songs. I didn’t, in case you’re wondering.
Thanks to the band from Bath with the angular riffs and angular haircuts. They were half our age, God Bless ‘em.
Thanks to the band from Plymouth who emptied the room in readiness for our set. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannngggeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllll! You’re gonna get me CRUUUUCCIIFFFFIIIIIIIIIIII-III-III-IIIEEED.” Hilarious.
Thanks to the lad in Brighton, who approached me after the gig and told me I was unapproachable. I don’t think he was even being ironic.
Thanks to the audience at the cool young persons’ pub in Shoreditch. I said: “My trendy clothes are in the wash.” Honestly, if looks could kill…
I will probably be being grateful for some time, but that’s all for now.