Paris, Alcatraz and Butcher Bay are not renowned for the friendliness of their hotel staff but baby, darling, they don't have a ringing thing on the geriatric racists and sighing twats of our Lausanne hovel. I didn't film there because the camera, horrified by its surroundings, simply refused to turn on.
Shithole. I went for a run and there were far too many hills, missed a Canadian phone interview (or was that yesterday?) and befriended a drug dealer in the park. Well, I say 'befriended' - I mean 'ran past four times and was offered a considerable discount'.
Anyway, thank god for the venue, La Romandie, which has moved across town to a slightly smaller room since our last visit two years ago but still maintains the friendliness and incredible rider we remembered so fondly. TWO bottles of Jamesons, no less - ARE YOU READING THIS BRITISH PROMOTERS?*
So, down to business, Flacko Bastard God*1 -
Et Egglethump, the supreme indiser of merch -
I got some footage of the show but it was SHIT (the footage, not the show). We played fourteen songs and some Germans danced as the Swiss clapped along in their own particularly Swiss way. I attempted to video some of the support band who were considerably better than any band called 'Autopsy' had any right to be. At the end of the night I had drank some alcohol and was tired so went to bed.
J'ai onze ans.
* This is a rhetorical question. You are in fact setting up a table for the after-club DJ whilst throwing the hated non-money making band down the fucking stairs.
*1 Actual name.