It's been awhile, but the grand occasion of a month spent overseas seems like a good reason to strike up the old diary concept again. From the unlikely vantage point of 7:54 AM on a weekday, it all seems a little blurry. Thankfully, I had the foresight to keep a little handwritten account of everything that will, hopefully, fill in the appropriate gaps in my memory. This the diary's poetic and exciting first entry:

That entry is dated April 8, six days after I arrived at Heathrow after a painless, albeit groggy, flight. One hour later I was laid out on an incredibly soft bed at the Queensgate Hotel, a little boutique number in Kensington that made me feel as if my stock had gone up considerably as an artist-to-be-pampered. This premonition would be shattered ten days later when the boys arrived and we began enduring the string of completely faceless economy hotels that would plague our tour, but it was a nice fantasy to while away the hours of jet-lagged satellite television before I drifted off into oblivion.

I sustained this in-and-out version of sleep until about three the following afternoon, when I arose to go meet Tom, the radio promoter in London. We took a car up to Islington and I did a quick soundcheck at the Minx club, a tiny basement club that could have passed for a jazz café in Paris. Afterwards we took another car to the BBC Broadcasting house in Soho, where I was to perform and interview on the Johnny Walker show. On the way, Tom got a call from the producer of the Jonathan Ross show saying that Tony Bennett had canceled and they wanted me to fill in. This was highly convenient since the show tapes in the same building as Johnny Walker. This was also slightly unnerving since Johnny Walker and Jonathan Ross were the two highest rated radio shows that I would be doing in all of my promotional activities. Tom asked the driver to step on it as my stomach began churning in a mixed swirl of nausea, part exhaustion and part nerves.

We were soon at the BBC. Jonathan Ross is one of the more entertaining people you could hope to meet, very sharp, very dry, very English, with a delivery that goes a mile a minute. To make matters more confusing, he decided to ask me the same questions he had prepared for Tony Bennett. I answered the one about 'I Left My Heart In San Francisco' with something vague about a goat. I played 'Girl On The Roof' live and chatted more about everything from guitars to his wife. We said goodbye and he invited me to dinner. The Johnny Walker show was a completely different animal; questions about musical choices and answers met with ponderous silences that seemed to last for hours. Everyone said I did well but it seemed a little stilted to me. Nice man, though.

The show at the Minx that evening was a pretty short affair with polite applause from an industry-heavy audience and an early exit afterwards. I had picked up some sort of cold before leaving New York and knew that a big welcoming night would be a bad idea. For once I did the sensible thing and headed back to the hotel, put on a complimentary terry-cloth robe and slippers and read a magazine article about feminine hygiene.

I left Thursday at 7:00 AM to get a train to Manchester. Neal Cossar picked me up from the station. Neil is my regional radio promotions guy, a lovely soul who bears a striking resemblance to Eric Idle from Monty Python. I sang 'Comfort' on some sort of afternoon homemaker's TV show (the segment following the song was about creating the perfect raspberry tort). We stopped off for a pint afterwards, then drove up to Newcastle for a couple of more radio interviews. I caught the train back to London immediately afterwards, a four-hour journey that was helped along by a couple of Stella Artois' and a good book, Glue by Irving Welsh.

Thankfully, Friday was an off day. I went in and out of sleep again until four, then awoke and got my act together for a tube ride to Camden where I met Alan McBlaine, a tenacious Scotsman who is my product manager and general provider of goodness in the UK. We met his friend Colin at a pub for a few pints and then headed back up to Islington for a Billy Bob Thornton gig. Alan had arranged for us to go backstage before the show, where we met Billy Bob, a very nice and seemingly humble guy. Alas, Angelina Jolie was nowhere to be seen.

Billy Bob did not command the stage anywhere near as well as the camera, so we headed to the backstage bar, where we drank mineral water and counseled random people about the virtues of sobriety. No, wait, that was another night...

