Hey Y'all

What a start to the year!!! My band, Stone Gods, have just completed our first UK headline tour and words can't describe how happy I'm feeling right now. I would like to thank everyone who came along to a show, we had a ball on stage every night and that is totally down to you guys being so up for it, so loud, and so welcoming........you ALL rule!!! It feels wierd tonight not having a show to do, I feel lost. The last show was a little emotional for all four of us 'cus we really didn't want it to end, but we left the venue safe in the knowledge that we'll be back on the road in no time.

I'd also like to thank the guys who made it all happen and kept us on tip top form ever night. We are so lucky to have the most awesome crew in the business, I really dread to think where we'd be without them, so scream, shout, wave your hands in the air and go mad for John (wing commander) Haskett, Rod (Rodzilla) Clay, Adi Vines, Gaz Fail and Mr Bradley!!!!!

I don't know whether you've been checking the blogs on our band page (www.myspace.com/thestonegods), if you have then thank you, if you haven't then you are missing out 'cus our wonderful bass player, Toby Macfarlaine, has been flexing his blogging fingers and proving that paying attention in English class is a very worthwhile exercise!! Rather than compete with his pulitzer worthy posts myself I'm just going to copy and paste them to this blog, ok so it's a biggy but put a brew on, sit back and enjoy..........

January Retox Tour: Toby's Diary

Day One.

When the alarm on my Blackberry plays it's frustrating little jingle to slam me out of a dream and into reality, the Norfolk morning mist seems to tap at the window pane and the realization that we're off on tour today is exciting enough to render me unconcerned that I've not had nearly enough sleep.
The extra early alarm is on because on our way to Bristol we're to stop in Bath and take in a photo-shoot for Classic Rock Magazine.
I'm not going to lie to you, I feel like shit thismorning. A cursory two glasses of red wine before bed has left me aching like an old mountain goat and my slightly overzealous use of painkillers to compensate has rounded the edges off the day, somewhat. As we hurtle through the countryside, piously sipping on vitamin-shakes, the pain receptors in my brain and spine slowly blink out like fairy-lights around suburban doorways in the first week of a new year. I woozily suggest to Dan that I may well have begun this tour with a mild overdose. Nnnnngggg….

Photoshoots can be a bit weird. All that posing and posturing and desperately trying to avoid putting my collection of chins on display can take its toll. It's a blessing, then, that a bit of make-up is available to us, courtesy of our new friend Lettice (yup, I didn't know that was a name either) and that the photographer is unbelievably easy to work with and puts us all at ease instantly. It probably also helps that we're essentially just sitting on a sofa. It's not all work, work, work.

As quickly out as we were whisked in, suddenly we're in a cab to Bristol to the dear old Fleece. I must have been in that venue more than any other, over the years, and it always had some of the best graffiti in the country. Most memorably daubed on the inside of the gent's toilet door was the wonderful: "Bloc Party are good, but they need to rehearse". Altogether a better class of vandal here, I think you'll agree.
Unfortunately most of the graf' in the dressing room (sort of a tree-house, if one were being squatted) has been painted over including the legend that was Burnt To Bitz aka the Graham Coxon wrecking crew from our last visit. Ah well.

We were a little concerned, at first, about tonight's show as we just don't know what to expect from our new audience.
No concern required, it would seem, as I check out the support band Serpico playing to a rapidly increasing audience. Top band, the Serpico lads owing, in no small part, to their ownership of the worlds longest kick-drum (sounds weird, but I'll get some photographic evidence at some point).

Here we go, then. Gig one underway. Having taken the well-trodden route to stage behind the bar, we crash headlong into Burn The Witch and everything is swell. Headbanging breaks out all over the place; Rich disappearing at one point and then reappearing in the audience riffing like a bastard; Magd'o causes mass weird dancing from the ladies, yet again. One in particular seems to have discovered a new form of dance altogether which involves not hitting a single beat know to man or beast. I'm so mesmerised that I almost forget how to play the damn thing. Good work, madam, whoever ye may be.
The first shouts of "STONE GODS, STONE GODS, STONE GODS" still ringing in our ears we cut a hasty swathe back to our tree-house and await chums and well wishers and pat each other on the back. We have fucking arrived.

