Jack Kerouac; eat your heart out.

So, here we are. Driving west, once again. Heading back from our new hometown; Brighton, to our old one; Southampton.

We cruise through Britain’s green and pleasant land, looking for all the world like a car full of the kind of KGB agents you wouldn’t mind partying with. Behind the wheel of the car sits Jess Illsley, a strange little light who has crept, so softly, so irrevocably into our lives. Jess has been good enough to drive us back to Southampton. Amongst so many other things; we owe a lot to this girl.

Spirits are high, and being high, they are hard to discern at such heights. I was never cut out for altitude. I think we’re all looking forward to the gig, it should be fun. Fun, fun, fun, fun.

Jess misses Mo’s hair; she cut it last night and is now having second thoughts. I however, think that Moses looks like an Olympic swimmer, or perhaps a character from ‘La Dolce Vita’, maybe one of the paparazzo. His sunglasses help, and the cravat.

This gig will be the second, grander, experiment that we will have conducted recently. The line-up is the same apart from Max who won’t be joining us this time; he’s roasting his coconuts on a beach in Indonesia. With this in mind we’ve booked some gigs. The first gig was held at The UK’s oldest outdoor swimming pool. That’s the kind of thing we do, apparently. August 16^th promises to be something else entirely, for one; although we’re performing without Max, we will not be bereft of a second voice.

Birdy, dear sweet Birdy, Mo’s little sister, Lady of the Lake, has consented to come out to play with us ruffians. Having featured on our records already, it took little convincing to win the little bird-legged thing over; she now knows all our tunes, perfectly. The sounds are incredible. Which is probably just as well, as James may or may not have broken his leg, playing tag, so his dancing may not be up to much.

Jess, remember her? I mentioned her earlier, may also make an appearance on stage, at some unspecified point, making yet unspecified movements and noises. We’re looking forward to it. Mo is now holding her hand, the poor thing is having a heart attack, shooting pains, or something.

Moses has been, somewhat short-sightedly, left in charge of the music; we’ve gone from listening to ‘Arcade Fire’s’ brilliant new album to ‘Lollypop’ by the Cordettes. As James put it, “this car’s like a little white time machine.” the car is called Vivian.

We’ve just stopped to stock up on supplies. Our meagre funds don’t stretch far in modern petrol stations, and once again food is forgone for a pack of cigarettes. Life goes on, and so do we, back on the road. We sit in the car, making one another aware of the superiority of our own choice in spoils from the petrol station raid.

The music is indiscernible to me now, but I am assured it is good. I know it’s only a matter of time before I hear ‘je suis un rockstar’ once more. The tension builds, before being inevitably crinkled into a small ball and tossed decadently out the open window.

We all have a little sugar in us now, or nicotine, depending on your poison. We’re getting fidgety.

We ride on the back of other people’s music, to the sight of the road opening out before us.

We whisper on.

Jacob / Bassist / Modern Fighting Vehicles