Tour Diary: Hood

THE BIGGEST DESK I HAD ALL TOUR


THE LITTLEST DESK I HAD ALL TOUR!


Left home fairly early after a after a failed trip to Wales with The Bug (thanks, Clutch Direct) and missioned by several means of public transport to The Lakeside shopping centre (a monstrosity of chain stores) to meet the band, who were driving from Leeds. I was wandering around, trying to find something edible (for less than a tenner) in the place, when Chris called to say they were waiting for me in the parking lot. So, carrying my laptop backpack, my gig back over my shoulder AND my clothes bag (I’m going for two whole weeks, I’m GOING to take sufficient potions and creams to make myself feel better after not enough sleep, and that gets heavy – although not as heavy as it gets with the left-over beer rider packed in!) I set off to meet them. Little did I know that the architects of the place conspired with evil corporate chain stores to not let you out, ever. True as, I could not find the exit! I consulted several of the You Are Here maps, and followed the trail perfectly, only to find the exit was non-existent and the maps were part of the plot. Eventually I begged two girls handing out pamphlets to tell me the way out. They seemed to understand my predicament immediately and pointed me through a fire exit that led out through a loading bay… It was really terrifying being stuck in there, especially knowing we were cutting it fine for our chunnel-train-drive-on-stay-in-your-vehicle-only-toilets-at-each-end-of-the-train-the-queue-too-long-to-contemplate-45-minute-mind-boggling-yet-uncomfortable-trip-on-a-train-under-the-sea booking. But I worried unnecessarily – various members of the band were equally trapped, some having gone in search of a toilet, Gaz in search of something to relieve the immense pain he was feeling from the night before…

Back on the road and the tour actually started for me. Got to Folkstone to do the chunnel thing, and I was very excited, images of Eurostar comfort in my head. Was mildly disappointed to find you just drive your vehicle on in a long line behind the many, many other vehicles, and then sit in it until you come out the other end. No glamour at all. None of that pint-on-the-ferry action at all, but it’s seriously efficient! It’s some ridiculously short time in a dark tunnel, like half an hour or so, and you’re in Calais, off that little British island and onto a continent I have explored too little. Very excited about seeing three new countries and new parts of ones I have seen (goddamn I wish they’d stamp your passport sometimes – although not after visiting a Dutch city, that would be just too scarey).



Another several hours later and we’re lost in the tiniest of Belgian villages, trying to find this festival we’re playing at. It’s so small we’re convinced for a minute there must be two towns of the same name, and we’re at the wrong one. Now, we’re travelling in a Sprinter spiltter van. It’s very long and it’s a fairly acceptable shade of dark blue, and it looks comfortable at first glance. But trust me, reclining seats would be a nice touch, and it has a stereo too difficult to work and the ventilation in the back is poor. It is also very difficult to manoeuvre around hamlets whose roads have not been widened since mediaeval times.

After many semi-helpful hand gestures from the friendly natives, and the first of many calls to promoters for directions, we arrived at the Rhâââ Lovely Festival in the minute human settlement of Fernelmont.

And it was lovely – non-profit group of the nicest people on earth putting on this festival in the church-hall-cum-primary school of this teeny village, with a marquee for a second stage and camping facilities and everything. We were pampered from the start, Fred checking up on us all the time, good food, accommodating vegetarians properly (four of the band are veggie - a concept not truly understood in Spain, we were yet to discover…) and what appeared to be a very sufficient supply of Silly beer. Note to self: stash beers if you’re headlining. There’s NEVER any left when you get off stage.

So we whiled away the hours, waiting for our turn on stage. Durutti Column were on before us, and seemed to not get the whole idea. As far as they were concerned, it seemed, they thought this was THEIR gig, and just played on, and on, and on, and on… At first everyone was excited to see old heroes do their thing, but it turned out sounding like a bunch of kids in a music shop trying out guitars. And apparently they were really snooty and insisted on four star hotel accommodation while everyone else spent the night in an old farmhouse (smelling of shit, and with rubber (??) sheets, granted, but it was a non-profit thing and the farmhouse certainly LOOKED fabulous. Horses and everything).

