Oh, the horror!

It's this coming Monday. I'm onstage at a venue which looks a bit like Eruptions in Trowbridge (a low end, volcano themed strip joint slash music joint in a even lower-end west country town), with three distorted versions of old school friends standing too close to the stage, in an otherwise empty room, watching us play the most important showcase of our lives. Alex has not turned up to play the bass: I told him it wasn't that important.

With the first clicks of Adam's sticks, I know I've forgotten the words. Not just the first line or the gist of the first song: ALL THE FUCKING WORDS! Oh yeah, and the fucking tunes as well.

Luckily, I've stationed myself behind Hove on the stage so I can't be seen properly and have the cable wrapped around my feet so I can't move. Hove has brought his acoustic guitar to play because, and again I can only assume that this is somehow my fault, he doesn't really consider it an important show.

Adam forgets to drum on the first chorus, I hum my way through most of the first song and, just as we're about to get it together and break out into a fantsatic last chorus, our manager Justin steps in front of the stage, puts up his hand and says we should call it a day. Why don't we all just forget about being in the band and meet him in Hyde Park the next morning at 7 for a kick about?

I am, thankfully, awake now and I'm coming to the conclusion that I may be slightly anxious about Monday's show.