The Life Of The BlogBLOG >> Ad Nauseam
Nigel, Wednesday 10th April, 2013
It's kind of shit being sick on tour. This time around it's been the turn of me, Frank and Tarrant (we won't mention our tour manager Casey - it's always his turn to be sick it seems).
I think all of us are aware of the positive nature of our job, and are often at pains to avoid complaint about it despite the fact that from within from time to time the positivity feels somewhat submerged. But the times when sickness hits; I think then we're entitled to a slight whinge.
It is truly those moments when you feel the distance from home. The possibility of lying in your own bed outside of work hours, even taking the day off if you feel really rubbish. Being able to make yourself some dry toast, or toast with Marmite if you're feeling particularly adventurous. Possibly even having a loved one around to mop your brow and coo calmingly at you as they fuss the pillows and close the curtains.
Frank was first, getting some unnamed glandular doohickey in Austin, TX. Of course, when there's a shitload of gigs and talking to do. And no-one wants to cancel, no matter how you're feeling. For starters when it's a headline show you don't want to let down the people who have bought tickets, travelled, who are excited, looking forward to a night of escapology from normality. But also there's some dicks out there. Frank cancelled one low-key acoustic show and a couple of interviews while he was at SXSW (and the man was sick enough that a doctor advised him not to be working at all). So of course the promoter of that show threw a bit of a strop, tweeting about how Frank was cancelling everything. Jeez. He's not a machine. Well, some bits of him may be cyborg.
My illness thoughtfully and professionally chose a couple of days off to present itself, so I rolled around in a scratchy hotel bed while everyone else took the opportunity for a couple of sun-soaked days on the beach. But Tarrant appears to have had the worst luck, even above Frank getting sick in the middle of the most intense work-schedule. We were just embarking on our 36 hour, 4 leg journey home from New Zealand when Tarrant's guts started playing up. Planes can be a bit trying at the best of times, but when you're feeling like death warmed up they become even more of a trial. On the transfer bus to the international terminal at Auckland (where I am typing this) Tarrant finally lost his battle against nausea in a quite dramatic way, so I'm told. I'm rather glad I opted for a 15 minute stroll instead of the bus ride. Dodged the diced carrot bullet on that one, I feel.
So now Tarrant only has to survive 3 more flights and 31 more hours travelling. Wish him luck. Hopefully by the time you read this we'll be on the UK tour and you will have visual and aural 80 Hz proof that Tarrant survived and is fighting fit. And if not... then I guess I will have a subject for another blog.