#1 Awaking:
Six hours and fourty-five minutes past the dingy morning of March’s ninth consecutive day, my Nokia’s livid alarm went off in room number three hundred and four of Hiatt Baker’s B block of the University of Bristol. My girlfriend, María, unsolicitous, lied her extended body on the squeaky single bed we buoyantly, and sometimes indignant, shared whenever I decided to visit. Knowing what lied ahead of me was nothing more than a healthily frenzied day, I swung up with diminished procrastination.
The railway trip to dirty old London wasn’t as enduring as a train ride without the cuddlesome languor of an amorous couple at morningtide. Due to the thwart and permanent repairs of the London Underground, we arrived at King’s Cross five measly minutes to the end of the valedictory Eurostar check-in. Following a sprint that would’ve left Usain Bolt flabbergasted, dainty María and me were zestfully astonished by the acceptance of the quadratic barcode on our ticket. On the other side of the gate was Dan’s omnipresent tache – as I like to style it – and, as we got closer, it became increasingly apparent that Dan himself was there too.

#2 In the belgian capital:
We, the newcoming trio, at a pace anything but slow, got in the first restaurant without a living troll bidding us to get in and try the delicacies shown in horrific pictures on a filthy panel outside the food serving establishment..This place of our choosing was denominated ”Café de L’Opéra” and we all had a variation of mussle dishes. I recall mine drowning in white wine. A simple, yet tasty, combination, dear reader. This tardy lunch came to a brief hiatus when Dan, in an unproportionate moment of sudden inspiration that I’m yet to fully comprehend, decided to speak the spanish language with the bewildered franco-belgian waiter. With satisfied stomachs and worried colons we proceeded with our postmeridian rambling. As this promiscuous roaming couldn’t last for all eternity, we decreed to cease it at a place recommended by our friend, and colleague in self-beasting, Thomas, who was to join us at the cusp of afternoon. The nook was a shisha bar dubbed ”Pure Bar” specializing in what the conspicuous decoration suggested and tea. This being the case, we ordered an oriental tobacco pipe and a total of 11 Heinekens.
Succeeding a phone call by Antoine, we, the dewy triad, swiftly made our way to the apartment this frantic franco-belgian shared with a bass-slapping belgo-italian named Marco. Other members of our hard-idling gang were present: The hosts, Antoine’s sister Charlotte and, my perennial parisian accomplice, Virgile. Symphonic carnage began.

#3 The concert:
Watching and listening to his beautifully raw composings on the world wide web, I’d imagined the maverick musician to flow in a sort of attractive arrogance, if you will. Not the mean hubris that many artists ,and non-artists, swim in, but, rather, an elevated opinion of one’s own ego that pulls you in, instead of shielding you out. This assumption of mine, no matter how innocent, was an incorrect one. The Tallest Man on Earth, who, for a swede, isn’t as physically tall as he is musically, faced the sweaty-faced crowd, during the show and the post-concert pandemonium, with great humility. As the guitar virtuoso stomped on the hurting floor in a matter that unsettlingly settled the fervent audience, one became highly aware of the shit day he had bruskely come out of. Witnessing this bearded folk singer achieve a well-deserved catharsis through impassioned finger picking and in-tune groans resulted in a near-achieving of a general tympanic orgasm, as it were.

#4 The radio show and Schlifen Schlafen:
Joined by Steven and Thomas at the venue’s vivacious vestibule, the team was complete and, after the proverbial recital, we shoved off to a recording studio Charlotte graciously booked for our dazzled souls, resulting in the three adjacent hours being of constant melody amid ardent thirst quenching havoc.
At two in the morning the session was closed, not in the best of terms, which led to the recorded material being deleted precipitously. Not that any of this makes a hefty difference in the amount of immaculate fun we all had and shared.
Probably, the most notable creation occurring that night was, be ready, a new language. A mad dialect! An agglutination of succinct and meaningless german and dutch phonetics. Antoine, a formidable savant in the freshly baked jargon, filled another three hours with nonsensical germanic banter, inducing some of the present bodies to partly undress and participate in the discourse.
Long , or shortly, before the vivid atmosphere faded, perky María, Steven and me continued our journey to the end of the night at his place.
The next day, the stale triumvirate would meet at noon in the Midi station to catch the Eurostar back to crummy worn London.

Gedufen zach!

J. of Seixas

Joao Sexas is a political science student from Loughborough Univerity. Joao can be contacted here.

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