Unfortunately, also to have arrived are some thieving gits who somehow get away with Ed's favourite leather jacket, Rich's new black Explorer and his old acoustic. Cunts, frankly. The thieves… not Ed and Rich.
It puts a totally uncalled-for downer on what was otherwise an unutterably awesome evening.
Still, we won't let the bastards get us down, and we resolve to rock harder and heavier and enjoy ourselves even more the further into the tour we get. No one gets out of here without punching the air with joy.


Day 2.

It's always raining when I'm in Manchester and today is no different. Grey, grey, grey. Big puddles everywhere to ruin vaudevillian shoes such as mine in an instant.
The other thing it always does when I'm in Manchester is fucking rock. Tonight will be no different, other than out-rocking all of our expectations and bringing one elfin-eared bass-player to the brink of happy tears.

Early on in the day we film an interview with Angel Of Metal which goes great guns towards making us all giggle at each others dreadful pun based jokes.
Ed buys a new phone and quickly takes as many photos and video clips as he can. Dan slips on a spectacular new black leather jacket to be known henceforth, simply, as the beast.

Serpico have a much better time tonight than in Bristol and come off drenched and grinning like Cheshire so-and-so's. Marvellous!

"So this is Friday night in fucking Manchester, yeah?" quoth our metal-maniac-in-chief Mr E as he straddles the monitors like some kind of conquering hero. The answer comes back a resounding "Indeed" in the form of an ear-threatening scream. Awesome. Loads of dancing about (well done the lads over by Dan) and singing along. Singing along that, again, brings a tear to the eye, mainly due to the fact that when people get to a bit they don't really know they mouth imaginary words. Random vowels and that. Absolute genius. Medals all round.

We bound off stage and quickly get towelled down to go and say hi to our adoring public. The Beast goes straight on Dan's back and we head out, sharpie's at the ready.
One of our youngest fans proclaims me cooler than Dr Who, which is most awesome.
We're chucked out fairly quickly so we make the executive decision to head to Big Hands where we catch up with the delightful lads from Hundred Reasons and a fair few local nut-jobs.
We manage to reach an advanced state of refreshment by the time we are commanded to "GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN!" and commence a lesson in Punk 101 from Poison Idea all the way to Carlisle where we're holing up for the night, utterly bafflingly.
Thanks Manchester, you rule.


Day 3.

Vodaphone love Ed Graham.
Another day, another phone to buy.
Apparently it's not the best idea to make a phone call whilst washing your face, because plopping said phone into warm soapy water and entirely cocking-up the workings isn't going to help your call-plan in the slightest.

Quite why Dan and I decide to join Ed on a shopping trip in central Glasgow on a Saturday with appalling hangovers is beyond me.
Everything goes all surreal and twinkly in John Lewis and a cold sweat drenches my aching body. It's chilly as a bastard outside, too, so balls to this. Let's get back to Tuts for a cup of something and a doodah of whatever else. Hooray!

Today's Bill is fattened considerably with not one, but two more local support acts, which is fun for us and a total ball-ache for the in-house sound engineer. Bless his cotton ears.
Brady Cole are up first, local heroes by all accounts.
Second up are the quite excellent White Ace who are all of 18 yrs and stomp out a classic sounding old thrum. Ace indeed. Them boys'll be all over the gaff soon, I tells yer.
Claiming their main support slot are Serpico who get the heads banging and the necks warmed up for us.

Saturday night in Glasgow. Let's faakin 'ave it.
At one point the tartan army scream so loud I fear for my life. Then I remember my Scottish heritage and scream back in adoration. You've been Tutted. Nice.

Everyone seems to have thoroughly enjoyed themselves tonight, which is ace. Strangely we come off stage not entirely sure whether or not we had that great of a time. Dunno why. But the fans speak. We rocked. Done and doner. Cheers!
Cheers also to our main man, promoter Dave McGeachin, who provides us with chilled champers and a royal's welcome.