The gig itself was a bit scarey for me. We officially had a 40 minute soundcheck just before we went on, but what with DC noodling away for hours and the crowd getting more and more impatient (Belgian beer is VERY strong and makes people shout very loudly…) it turned into the most cursory of linechecks and then we were on. Not having seen the band for a month didn’t help either and my nerves were a bit frayed. Things settled in fine, though, and the crowd were rapturous and I got my confidence back and all went as well as was possible under the circumstances.

After just about no sleep at all (we were leaving early for Berlin and someone had magicked a case of Troublette Beer – gotta love the Belgians – back to the farmhouse), Fred (who actually hadn’t had any sleep at all) woke us up with coffee and croissants and sent us on our way. “Just to the end of the road and turn left, you’ll be on the motorway”. Yeah, right. After 45 minutes of fruitless driving around (and around) the motorway constantly in sight but no means of actually getting onto it, we bit the bullet and went down a no-entry, one-way-in-the-opposite-direction slipway and were on our way.

After another long ol’ drive, Berlin arrived. Not sure if we were in East or west Berlin, but either way it was not the most inspiring city to drive through. Dull, lifeless block after block of characterless apartment buildings, not helped by it being a Sunday and not many people being around. Found the Magnet Club (Best Club in the World, it was decided later) easily enough (thanks Andreas for impeccable directions) and were met by the friendliest and most helpful people in the world, in close competition with the Belgian lot. Turns out Falko is a close friend of Joao (they played in a band together) and so knows Gilda really well and all! Seriously small world!! Couldn’t believe it! So, had the honour of seeing Joao’s ex-band play, sadly without him, in their native environment.

The Hood gig went extraordinarily well. The crowd were fantastic, they had to come on for a second encore (this happened quite a few times on the tour - European crowds are just so much more enthusiastic than UK ones) and after the Best DJ in the World played a set of great magnificence – including a Hood track, which freaked Chris out a bit, hearing it loud on a lovely system, sitting by chance in a perfect stereo sweet spot. It was an incredible experience, actually, hearing it like that. Changed the way I saw the band, anyway. Left-over Troublette Beer (by now re-christened Trouble Beer), Berliner Beer and a spliff courtesy the DJ helped.

The hospitality was impeccable. Welcome snacks on arrival (much needed after the endless drive from Belgium – UK promoters TAKE NOTE!!!) and endless beer and various forms of soft drinks (NOT Tesco’s own brand…) and a decent Thai meal later in the evening. The hotel was pretty decent too, three to a room and own bathrooms, nice and clean etc. Good place to stop if you’re in Berlin, called the Transit Loft (and conveniently located a mere two minute’s walk from The Best Club in the World).

Next day we got a small lie-in, and then it was my turn to brave driving the van. It turns out to be a doddle to drive on the motorway (it even gets up a pretty decent speed) but a bloody nightmare to manoeuvre in small European streets. Still, I did the drive to Hamburg happily, and after being stuck in small Red Light district streets (bloody one-ways!!!!!) for only a short time, we arrived at the tiny Salle St Pauli venue. We were well early, but were in need of a new kick drum. The Berlin guys sent us to a specific drum shop, but we couldn’t get a response on the phone, so Steve (drummer) and I went on a mission to find another. Seems it’s difficult to buy single drums – drums shops only want to sell complete sets. Three drum-shops later (with cab waiting outside, dashing us from shop to shop) we persuaded one to give us a good discount on a whole cheapish set and we dashed back to the venue. Besides the concern about unnecessary expenditure (not that we had a choice, it was the whole set or nothing) it was a nice sounding kick and I was very happy to work with it.

