Normally when I think Vienna, I think chamber music and art…and that song. Today’s venue is the kind of place you don’t wax or polish. You don’t even use a mop or broom. You powerwash the ƒ—er. Underground trains shake the place. It looks like an old access tunnel…finished with punk rock and soiled dreams. The dance floor is uneven tarmac. The stage is reinforced concrete.
They kept telling me I’d been here before, but I couldn’t recall. Even as I walked in, and recoiled at the utter grimness, I still drew a blank. It was only when I got into the dressing room, with its black walls, and stickers everywhere, and foam ceiling tiles with chunks missing…the door to the stage…I remember now. Apparently many years ago we ended a tour here. Christ, it looks like people end their lives here.
It’s another small stage, but at least it isn’t a deathtrap fire-hazard at the end of a room like that piece of garbage last night. The dressing room connects directly to the stage, so guess where guitar world is? Not behind the bass rig, thank ƒ—.
Mental health stuff: I took a happy pill before bed last night and I think it contributed to a fairly restful sleep…if there can be such a thing amid the pitch roll and yaw of a speeding bus.
I managed the day without any St John’s wort, and have been in a chipper mood. I feel like myself…which is dodgy…as confident as I feel, it also feels like I’m tempting something. Ups usually precede downs. But for now I welcome a slice of normality.
When I look back to moments of lying in my bunk awake, voices on full blast, dramatic gnashing of teeth, and thoughts of suicide, I see a stark difference. Talking about this stuff – even though it’s a blog and blogs are for hipsters – has helped immensely.
Just for a moment, I want to talk as a bloke. A man. A no-nonsense red-blooded guy who doesn’t give a fuck about any so-called feminine side or political correctness. This is for any bloke who might be going through this sort of stuff. This is for us…
We all know that banging on about yourself is a bit touchy-feely-poncey, right? Bollocks. If any of this stuff rings a bell, just admit it. At least to yourself. Just think the fucking words ‘I’m honestly not happy.’
Nobody in their right mind wants to feel like this. Yet tons of us do, and we say fuck all about it. Admit it. To yourself first, and then to a mate. A proper mate. Then tell someone you love…who loves you. There are people who give a fuck, seriously.
My wife was really worried about me when she read the stuff about a sharp knife in my bag. Who wouldn’t be? My mum’s worried. Again who wouldn’t be? We don’t want people to worry. And that’s the problem. We bottle it up because we’re supposed to be strong and tough…because that way no one will fuck with us or our family. Bollocks. You’re still one person…people are frail…end of story.
What will people think of you? I can honestly say I’ve encountered nothing negative. People are surprised…curious…they ask questions and that’s good. How do you answer? Well that’s up to you. But you certainly don’t need to excuse any of it. Rest assured, you can talk about this stuff and still just get on with things. Better than that…when you admit what’s going on, people see you’ve nothing to hide, and they might even commend you for it. If anyone says boo they’re a cunt and they’re the one with the problem. Don’t bother with them. People say shit like ‘Be a man.’ Those people are fucking idiots.