Onwards and upwards it is then. Back to Carlisle for sleepy time. It's Newcastle the morrow, man. Whyaye and all that.
More to follow!
January Retox Tour: Toby's Diary Part 2

Day 4. Newcastle.

I spend the morning sleeping in the van whilst the gang nip into a Little Chef for the breakfast of champions. Ed makes me a leftovers sandwich to make up for the Olympian snoring that kept me from schlaffing well into the wee-est of hours. It was incredible. I've never heard anything like it. It was like trying to sleep through a plane crash. On a plane full of pneumatic drills. Drilling. He could win competitions, medals, and legend status amongst the most powerful and vociferous snorers of the world. A simply awesome power is his. I'm so impressed that at exactly 6:45am I shout, "Shut the fuck up!" at the top of my lungs. The snoring stops. For two minutes.

We get to the venue and are immediately greeted by pen wielding fans, fantastically playing to that most Geordie of stereotypes, not wearing jackets. It is brass fucking monkeys out and all. Even my teeth are chilly. Cold knees, cold toes, cold bottom. And I am wearing a nice herringbone coat.
We shake hands and exchange pleasantries and then it just gets too cold, so Ed and I duck into the venue and leave Dan and Rich to bring up the rear. Rich is busy encouraging the lad who runs over from Richer Sounds to let us pop by later for some "heavily discounted goods". Somewhat unfortunately I don't think the suggestion is taken seriously. No job threatening bargains today, then.

We're in the smaller room up the top of the venue, miles away from our TWO dressing rooms. Leather sofas and everything. Suave!
One for doing interviews, making coffee, hanging out in; the other for leaving nasty niffs. Mmmm.

The stage is a bit of a squeeze. Mind you, they mostly are considering our backline. We all have to get in a tiny elevator to get from venue to dressing room, which is a bit odd, especially when people are screaming at you and you just have to tap your foot and wait for the lift to turn up. Thankfully there is also a little 'holding pen' just off to one side.

Serpico's drummer has done something weird to his finger. It's all swollen and doesn't look very happy at all. Somewhat bravely he makes it through their set, but questions are raised as to how soon he'll be able to up-sticks again. They might have to have an extra day off, I reck.

We go on super relaxed and simply have a great big slab of fun.
Rich asks an audient to get Dan a shot of J.D. which he obliges, very kindly and tries to hand over, seemingly expecting Rich to just stop playing and singing for a bit. No rest for the wicked, of course, as Rich takes several opportunities to wander about. At one point he's way over at the back of the venue. The next he's diving off to grab someone's camera, takes it back on-stage and snaps each of us, then returns it to the thankful owner who now has some very close-up onstage shots.
Dan gets a well-earned bout of "We're not worthy," praying from the front row and we end the set on a big high.

We quickly head out to greet our newest friends who take us on a brief walking tour of Newcastle looking for a bar that's open. We finally find one and have a very pleasant time over a Guinness and a chaser. Discussions involving existentialism, chaos theory, Beatles, and just how come Dan's attempted Geordie accent sounds like a very passable Edinburgh brogue, are fairly swiftly interrupted by our tour manager, Wing Commander Haskett (so called due to his fantastically waxed moustache), who demands our presence in the van asap.
Drinks are swiftly upended and hands are graciously clasped. I do hope the girl who decided to write Stone Gods on her face doesn't regret it in the morning.

It's an unfortunate clash with a Ginsters and some chilli-nuts at a petrol station and a good blast of ridiculously fast punk/ metal that gets our heads banging all the way to wherever the hell I am now. Knackered and suffering what feels like mild whiplash, I bid you a goodnight.

Day 5. Sheffield.

