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Anderson's Diary - November 1998
I know most sensible folks don't go for the silly superstitions of Friday the 13th, but you won't believe what happened…………
Our return flight home was delayed out of Santiago, Spain. Shona got savaged up the rear (in the automobile context) on her way to pick up me and Doane at London, Heathrow. The crew bus broke down twice near the Spanish border and they had to be flown out of the country, leaving the gear behind. My son James got savaged up the front (in the automobile context) while innocently parking at a nearby hostelry. The Vintage Spanish wine which I had put in my suitcase for Shona's post prandial delight, originally travelling on the crew bus but now rescheduled to the crew flight home, spectacularly exploded mid-journey, making for some interesting laundry improvisation, and the van which I organised for Kenny Wylie to collect him and my gear refused to start at Heathrow, necessitating the summoning of the emergency services.
How was your day?
But the Spanish landscape between Herez and Malaga was magnificent and the delights of Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain will be remembered until, at least, next Thursday. A young student (female, 20-ish) tried to enter our humble gigwagen (German spelling), nearly throwing herself prostrate on Andy's prostate in the suicidal process, but happily lived to tell the tull.
This is probably unbelievable, but from arrival in the Iberian
Euro-domain until the final swallow, I was inflicted with the bad-botty/Spanish-tummy/clenched-cheek
high E syndrome. Until, (yes it's true), D. Perry,
All was, at last, well and so terminal velocity of an acceptable sort was re-established in time for the last Monkfish and Mussel lunchtime adventure before the last gig in a concrete stadium of acoustical nightmare proportions.
However, Gods bless the Spanish peoples for not smoking at the gigs and for remembering us poor Tull folks with our fragile constitutions and pulmonary sensitivities..
Well, now it befalls me to summon the muse and beg for the arrival of the lyrical and musical excesses for which the Tull-boys-true have become legendary. 'Tis the time of the season for the joining of loins, the renewal of promises, the worship of the beast (so long as he or Mick Abrahams is paying), and careful consideration of the tax implications.
What do you buy for the pussy-cat who has everything? Another pussycat?
Or just a little holiday for the forgotten few. Check out the web-site below. Somebody has to feed them.
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