Saturday I headed out to Fulham to see the Chelsea v. Everton football match. Nick Stewart, Big Cheese at RCA, had invited me to hang in the BMG corporate box. It was an incredibly tame and sterilized way to see my first English football match, but a few bottles of excellent (free) white wine and a nice lunch quickly disposed of any upper-class guilt I was feeling. Sort of like a Anglo tailgate party. The match was excellent; I left invigorated and fully adjusted to the time change. Later that night, I went to a three-band gig at the Garage by myself, which was pretty good. On the way back I was nearly assaulted by some Tottenham supporters for mentioning that I had gone to the Chelsea match that day, but 2:00 AM found me back at the Queensgate in one piece.

Sunday I was hungover, so I went running in Hyde Park. The weather was beautiful, as it would remain for the majority of the month. A lot of people were out, feeling welcome sun on pale skin and lapping up the atmosphere in general. Later I limped down to the shops in South Kensington and ate a bad bowl of penne alla vodka. I also spotted my first David Mead poster on the street. I stood by it for a few minutes, wondering if anyone would pause and make a connection. Eventually a young boy stopped and drew a mustache on my picture, prompting me to rub my upper lip and wonder if prominent facial hair would be a good idea.

That night I ventured out alone again, this time to Ronny Scott's to see a four band bill that included no one particularly inspiring. Ronny Scott's is a fairly plush place, so I ordered a bottle of wine and two glasses, expecting to eventually invite someone to sit down and share. Two hours later I was still seated alone and the bottle was pretty much empty. I sighed peacefully and exited the club, slightly wobbly and blissfully mortal.

Monday brought more radio with Neil- Bristol, Bath, back to Bristol, then Cardiff. My cold was beginning to recede, but it felt as if I had a blood clot in my right arm on the train back to London. Back at the Queensgate, I tried to strike up a conversation with the girl behind the deserted bar, promptly offending her by assuming she was an American when she was actually from Calgary. She was the only mean Canadian I have ever met. I retired to the room, put the robe and slippers back on and alternated between Moulin Rouge and BBC Four. Sometimes they show documentaries with nudity.

Tuesday I was up at 9:00 for three more radio things at the BBC and one at Virgin. Amanda (radio promotion) and I stopped off for a few drinks before dinner above the Kashimir Club, where a bevy of press folks and label people had dinner while I did interviews. I played two very short sets downstairs, then met my new tour manager, Waynne Smart, and stage tech, Mark McDonaugh. We bonded over Guinnesses and hashed out some details for the upcoming jaunt. I continued chatting and drinking with various folks until the club closed, then got a cab back to the hotel.

The next evening I met Alan and Colin at a pub on the King's Road to watch the Mancheter United v. Deportivo match on the big screen. Then we drove to Brixton Academy, a 5000-seat hall where Ryan Adams was playing the second of two nights. I came to the gig bearing a few personal grievances against Adams, not to mention a firm conviction that he is unbearably overrated. (I, of course, would enjoy being unbearably overrated, not to mention selling out two nights at Brixton Academy) To my surprise and utter irritation, the first four songs were really good. Then the whole thing derailed horribly under the weight of two 15 minute jams, some unexplainable writhing onstage, and a refusal to do an encore. Feeling the damage had already been done, I pocketed the tomatoes I had brought for the occasion and went home.

Thursday was an easy day. I met Tom in Soho for a quick live interview with Lisa I'Anson on Radio London around noon, then went back to the hotel. The pint afterwards was buoyed by the news that 'Comfort' had been added to the A list at Radio 2. That night I met all of the Absolute radio people at a Thai restaurant for dinner with a band called Marah and some people from Sony and assorted radio stations. After shamelessly mooching some free food and drinks, we all headed over to The Borderline to see Marah play. They rocked the house, very loudly. After the show, Kaz Mercer (publicist) got a bunch of people on the guest list for Alan McGhee's new club down the street. The diminutive record mogul was actually at the door greeting guests upon arrival, which added an air of superiority to the events and, not surprisingly, drove us to drink. After several horrible shots called Aftershocks and an inspiring conversation with some of the Marah fellows, I made the smart move and took the Tube home.