Again we were treated very well and had lots of snacks and beer and a good pasta for dinner, and the show was great. No support or anything, so the small stage didn’t need to be re-arranged at all (thank goodness) and it sounded fantastic. Almost everyone really enjoyed the show, except Chris who was so cramped he couldn’t bend down to pick up his guitar lead when it came out mid-song. Apart from that, though, it was an excellent night: the crowd was incredible and one guy who’d been at the Berlin show appeared again – and begged them not to make him wait four years to see them again. It also being my birthday, we all went out on the town for a beer or several. It’s a funny old area – lots of over-dressed prostitutes (jeans and puffer jackets seems to be the uniform, even though it was warm) and dinky bars all over the place. And then it was home to the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hotel, an institution with individually decorated rooms and smelling-of-piss shared bathrooms (Europe does seem to have a sewerage problem...) Gaz and I had the Greek Room, Rich and Chris shared the Honeymoon Room (big red hearts, netting over the beds, pictures of Liz Taylor and various husbands on the walls) while Steve and Mark had the best. They had the honour of The Jungle Room – gold satin sheets, dark green walls, a real stuffed baby crocodile on the wall and a giant jungle-flower lampshade.

So. A good night’s sleep later we were off to Utrecht in Holland. A very long drive later we discovered our thus-far impeccable directions led us to the venue from Amsterdam (north) while we were coming into the city from the west. Mapless, we called the promoter who directed us quite well (we only had to do one impossible 3-point turn) until we were within sight of the venue. At this point we were faced with a narrow one-way street in the opposite direction to the way we needed to travel. But the Dutch have got it right (god I love the Dutch!! Not only do they produce the best looking men in the entire world, but they live really sensibly!) and there’s almost no vehicular traffic and we just thought, fuck it, go down the road. It worked, we came across neither traffic nor police, and we were at the Venue.



Ekko is a great place. Very nice sound system, extremely helpful, friendly and patient in-house sound people, and I had a brand new, first-time-out desk to use. Dinner was sauerkraut (with bloody great horrible bloated raisins in it, which I naturally fished out with extreme care), fried potato balls and some fold-over cheese thing. I enjoyed it, but poor Richard hated it – he’s a veggie who doesn’t really eat many vegetables. He suffered more than most for something to eat the whole way. We even had time to go for a walk through the falling dusk – Utrecht is a very attractive city. A smaller, cleaner Amsterdam (with convenient, if less ubiquitous, coffee shops and pretty canals) and a city I think I could live in.



Yet another sensational show, and ridiculous merchandise sales later, and we were given a print-out of how to find our hotel. So following these accurately, we came across some serious roadworks that blocked the way almost immediately. We pulled over to contemplate our situation when two guys on bikes actually stopped (WITHOUT our asking them) and offered to help us. Again the Dutch impress! When was the last time a Londoner ever OFFERED to help anyone??!!?? So with new directions in hand we were off. Found the hotel easily enough and then Chris and I spent about 45 minutes trying to park that bloody great big van in those bloody teensy Utrecht streets. No easy task, I assure you, and we ended up leaving it poking out halfway across a street, but had no choice and certainly no desire to search any further. After all, there was a nice bit o’ Thai stick and some local Dutch Orange to try out!!



The hotel was adequate, no shared bathrooms, but the shower/toilet/hand basin room occupied about the same amount of space one normal toilet would take up, so it was impossible to dress in there (slightly awkward for me, sharing with blokes all the way) and the whole bloody room gets soaked as soon as you switch the shower on. At least it didn’t smell of sewage… Still, it was a good bed and I certainly needed one by the time I got into it.

Next day we set off for the Domino Festival in Brussels, on what was to be the first zig of a really silly zig-zag between Holland and Belgium. We were playing the Ancienne Belgique, a purpose-built arts venue with dressing rooms the size of a small studio flat (internet laid on) and a fantastic hot dinner in the canteen – (hot dinners were to become scarce later on, so forgive the obsession with food). The venue was fantastic tech-wise, great equipment, excellent monitor engineer, and everything just worked. There must have been over 300 people at the gig and it was pretty sensational.



