Gay Paris Tour Diary Part Three

MAY 27 – The Loft, Gold Coast, QLD

After the way that we loaded BZ’s tiny red hatchback the night before, I was surprised that we still had gear to cram into the hire van at 5am. Luckily for us, my skills as with sacrificial lambs, holy goats and erotic virgins had once again pleased the gods – though this also meant that when BZ picked me up just before the great journey began, I was covered in a mix of sow spit, blood and slightly lesser known liquids.

Don’t ask.

On board for the last time ever, was Smokin’ D, awaiting his court hearing (don’t ask) and filling in for Six Guns (who to my understanding is in Europe, completing his contractual obligations to some kind of ‘film maker’).

The first leg of the journey and ensuing conversations made me realise two things: I’m shit at being an adult, with no job prospects and few real world skills (I am comfortable with this) and that as much as I enjoy the idea of stoner rock, in theory, I cannot stand it when the sun is blasting my eyes and morning traffic is proving that most people think that their shitty nine to fives are the be all and end all of important things in the universe. I never want to listen to Goblin Cock again unless I’m roaring across a moonlit desert with a bottle of whiskey and a brain full of doxylamine succinate.

The difference between the nocturnal and diurnal cycles of truckstops is vast, though the residents of both make me uncomfortable. When Great Helios beams down upon the Earth, instead of rapey truckers and possible drug mules, you get cafeteria workers done up like parody whores from some kind of awesome cartoon that hasn’t been made yet.

Hey, darling, a little subtlety would go a long way to making your fantasies of copulation with a travelling salesman a reality.

The less said about the actual gig, the better. Italian restaurant sit down diners will never be our target audience (but thanks to the blond cougar who let me drink all of her wine).

The last thing I remember is Slim trying to teach a Japanese tourist a bunch of Australian idioms and speaking fractured Japanese, largely met with the response of ‘that makes no sense,’ before breaking into some kind of song which may or may not have been absolute gibberish.

MAY 28 – Ric’s Bar, Brisbane, QLD

A special circle of The Eight Pits is reserved for men who imbibe beer, wine and spirits continually and consecutively, so it was no real surprise that when I came to, my eyes told me to fuck right off and die.

Thankfully, my years of training with the Black Monks of The Woods helped me get through this (no thanks to a  certain doctor who did nothing to ease my pain with pharmaceuticals).

Our hosts (who, sadly, I was too fragile to interact with properly) sent us on our way, spirits restored by some ‘dog time’ and the knowledge that we had quite a nice present to give Blacktooth for his birthday.

That’s right, we had a birthday party to get going.

Unfortunately for our well aged gent of the axe, he was to spend the day with his family while we hung out at The Joynt with possibly the greatest venue owner ever, Jodi (hey, Russall and Craig, prove me wrong). Booze and food ran freely, not to mention some other substances of interest (not limited to well made beds back at her place and a couple more fantastic hounds).

Considering the fact that we weren’t even playing her venue, the level of hospitality on offer was nothing short of flabbergasting.

Such honour.

Over at Ric’s we reconvened with Blacktooth and were terrified once again by the tight quarters of the stage/room. Thankfully, I had slit the throat of a small, black goose in the alley behind the bar and the tiny space actually worked in our favour. I could not reach an arm out without actually catching a handful of boob or crotch and, as much as I may have made some half hearted apologies later on in the evening, in reality, I couldn’t be more pleased with myself and the people who were groped.

After meeting a bunch of lovely jerks ( I mean this with love, you sexy jerks) who bought not only all our merch, but all of our drinks, we trundled back to The Joynt and then to Jodi’s for a mad rush through one final case of beer before a seven a.m wake up call (hey, The Good Ship, that is why we didn’t come back to the party to seal our  relationship with a make-out party) for the long drive home.

We got up four hours late and spent the drive home discussing ‘honourable boners’, the murderous nature of kangaroos, picnics, travelling cinema tours and an emotional farewell to Smokin’ D, who will likely be going away to the big house for a very long time.

See you next tour, y’all. Check out our website www.gayparismusic.com later in the week for the tour awards red carpet party!

Read part two of the tour diary here

Read part one of the tour diary here

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