I was freshly-scrubbed and ready to rock when Ethan and WhyNot strolled into the hotel lobby the next day, jet-lagged but gleaming. Their countenances darkened only slightly after I informed them that we were not to be staying at the Queensgate. After a few interminable drives (the first of which ended at our decidedly down-market hotel for the evening) we were deposited at a rehearsal studio in South London. Waynne and Mark had all of our gear set up and ready to go, making us feel like real rock stars in spite of general exhaustion and displacement. Emily from Absolute brought several television bookers and journalists by (all of whom happened to be female) to observe the proceedings. Ethan promptly mistook them for friends of Waynne's, heartily greeting them with exhortations of "So, where you ladies taking us to drink tonight?" and "You're lookin' good in that cashmere, honey." They all giggled and politely refused with a flurry of "Well, I suppose... er, thanks, your quiff is smashing..." etc., etc.

After rehearsal, we headed up to Soho and wandered around, sipping pints at a couple of pubs while E and Y got their energy back. We ran into my friend Chris Carr at one of them and he invited us down to a night he was doing at the 12 Bar. We were there soon after, enjoying some acoustic music in one of the coolest rooms I had been to in London. (Est. 1774, believe it or not) We reaffirmed our love for each other over many beverages and set new goals and standards for the tour, which would commence the next night in Manchester.

The next night we played in Coventry in a theater at a university. It was full, thankfully, but I felt as if we were supposed to be lecturing on Proust instead of rocking. Met several nice folks afterwards, some of who would come to other shows later on. Later, at another anonymous Motorway hotel, we all stayed up late, sampling some of the left over rider and enjoying our first introduction to some of Waynne's incomparable spliffs.

On the way to Middlesborough, we watched Dumb and Dumber in our tricked out Mercedes people mover. After soundcheck, we walked over to a nearly-deserted shopping mall to try to round up women to come to the show. Thus far, the audiences had been nearly void of single females, prompting me to question my sexual orientation and driving WhyNot to the brink of insanity. Regardless, the mall was also completely girl-free. I headed back to the gig, leaving E prostrate in the middle of the mall floor crying out, "My God, why have you forsaken me?"

Neal Cossar showed up the next morning to whisk me away to radio interviews in Glasgow and Edinburg. We meet up with the band back in Glasgow. The show at King Tut's was really good; the band finally got it's groove back on fully and I could feel the audience pulsing and anticipating. Daniel from the Cosmic Rough Riders made a friendly appearance. There even seemed to be some attractive females on the floor, but it could have been a mirage. All in all, a highly refreshing night. Afterwards, my old friend Heather (from the Eliza Carthy Band) took us out to a disco where Scottish teens go to shake their things (picture SPRING BREAK GLASGOW 2002). We shook legs to some decent music (The Strokes at a dance club? This is a fine country) before giving up the ghost.

Neil picked me up at 11:00 again. I enjoyed the absolutely gorgeous drive up the coast to Aberdeen. We somehow managed to squeeze in no less than five radio interviews and performances that afternoon before meeting the boys at the club. We had another highly-adrenalized show despite (or possibly because of) the freezing temperatures in the club. Afterwards, we retired to our dressing room, an odd but cozy little shack behind the club. Ethan made up a new drinking game involving a Widget (ping-pong ball sized device used to maintain smoothness in cans of draught beer) and we were suitably pissed, and I do mean PISSED, within two hours.(Y: "Wait just a minute. I though you canceled that rule… um, last night. What?" E: "Um, no. I make the rules. Wait. What?") In the meantime, the club had changed over into a dance party, so we all went back in and weaved around on the floor, alternately amusing and scaring most of the patrons. Waynne and Mark laughed from the sidelines. The next day WhyNot would receive points for his effortless grace and I would be fully chastised for my 'grampa' dance stylings. Then I would threaten to fire everyone before collapsing into a teary heap and moaning for my mother.