A well deserved day off for the four horsemen of the rock apocalypse and their trusted crew.
I wake up fairly early and have a read in the bath. Soaking my old bones and educating myself in the tale of Mission Of Burma, I am glad we've a day of rest.
Four shows in a row is fairly heavy scheduling for most bands and we are no exception.
Plans are hatched to meet in the lobby and head over to the huge mall across the way for a spot of Tiffin and a movie. Me, Dan and the legend that is Rodzilla (lampie extraordinaire) clasp our jackets and scrunch our faces against the flabbergastingly bitter wind and begin phase one of Mission Chill.
Ed follows suit and meets us in Pizza Express for a breakfast beer and a Diavolo. We decide that escapism is the order of the day, so tickets to see The Golden Compass are bought and we wander round the mall until movie-time.
These mega-malls are maddening places. You could be anywhere in the world. It would take you a long weekend to get through all the shops. Apparently there are organised coach-loads of people doing just that. Glazed eyed families wandering the miles of shop floor, rabidly consuming as if their lives depended on it. The west is the best. The west is the best. Just get here and we'll do the rest.
The four of us have the cinema to ourselves. It feels like an exclusive screening. Posh seats are gratefully sunk into and the credits roll. Chiiiiiil.
I thoroughly enjoy the movie and mentally promise myself to get around to reading the books it's based on. Dan and I are both particularly pleased with the casting inclusion of Tom Courtenay who, once again, appears to be utterly shit-faced throughout his performance (see also the appalling Flood). Someone give that man an award. And some more brandy.

We retreat to the warm embrace of our Premier Inn and I opt to stay in for the night, writing this whilst half watching Ronin. Ed, Dan and Rod have gone into Sheffield for a ruby murray and possibly to check out the gig of the guy who served us in Pizza Express earlier.
Tomorrow is another show day, so until then, adieu.
January Retox Tour: Toby's Diary Part 3

Day 6.

The thought of a pub lunch sends excited shivers down our collective spine and a suitable venue is rabidly sought. Wing commander Haskett is particularly eager to settle on something quickly as he is so hungry that someone will die by his hand if he isn't fed soon.
A quaint old place stuffed full of old wooden beams and even older wooden ladies is settled upon and the unbelievably cheap menu brings the mood up another notch.
The landlord is quite a character… let me rephrase that… clearly drunk and assumes Ed wishes to hear him list every single band he has seen live since roughly 1945. He asks to see inside my hat to check its quality, as he is the owner of no less than three fedoras. Fascinating though this is, I quickly wish he would leave me alone and let me wait quietly for my giant Yorkshire pudding filled with sausages and gravy and all that.
Soon enough our food arrives and it quickly becomes clear that Dan has ordered the "Worst lunch of all time". The piece of fish appears to have been fried on numerous occasions and the chips both smell and taste like urine. Nice peas, mind.
Slightly heartbroken, we clamber back into the van and head off for tonight's gig, the "it's grim up North" adage growing ever truer in our minds.

The Corporation is a funny old room. Very small with a very high, very deep, very narrow stage. The lighting is an odd arrangement, which will prove frustrating for Rodzilla in the extreme. The people who run the place are all thoroughly lovely, though, so its shortcomings are quickly forgiven.
It's freezing cold wherever we go but the little heater in the dressing room is on full blast, casting the room in an unearthly orange glow and making the stinking rotten carpet seem almost cosy. Almost.

It's seems hard to get the audience going tonight, for some reason. They're a bit older, on the whole, and there's a lot of fret watching, which is all perfectly commendable, but it's more fun for us when people are letting themselves go a bit. It's by no means a bad show, but we find it a tad tough to get into, all in all.
So it's with a touch of surprise we are told how great the majority of the audience thought the show was, when we pop out afterwards to say hello.
We nip round the corner to a neat little rock pub and prepare ourselves for another bus ride towards the home of British heavy metal.


Day 7. Birmingham.

It Richie's turn for a homecoming gig today and the spirits are up. We opt for a Wagamama brunch, which is always a good thing. It's amazing how a bowl of chilli ramen and a glass of elderflower presse make you feel like your doing yourself a huge favour.
I nip over to the market to pick up some bargain stripy socks, as the old laundry arrangement is getting a bit fierce. I'm always having to buy socks and undercrackers on tour, but never have I been so impressed at three pairs of perfectly reasonable quality stripeys for a quid! One nil to Brum at this early stage, then.