We then returned to our fabulous Sheraton hotel rooms where the linen was crisp, the pillows plentiful and the shower, well, perfect.

The main shower head had two settings: Shower and Massage. There was also an additional shower-head, the loose type you use to wash your hair, and the tap for filling the bath. I had the main one on Massage (and it really WAS a massage) as well as the secondary shower on, and, all the while apologising to future generations for using up far more than my fair share of water, proceeded to pummel myself with jets of water for much longer than was necessary to get myself clean. It was perfect, and I slept the sleep of an innocent babe with all that bed-linen action going on…



Breakfast was of the same standard as the shower – ridiculous, in fact. I drew the line at getting my personal waffle prepared for me (but only ‘cos I’d over-done the buffet already). We only had to check out at 1PM, but, as luck would have it, we actually had to bloody leave, for Holland again, at 11, so had to tear ourselves away from all that heavenly luxury – Best Bed in the World, Best Shower in the World and Best Breakfast in the World… Sigh…

And so we hit the same road we’d travelled the day before and zagged back past Utrecht up to Haarlem.



Now Haarlem is the prettiest little town, all cutesy canals and mediaeval bridges, but the venue wasn’t the best. Again everyone was lovely, but the room was an odd shape, the mix position was far too close to the stage for my liking and the monitor engineer didn’t really understand the requirements of the band. The venue manager was great, though, and was one of the people I liked the most the whole trip. We also played after a proper Jaaaaaazzzzz Band, and a lot of the audience were there specifically to see them and so left after they played. We ended up with had a small audience in a difficult room, with bad monitors… The first show that was just plain Not Great. But after 5 incredible shows I guess we had to have a downer…





Still, we had hotel rooms the size of apartments, and enough beer and Thai to console ourselves (my room even had a balcony from which to peer down at the locals cycling home on those cutesy Dutch bikes with no gears - it’s no lie that the Low Countries are low – and listen to the church clock chiming the early hours of the morn.) The shower, while warm and with enough pressure to get the shampoo out of your hair, simply did not match up to the pleasures of the night before… But at least there was plenty of space in the bathroom to get dressed, unlike the previous Dutch hotel.

So after an adequate breakfast (again it paled into insignificance compared to the morning before) we once AGAIN took the same road we’d done twice already and zigged south again to Belgium, to pretty, quaint Brugge.

Another purpose built arts venue with excellent facilities (including “people” to unload the van) and the most enormous stage that just made me want to do ballet on it (I did try, to everyone’s horror). We had a wonderful DnB system and I was very happy after the soundcheck. I did have to laugh, though, when one of the local techs came and asked me if we wanted the stage raised! Seems it has the ability to move up and down as per request.

Dinner was fabulous – we were taken to a very good restaurant and had excellent Thai stirfries and some seriously cheesy four-cheese pasta and yummy cherry beer (gotta love those Belgians again! They’re so damn good at beer!)

After dinner I took a turn at manning the merchandise stall for a while, and had a real giggle at one couple. They only spoke French so I had to guess, but from what I could figure out, the guy was a HUGE Hood fan. His girlfriend was obviously being introduced to the band and he was taking her through the merch, album by album, playing air-guitar and air-samples as he went along. He then made her go to a cash machine and they returned to buy four albums and a T-shirt. About twenty minutes later they were back AGAIN, and he made her buy ANOTHER CD! I think it was a pretty new relationship, as she obviously wanted to be impressed by him, but by this last purchase she was seeing an obsessive side to him that she probably hadn’t seen before – poor girl hadn’t even seen the band play yet!