But that was the next day. Which began for me with a very good cup of coffee at a seaside café, courtesy of the fearless and always well-groomed Neal Cossar. We paused for a moment to take in the grandeur of the ocean and I felt very privileged to get to observe such an array of scenery all in another schizophrenic day's work. Inevitably, we headed down to Dundee for a couple of radio interviews. I arrived at the club to find that E and Y have gone out to do laundry. They showed up for soundcheck, full of good stories about a local bar and the discovery of a regional delicacy, the infamous 'Steak Bridie'. The gig was augmented by a stellar opening band, the Storm Petrils, and we took the stage full of enthusiasm despite our set time being shorter than usual. Afterwards, we retired to the pub downstairs for great conversation with members of the Petrils and various locals, all of whom seemed slightly befuddled by our presence in Dundee and thoroughly convinced that we would never come back. I reassured them otherwise before we headed off into the night. The van dropped me off at an airport hotel in Edinburg about three in the morning. The boys had to continue on to London, eight more hours of driving that I was not at all disappointed to miss.

After two hours of sleep, I boarded a plane bound for Belfast. At the airport I was picked up by a very amusing driver who condensed three hundred years of Irish history into a half an hour before dropping me at the hotel. I went to do some laundry, then met Neal and his lovely partner Liz. We had a quick pint in the original Guinness bar before going to BBC Belfast for a very pleasant interview. Then we went to a rehearsal for The Kelly Show, a television program that is, I had been told, the largest in Northern Ireland. Expecting to perform solo, I was slightly shocked to find that a backing band had been hired for me and sent the album version of 'Comfort' to learn. (The remix that is a single in the UK is slightly different, and we had been performing it that way during the tour.) We bumbled through a couple of takes for the cameras, and that was it. I went off with Neal for another radio interview and then rested at the hotel. We had an excellent dinner and a few fortifying drinks for the strangeness that lie ahead. The TV performance came off OK; the guys in the band were really nice and the whole thing was quickly forgotten after a good session at the hotel bar.

The next day I flew to London and promptly passed out in the hotel for nearly fourteen hours of tempestuous sleep that seemed to seamlessly blend into the following morning, when everyone headed down to Bristol for another show. Despite a very drunk and crazy man accosting Y as he read in the van before breaking our rearview mirror and ripping the number plate off the van, we played a pretty good gig at the Fleece and Firkin. The indomitable Kip Krones had arrived in London the previous day and gave his approval to the proceedings. I went in a bottle of Absinthe with a bartender who was making big promises; it turned out to be a complete waste of money, containing only 'the essence of the flavor' of wormwood as opposed to anything remotely hallucinogenic. Willy from the Eliza Carthy band came down from London for the gig; we accompanied him and his girlfriend Lisa to a jazz bar that was cute but slightly disappointing.

Tuesday, 23 April. The band tubed it down to Camden and ended up wandering around in the pleasant Spring weather for a few hours before soundcheck. Y bought a thumb ring. E considered buying some obscure African drum off a street vendor before remembering that he already had one that he'd actually bought in Africa for half the price. I remembered having a girlfriend and how enjoyable it used to be to buy her stupid shit while on tour.

London was an 'important' gig. Most of the press, radio and other assorted media outlets in the UK are based there, and the promotions people had done an excellent job of getting a whole bunch of them down to the gig. There was a pre-gig pub hang where I met a whole slew of people whose names were impossible to remember. The actual performance was really good, I thought. I received a few comments about things being 'too rock' and loud but I couldn't be too bothered by that point. We had been out doing whatever worked everywhere else and it was a little difficult to come back under the microscope of pretense and insecurity and take any of it too seriously. The after-show hang was pretty anti-climactic as well, so the whole night ended up feeling a little mediocre, in retrospect. I'm sure it was fine, but I wasn't spending much time with my diary at that point and we'll never really know.

Leicester seemed like a bit of a let-down the next night. It was a nice town where we had a good meal and reunited afterwards with some of the fans who had come to several shows, but the gig was sparsely attended and the venue was cold and barren. Someone requested 'Girl On The Roof' two songs into the set because they had to leave to catch a bus. Come to think of it, we also had a nice walk around the town that afternoon. At some point we sat by a fountain and felt pensive, if memory serves. We also bid a fond farewell to Juliet Turner, a lovely and talented troubadour from Belfast who was kind enough to open most of the shows on the tour. With the lone female gone from the tour, all the boys decided to have a good after-show hang at the Travelodge.