We all pile in a cab and go off to the suave Kerrang radio station for an interview, which will go out on the Saturday before the e.p. is released next month. Last time I was here it was to do an acoustic session with captain Coxon and we virtually promise to do something similar next time we're in town. I'm also informed that my blogs are considered a "bit sweary" by some Kerrang Radio staff. Awesome.
I think my use of cuss-words is emotionally and grammatically justified anyway.
Bearing that in mind, then, when we get back to the Barfly, Rod is preparing a lighting event fit for a "Big, Fucking Rock Show" and he's up ladders remarkably nimbly for a chap of generous belt size. It's going to look the shit.
The dressing room is the smaller venue behind our stage and there's a little bar there complete with neon Coors Lite signs which Ed gets working so we Christen it Ed's Bar as if it were some cool New York drinkerie with our drumming comrade cast as the affable and eccentric owner. "Welcome to Ed's bar; what am I having?"

Before we know it, stage time has arrived and last minute pees have to be left in cups by the fire escape as the venue haven't seen fit to arrange suitable back stage facilities.
As we fire into Burn The Witch, the light show Rod has been working on makes us feel like we're an altogether "bigger" band. It's a great show, made greater by the audience rocking-out as we would have hoped. Not least Richie's mum who's down the front punching the air with the best of them.

And then it's the surprise Rich has been planning for a while. Just before Beero he asks his delightful girlfriend, who's birthday it is today, to join us on the stage, He introduces her to the audience, who greet her like a special-guest-pop-star, whooping and hollering like mad. From his pocket, Rich produces the little box and does the honourable thing and only just off-mike utters the immortal, "Will you marry me?"
The audience goes wild.
Not as wild as Katie, though, who agrees by raising both fists into the air as if to say, "COME ON!" in true rock n' roll form. Later, she will be signing autographs for fans. YES!
Dan's definitely got 'something' in both eyes, and wipes the glistening tears, so well lit this evening, from his cheeks as we launch triumphantly into the finale.
It totally rules.
It's like we're in the final scene of a particularly rock n' roll John Hughes film. You can almost see the credits roll as we spirit off the stage to walloping applause.
Champagne is popped and many glasses are raised. Celebrations last well into the wee hours and we roll on into the night jubilant and emotional.
Good luck and the fondest wishes to Richie and Katie on their fabulous union. A ring's a powerful thing, but there ain't no thing as powerful as love. And that's the truth, Ruth. Aww shucks, there's me blubbin' again.
Back of the net, Birmingham, back of the net.


Day 8. Oxford.

I love Oxford.
I was born there. I lived at 526 Banbury Road until I was five. Every time I go there I get an energising feeling and seem to breathe a bit deeper and than usual. I adore the way the sun hits the spires in the early evening and the seemingly constant chiming of bells.
Dan and I have a good stroll around after a very fine breakfast at Joe's café on the Cowley Road. Possibly the second best Eggs Benedict I've ever slid into me cake-hole. If you find yourself in the area, I insist you pop in.
Dan's after a hat. I keep seeing fine tweed everywhere, the kind that makes a suave young man go weak at the trouser. Dan doesn't find a suitable hat. They all seem to be "Whacky", like one that had a Mohawk sown on the top, or over-the-top fluffy ear-flaps. You can't get a good honest black beany anymore. We amble over Magdalen Bridge (Yes, we are aware that it is pronounced differently from Norwich's Magdalen Street) and back up towards the Zodiac. Sorry, the Oxford Carling Academy.