From my perspective the gig went very well indeed – that DnB rig was just sensational, every nuance of Chris’s voice was clear as a bell and I was very excited afterwards. Unfortunately the band didn’t enjoy it as much (again the monitor issue was at the forefront - it’s very difficult to explain the band’s unusual requirements to a monitor guy with whom one doesn’t share a language) but the audience certainly loved it.

More tiny streets and difficult parking ensued, before we got to our hotel. We had been asked to check in before we arrived for soundcheck, but since we were late and had got stuck in traffic (and hail and snow) on the way in, we’d gone straight to the venue instead. So the promoter had organised with the hotel for the keys to be left in an electrical box just off-street. Bizarre way to check in, but the hotel was quaint as anything. Each room was completely different – one had two rooms plus a bathroom, Gaz and Mark were stuck with a good room but a bathroom across the hall, while mine and Steve’s produced the Most Disappointing Bath in the World. It was Big! It was Deep! It was accompanied by a Giant Bathroom! But it took about an hour to run an inch of water (making so much noise I was sure I was waking the entire hotel) and then it had this funny indentation in the middle, so the part you actually sit in was shaped like an egg-timer. This doesn’t appear to be a problem until you actually get INTO it. The narrow bit just seriously restricts your washing action and doesn’t let you splash that inch o’ water over yourself very easily.



A truly disappointing experience, especially when measured against my bath at home and a long line of good showers… The real sheep-skin mat did kind-of make up for it though, along with the bright pink monogrammed sheets.

Next morning we had to head for France at 7.30, so bloody missed breakfast, which was only served from 9.00 at the patisserie round the corner. When you want a late breakfast, they stop serving at 9.30, but when you want an early one for a change, they don’t serve TILL nine. Goddamn. And all those lovely pastries! What a thing to miss…



Still, we did find one place open so managed to bag some croissants and coffees (and merely drooled at the chocolate selection) and jumped aboard for France. Another long, long drive. And after all those pretty little Dutch and Belgian canal towns, it was a shock to the system to get into a real city again (Mulhouse – no I’ve never heard of it either. It’s near Strasbourg) with shady characters and bloody ROADWORKS!!! They seem to be digging up the entire bloody Europe. This is not a phenomenon reserved to the UK. Bizarrely we were staying at the Bristol Hotel, which was one of those places that look very luxurious when you walk in, all marble foyers and everything, but you notice the lack of the last two stars when you take off your shoes and the plush-looking carpets turn out to be about a millimetre thick. Nevermind, I had a single room all to myself and it was nice to have just a few minutes of space and time all for ME.



The gig was in a very odd venue – strange shape, sound system looking (and sounding) like it had spent many a year in muddy fields at illegal raves, and a dinky little stage. Being a Saturday night it should’ve been busy, but what crowd there was just seemed to dwindle as the night wore on – and we were only on at 11.30 or some such late hour. And while dinner was yummy (hot stew and couscous, lots of cheeses and breads, quiche, fruit etc) the beer supply was terribly short of the usual European standard – 6 large bottles between 6 of us! THAT was gone long before the show… Still, the show went well enough and Matt Elliott (an old friend of the band’s) and Chris Cole (Manyfingers) were also playing (they’d been at the Rhâââ Lovely as well), so we had new blood to chat to, and it was a late one before falling into my lovely lonely bed. Except that the bed was freezing and there were no spare blankets, and the shower, tempting though it appeared, only warmed to a luke-warm temperature after about five minutes, thus only serving it’s cleanliness purpose, and not it’s more important function of getting one cozy and warm enough to sleep in a cold room on a cold night. The night was peaceful enough until the hotel phone rang. The only way to shut it up was to knock the receiver off the hook (I got such a fright! The noise had to stop IMMEDIATELY!) Trying to think through the fog of I-Need-More-Sleep, I explained the situation to myself as Richard having organised a wake-up call for us all. So I spent the next five full minutes fighting with myself to stay awake, eventually forcing myself up. At this point I checked my own phone and discovered the time to be 05.49. Fuck knows why the phone had rung, but that feeling of being allowed to go back to sleep should be bottled and sold. Reminded me of the time, on an archaeological dig when I was at university, that I’d woken up thinking it was dawn (it was getting light on the other side of the ridge) and since it was my turn to get up and make the morning fire, I convinced myself it was time to get up and so set about collecting wood, making fire and getting the coffee on. After a while it was lighter, but the colour of the light was all wrong. Turned out it was the bloody MOON rising, not the sun! By which time Annalize had crawled out of her tent and we got the 5 litre box of wine out of it’s hiding place (nice try, Professor) and drank until it really was morning. I wasn’t very good at my job next day, it has to be said…