Cambridge the following night was fairly unremarkable. Afterwards, we all got back in the van to begin the long, long drive to Hollyhead, Wales, where a ferry would take the entire van over to Ireland. The beer from our excessive rider had been piling up in the van for awhile, so Ethan started up another game of Widget to see if we could make a dent in it. We did. Y shot a very interesting time-encoded run of pictures on the digi-cam, which may or may not see the light of day at some point. We filled many, many bottles with our own fluids and threw them out of the skylight in the van. I remember stumbling into the lobby of the ferry dock to properly relieve myself as the sun was coming up. I woke up an hour later with Ethan's head in my lap and a bag of Doritos open on the floor of the van. We dragged ourselves up the stairs and into the ferry lobby, where E and I promptly crashed out again on a couch. Y, Waynne and Mark stayed up through the entire voyage, which was supposedly very rough due to a massive storm front. I would later hear stories of mass vomiting and frightened passengers, but it was all lost on me.

I awoke in the van as we pulled into sunny Dublin. Dublin is one of my favorite places in the world. We checked into the hotel, slept some more, then took a bus into Temple Bar to meet Brian, Juliet's guitar player. Over the next several hours we participated in a highly entertaining pub crawl through the city, capped off by an amazingly expensive meal at an imitation New York diner. The next day we slept in, then caught the bus back into town for an obligatory tour of the Guinness brewery. The entire thing has been set up more like an art museum than a stereotypical piece of Irish history, and the complimentary pint at the end of the tour tasted like pure heaven. That night we went to a hotel where Brian had a gig. We played a few numbers, then joined he and his mate for some surprisingly good versions of 'Sweet Home Alabama', 'Superstition' and 'My Girl'. Our friend Annie, bar goddess of The Bitter End in NYC, was in town and came out to cheer us on.

The following night we stumbled into Whelan's, an excellent venue that resembled a miniature Bowery Ballroom. The show was the best of the tour; a great crowd (featuring some very attractive women, finally), good performance, lots of free bevvies, dancing, slurring, and a cumulative feeling of triumph that could only be described as rewarding.

The following morning WhyNot and I limped to a cab that took us to the airport. Y was heading back to NYC. I had to make one last stop in London to do a television show. Ethan was still asleep at the hotel, having decided to stay on a couple of more days in Dublin to hang at Brian's father's B&B in the countryside. We had a quick coffee in the terminal before hugging and high-fiving our goodbyes. I feared for Y's safety as I watched him weave down the concourse, but I had one last fish to fry and I was damned if I was going to let a hung-over Dutchman meddle with my motivation.

I got back to the beloved Queensgate Hotel around 2:30 with about half an hour to shower and try to gather myself for television. I stood in front of the mirror and pathetically tried to mold my hair into something approaching a style. I had arrived in the UK with a fresh haircut that, at the time, seemed like a bold new direction. Over the past thirty days it had morphed into something between a mullet and a bird's nest. I resigned myself to the fact that there was absolutely nothing to be done and headed down to the car.

The TV show was taping at the BBC studios. I met Alan McBlaine and Emily there for a rehearsal and a nice meal. I would like to say that I have a vivid memory of everything; it was a national show that I played live on and did a sit-down chat with the hostess, but I can't seem to recall much detail. I had to tell a story about something that happened in Manchester once, most of which was fabricated, I think...

Anyway, afterwards we went to Shepherd's Bush Empire for a Q magazine gig. My friend Josh Rouse was performing with his band, including Marc and Hags from Joe, Marc's Brother. It was incredibly invigorating to bump into the boys in London. I had not seen any of them for quite some time and they were all in fine form. Marc got us into the VIP area and we all drank and chatted for a long time. At least one band member passed out standing up and had to be carried to his hotel room. I maintained my level of enthusiasm all the way back to the Queensgate, where I called my Mom and told her how I am in the process of changing my life. Upon checking out the next morning, I was informed that the call had cost the equivalent of $160.00, a bitter but contextually paltry exit fee to be headed for home once again, free, unharmed, and most of all, civil.