Le Transbordeur, Lyon
In toilets in two or three of the venues so far I have noticed a fine piece of graffiti which goes "Plop plop ahh". Perhaps it's someone we're travelling with? Perhaps even David himself? Anyway, it always strikes me as surprisingly eloquent.
Life is reduced to an endless quest for fresh milk and internet cafes.
Manager Phil has arrived to see if we are behaving ourselves and experience buslife. The gig is OK. I've begun to grow a little self conscious of my high high voice. I swear I saw some people laughing. It's not my fault, it's the way my throat is made. I have a small, quiet voice which is especially ineffective in party situations, but seems ideally suited for soaring above other people's more sensible voices. This is all very well, but it's not especially masculine. If you want to face down a vicious enemy, you're best off not piping out your tough-guy talk in a piercing treble. Just look at Michael Jackson.
Hmmm. It's being in this confined space surrounded entirely by menfolk. I'm the victim of an anthropological experiment. They're making me question my very nature as a man. And this is on the Aqualung bus. Imagine what it'd be like if I was in Motorhead.
Marvin Gaye had a lovely falsetto. And look what happened to him.