Anyway, so after another hour or two’s sleep and a tolerable breakfast, we all gathered in the lobby being very annoyed with Rich for taking forever to get down, after telling us all what a hurry we were in. Twenty minutes later he ambles in, poor guy having been locked in his room! He simply couldn’t get the door open (well, that’s his excuse anyway. Me, I suspect a catnap.)

And on the road once a-bloody-gain. And this time to Grenoble (which I have actually heard of…)

So. Another long drive, interspersed with a game of footy or two at the petrol stations (only excercise we got all fortnight. The routine was this: sleep (or read for ten mins before falling asleep) in the back of the van. Almost total silence. Stop for petrol: pile out and run around after a football like fools for 10 minutes. Pile back in. Chit chat for 5 minutes. Read. Fall asleep. Hours can pass in this manner.) At one stop, a new member of the band was acquired: Bella! Oh, what a glorious sight! So proud! So noble! She looked so good on the dashboard!



I woke up somewhere close to our destination and was blown away by how gorgeous it was! Grenoble is built in a valley where three different mountain ranges meet, and there was fresh snow on the higher areas. So pretty! Only spoilt by hideous French city-building. They do have some of the ugliest outskirts of towns that I’m aware of. Great big old warehouses with great big old signs and billboards everywhere. Or maybe French cities are no uglier than any others, it’s just that the ugliness is exacerbated by the beauty of the surroundings…



We were playing at the university, and although the welcome and hospitality were again second to none, my heart fell through my shoes into the floor and down to hell beyond when I met my nemesis… er… mixing desk.


I was in digital hell. All I had to work with was this dinky little Yamaha 16 input desk, that I’d never seen before, am thus not familiar with and so was terrified to use. Complicated by the fact that my babysitter was also not familiar with it, and we had about two words in common, I was not confident going into the show. And my worries proved to be very founded… With an analogue desk, every button, knob and switch you ever need is right there in front of you. With digi desks, it’s all pretty much menu-based and you need to press two or three buttons in order to make a generic button become the button you want it to be. And those buttons are all in different places on different digi desks, and called different things, and each digi desk has it’s own protocol for the user interface, so although the functioning is similar in all, it’s not intuitive AND I BLOODY HATE THE BASTARDS!!!! So, while I kind of got away with the front of house sound, the stage sound was appalling. Sorry guys…

The hotel was in town, near the restaurant we were taken to for dinner. Note to self: when in France, make sure you actually SEE the local delicacy before ordering it. Never forget their penchant for raw meat and offal… Anyway, the Hotel de l’Europe was an interesting, somewhat aged building. Chris, Gaz and I were sharing, and the ‘corridor’ leading to our room was actually a skywalk. A narrow strip of flooring that made a bridge over the four-storey drop below us. Something like what Frodo et al had to cross in the mines of Moriah. Only with less fire beneath (there was a very noisy cage full of budgies, but they were hardly the scarey types…).