The Zodiac has been pretty good to me, over the years- we filmed the appropriately titled, "Live At The Zodiac" with the Coxonaughts here a while ago- so I was initially a bit bummed when I heard it had been "Carlinged".
What often seems to happen is that they cover everything in aluminium and suck all the personality out of a place. And then make you drink Carling, as if to add insult to injury. However, what seems to have happened to the Zodiac is that they covered everything in aluminium and sucked all the piss out of the place. The dressing room in particular had changed, undoubtedly, for the better. Last time I was here it smelled of sick. Really overpoweringly. It was 'orrid. Now it is a quiet, rather pleasantly neutrally decorated, calm room to chill out in. And, of course, drink Carling.

I do my usual thing when I'm here and nip to the Hobgobblin next door for a pre-show gargle. These little rituals are good for the soul, I reck. Then back to the drezzy for a pre-show glass of chateaux collapseaux.
Have a few too many, to be honest, so if you were there and noticed the notes I was dropping like unusually hot spuds, then I apologise. Got a bit overzealous with the vino, dinneye?

Cheers to our new chums, Smilex, who open up. I particularly enjoy them and manage to get a copy of their record. They reminded me of Scratch Acid/ The Jesus Lizard and made an absolutely glorious old racket, in my opinion. Turns out Lee, the singer, knows Stuffy (who bangs drums in the Coxonaughts and seems to know everyone in every band of any note in the world). Hooray!

Dan, Ed and myself are all utterly hammered, really quickly. Within the forty-five minutes it takes for our crew to load out we go from merry to shit-faced in record time. Like when you put hot-crossed-buns under the grill. Not ready… not ready… not ready… not ready… ready, BURNED!
Apologies to the lad who nearly got in the van with us only to be forcibly ejected within seconds. Terrible behaviour. Deary, deary me.


Day 9. Nottingham.

The legendary Rock City is to house us this evening, which doubles up as Adi's birthday. Sometimes it appears that we have more celebrations on this tour than those Girls Of The Playboy Mansion, who are constantly celebrating something or other. Ace!
Today's dressing room is depressing. Painted a vivid blue and decorated with a massive fridge, which doesn't work, but smells as though something has recently died in it. And it's really cold everywhere.
Even our crew's ability to play tetris with our gear isn't capable of getting everything on the very cosy stage tonight, so we have to down-size a bit.
The sound, on stage, is great tonight.
The audience is awesome too. Lots of hands waving and jumping about. Really feels like we're onto a winner here. And Adi gets given a suave-looking cake as well, which is thoroughly nice of the Templars.

We pop out to say hello afterwards before everyone is kicked out. Seemingly hundreds of pens and tickets are thrust before us and we're all touched by our rapidly growing audience. It's great being able to go out and talk to people after these shows, especially as they all seem to be as excited to be there as we are.
Dan and Ed rush upstairs to the 90's club and boogie the night away.
Still feeling a little rough from last night's shenanigans, I opt for the quieter Polish night in the smaller room.
Really surreal.
There's a panel of what I can only assume are judges, one of whom looks like he might be a Polish sports star or television personality. It's hard to work out what's going on, not being a Polish speaker, but I particularly enjoy a bespectacled gentleman, hair slicked back with years of oil, performing "Fly Me To The Moon" in it's entirety, entirely without backing.
He gets a hell of a good response. Must be something in the air tonight.
Gets my vote to come in second for best gig of the tour so far, for me, with Birmingham obviously coming in first with all its emotional clout.

We watch a live Megadeth dvd, one of Adi's birthday presents, all the way back to the hotel. Full volume, of course.

So far, so good, so awesome, then. It's off to Portsmouth with us.


Day 10.

We set off at midday for a spot of breakfast en-route. We are blessed with the glorious image of Ed making his way back to the van with a plate of fish-pie rather than the take-away options we assumed was clearly suggested by Johnny H in saying, "Go and grab some food and meet the van in the petrol station". It's all in the presentation, though, and Ed's meal is the clear winner in the end.

There's an outing for a curry on tonight, but I'm feeling pretty worn out and fancy a night in front of the telly. And, of course, writing this here diary. Which I'm going to stop doing right now. Have I Got News For You is on.

Hope you enjoyed that, I'll post the rest of the tour as soon as Mr Macfarlaine writes it.

Rxx