the other week, we played a show at 93 Feet East,
on Brick Lane. We were chariot-bound in a Saab 95
estate; and flew down the M1, rocketing towards the
embarrassing little scratch on the horizon that
was the London skyline. Disgusting looking thing.
We almost lost Mr Wanzala in the bleak-black void
of a motorway service station, jaws agape, threatening to
gobble him up. But we found him again.
The show went apparently well by all accounts; which is
always helpful, and some friends arrived to
offer us much needed moral support.
Fuelled by Congolese cuisine we stepped
into the streets, perused the Rough Trade record store,
and desperately tried to fend off eager curry-house-captains.
The whole debacle is below in photo's for someone's enjoyment.
They got blurry towards the end, but we all do in the dark.