When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
“It is done.”
People did not like it here.

- Kurt Vonnegut.

He died today.

So it goes.

He is an unfinished post of what’s been going on with 65 the past couple of weeks, written the other day but not posted. Apologies for the lack of updates…

It’s sunday morning in Sheffield. The easter bunny has not visited. The sun is shining, Bunn has been making eggs.
Yesterday in Moscow, it was almost freezing and snowing a blizzard when we had our breakfast. The night before, it was minus 3 and the promoter of our show tried to climb the statue of Charles De Gaulle outside the hotel. When we asked him why he was limping, he said he’d been ‘climbing the general’. We went to a club in a deserted concrete block where the fifteen people still out at 3am were mostly passed out on the tables. We were told if the shots of vodka were thrown at the back of the throat and swallowed without touching your tongue, there would no hangover. This proved to be bullshit.

Three days previous to this, we arrived home from Tokyo, where it is cherry blossom time. Yoyogi park in the city centre was full of families sitting out under the trees, or girls in high heels doing photoshoots for glossy magazines. We played our first show in Japan where nothing broke, and the following night played a show in a HMV where everything broke. We were broke, so we went every morning for breakfast in a cafe that we found, having mastered the art of pointing at what we wanted. On the last evening, we ordered too much food in a basement canteen, trying to guess what would be vegetarian. The leek omelette contained some rogue octupus, leaving Si and Paul only deep fried tofu, pickled aubergine and edimame (raw soya beans in salt), but lots of octupus for everyone else. Most of whom decided they didn’t like it, leaving me to eat what must have constituted close to a whole one.

In Japan, the taxi drivers wear suits and the doors of the cars are automatic. In Moscow, no-one even uses the real taxis because there are literally hundreds of illegal taxis, normally a guy in a big jumper driving a Lada. The one we got to the club had only one door that opened, and we had to pay the guy in advance because he had no petrol left. The giant shopping mall on Red Square was full of designer clothes shops and expensive cake, but it was empty. 500yards away, old women were begging, one hand in their pocket, the other holding little paper bags for change. They swapped hands when it got too cold. A man with one shoe and no coat held his hands out for money. Tourists swam past him towards the coaches that would take them to their hotels.

At 4am in our hotel, the prostitutes were still at their table in the bar. They spoke to passing businessmen, but didn’t consider us, presumably noting our appearance as that of people with no money, or pious morals. Presently, one of them went upstairs with a man counting dollar bills from his lapel pocket. They did not hold hands when they got in the lift…

Right now half of 65 is in Brussels doing interviews. The other half is at home, taking deep breathes and answering emails. 65daysofstatic is very much looking forward to heading back out on tour. To those of you who have heard the album already – hope you like it. It’d be great if you help out Monotreme by buying it too, once it’s out.

We’ll be seeing you all very soon.

Oh – tour supports have been sorted. You’ll be getting one, some or all of the following bands, depending where you catch us:
- Josh T Pearson

- Rolo Tomassi

- The Mirimar Disaster

- The Butterfly Explosion

Gotta go do interview now.

Later, 65 kids.

xx