So Mark (who’s room was on the ground floor) stayed for the by-now obligatory left over beer rider/spliff consumption session (it was a worry by this time that the party room and my room always seemed to be one and the same) and we planned his spider man-like escape leaping from balcony to lower roof top etc. He was convinced he could do it, and while I was humouring him, I also kept one hand at the ready to grab him just in case he did actually decide to try it… Our balcony was rather special though, with view up to the mountains, with an old fort and everything, and down to the cobbled town square, with huge fountain and everything. Really rather pleasing. When it finally came time for Mark to try find his way home (it took a while to convince him that his room really was on the ground floor), he bravely stepped forth into the internal workings of the Hotel de l’Europe. The last we saw of him was the taking of a wrong turn… No-one knows how long it took him to get home in the end (not even Mark) but it appears that somehow he did actually make it, because he appeared all showered and pretty in the morning.



Grenoble was the end of Phase Two. So far the whole thing had been organised by Andreas. Phase Three was Spain, organised by the mighty Jesus. He’d also organised us a driver, French bloke by the name of Cedric (and a fine driver he was too), who came to meet us at Grenoble so he could drive us to Bilbao the next day.

And so, to Spain! A ten hour drive with a deadline: you HAVE to check in to Formula One hotels before 10 PM, or you need the credit card the booking was made with to open the door. Since the credit card the booking was made with was not one that belonged to anyone in the vehicle (don’t think there’s a credit-worthy one amongst us), we had to get there on time, and so were cutting it fine by only picking the gear up from the venue at 12.00…. nevermind, with Cedric at the wheel we could all relax a bit and get some extra sleep.

Being in a van as much as one is on a tour like this, there is a certain limbo-land that you sink into where time is a bouncy, flouncy, unreal thing; and all the popes dying and wars being fought and royals getting married are not part of your reality but that of another planet. On Planet Blue Van, these things are irrelevant, and all that counts are toilet stops, the next sandwich and that god-awful vending machine coffee. You forget there is anyone else in the whole world except for the seven people in the van, and your frame of reference comes to exclude all things outside the tinted windows…

So when we finally found our Formula One hotel with a mere three minutes to spare, Bilbao (or Bilbowels, as I came to fondly call it) was a shock to the system. Now Formula One’s have never been an example of State of the Art luxury, but SURELY it is possible to improve them just a teensy bit? Oh, please, God of Hotels? I imagine most people have had the misfortune to stay in one of these, but in case you haven’t (or have removed all trace of the experience form your memories) allow me to describe:

The rooms are the same price for 1, 2 or 3 occupants. There is a double bed (definitely not even a queen size) and a single bunk above it. The single bed is not made up, and you have to do this yourself. I’m not averse to making my own bed, but seriously, to achieve this feat you have to be about two foot taller than I am. To tuck the sheet in on the far side, you either have to be 6 foot 6 and stand on the double bed to reach, or (if you’re five-one) you have to stand with left foot on the ladder, hold yourself up on the side of the bunk with your right hand, right leg swinging free, and try manipulate sheets and blankets with your left hand. I’d rather the beds were made when I got in, myself…

And then there’s the ablution facilities… Toilets are self-flushing (every time you open the door, so when you enter and when you leave) and everything is moulded in one unit with handsoap, hand dryer and toilet paper tucked away in moulded compartments. The showers are equally made-in-one units, with a half wall between the actual shower bit and the ‘dry’ bit to change in. Except there are no hooks to hang your clothes on (and the showers are in the corridor opposite the rooms, so you really do have to get dressed) so everything has to go on the floor, which gets wet, ‘cos the half-wall doesn’t really block off all the water. So once you’ve manouevered yourself into a position to start actually showering (it takes ages to get the logistics right), you press the tap head and water comes out. For all of twenty seconds. Then you have to press it again. And again. And again. It is a VERY unsatisfying experience to shower in this stop-start manner! Although the water was warm, the colours were not inspiring, the round-edged moulded plastic interior quite un-fetching and then there’s the muzak… Whoever decided to pipe this stuff through (at great expense, no doubt) should be put up against a wall and shot. Cos not only is the music unbearable, they overlay tweeting birds on top! Un-fucking-believable!