31/07/98 - Day Off. Rochester, NY.

I wake up in the afternoon and head out of the dolphin to Greg's room to use his shower.

"Man that's some big assed bus you got there. You guys in a band?"

America is obsessed by ass. A continual stream of ass. Stupid ass, wild ass, crazy ass, lame ass, big ass, I'll kick your ass, kiss my ass. Ass this, ass that. Everyone's ass mad. I find this surprising as it's one of the most openly homophobic countries I've been to. Why is everyone so obsessed with ass? Answers on a postcard to 'Why America is obsessed with Ass competition', PO Box 59, Nottingham, NG2 4BQ. All entries must arrive before December 1st and all winners will be notified by post.

Day off. Ass. Here we are in Rochester. The lack of blood around Greg's lips suggests that doesn't appear to have had an aneurysm this morning, and so I'm assuming he made that date with the Canadian consulate while I slumbered like a babe in my bunk. Like it or lump it kids - Pitchshifter are coming to Canada.

As I finished my Chinese meal today (for breakfast - thank you) I started to realise that fortune cookies are beginning to take a hold of this tour. As we don't have a stove, we eat out a lot. We are all vegetarian and so the choices are limited in the great melting pot (of meat). There's usually a Chinese restaurant in most towns and they usually have a few death free noodle dishes, and miraculously they fully understand the art of cooking without cheese (please take note Denny's Wendy's etc.). So we hit the Chinese a lot. The problem is they always give you a fortune cookie. Times that by the nine people in our crew and it only takes a few visits to the Chinese a week and suddenly you have a pile of fortunes. They're supposed to be fun, but they always seem to be so ominous. Today's offering read:

'YOU WILL PASS A DIFFICULT TEST THAT WILL MAKE YOU HAPPIER'

(Accompanied by two 'smiley' acid house faces.) I don't like it. That sounds evil. What's the test going to be? Cavity search test? No, I don't like it. Then I got to thinking. How cool it would be to produce the cookies. Think of all the minds you could warp if you had a control over the fortune papers. I could try and get people to actually think. It could revolutionise dining:

'YOU WILL REALISE THAT BLACK PEOPLE ARE NO DIFFERENT ON THE INSIDE' 'YOU WILL SEE THAT NOT EVERYTHING ON THE NEWS IS NECESSARILY TRUE'
'ONLY BY READING BOOKS BY BURROUGHS AND THOMPSON WILL YOU LIVE LONG AND PROSPER '

What the fuck am I thinking? It'll never work. Not enough meat dishes. If you could stain those slogans right into the veins of red meat straight from the cow's back . . . now you're talking. You could hit all the fast food joints too. There's no way they could escape you. Propaganda laden Blackpool rock meat. I like it. The picture: I wanted to show you the glamorous life we lead on the tour bus. This is one of those luxurious bunks on the dolphin I keep mentioning. Please note the ceiling height, yes it does take you a few days to remember to duck when you wake up.

30/07/98 - Intersection. Grand Rapids, MI.

Grand rapids is a weird place. It's Thursday afternoon and everything is closed. I guess people here don't get hungry on Thursdays. Me? I'm bloody starving and I've been confined to consuming the despair of a Subway. Lord have mercy.
So tonight I get the full story about Sam the drummer from Cold. Last night their driver pulled over to re-fuel while everyone was asleep. Sam got out to take a dump, and the driver, who thought everyone was still asleep (and didn't get a note from Sam) left after filling up. So there our boy is, no shoes, no T-shirt, wearing only shorts, sitting at a truckstop in Iowa. One dollar in his pocket, 500 miles from the rest of his band. He had to beg for cash to eat and someone gave him a pair of boots. Cowboy boots. The band didn't realise he was gone until they got to the gig. Our boy had to hitch hike in shorts and cowboy boots with no socks or T-shirt. A trucker took him most of the way. The trucker had his delivery to make at the steel mill and so our boy had to sit there and wait somewhere in Iowa while the trucker strapped steel girders to the wagon. It took Sam 23 hours to get back with his crew. The poor bastard. He looks visibly weakened.

My arm hurts like hell from the burn (see pic) but he gig is great. I have a great gig simply because I can clearly hear my voice perfectly clearly in the monitors. A rare occurrence. The tone is perfect and the level is great. It might have sounded awful out front, but on stage it sounded amazing.

"I went to see Pitchshifter last night."
"Yeah? What were they like?"
"They sounded great on stage."

After the show we have to drive to Buffalo. We have to get to the Canadian embassy. We didn't find out that we were going to play the Canadian gig until four weeks ago. It takes six weeks to process an entry request to play in Canada. We couldn't obviously couldn't get it done in the allotted time. Now we have to physically bring our passports to the nearest Canadian embassy, which happens to be in Buffalo. It's 500 miles from Grand Rapids to Buffalo. They embassy gave us a window from 8.30 am to 11.30 am to get there and process the passports. The lady said it would probably take a few hours and so it's best for us to get there at 8.30 am. We pack up fast and leave the gig at 1.30 am. That's gives us 7 hours to drive 500 miles. By my calculation we have to drive at 71 miles an hour continually for seven hours to get there. One mile over the speed limit all the way for seven hours. It doesn't look good does it? I'll let you know what happens tomorrow. If we miss the Canadian embassy we can't play in Canada. Wish us luck.

Just before I crash out in my bunk I hear Bo the driver calling me from the front seat.

"Jon! Jon c'mere!"
"What?"
"I'm sick of listening to these assholes talk shit on the CB. Give 'em some of that crazy stuff you talk. I wanna make their heads hurt."

I take charge of the CB, my best late Fifties English newsreader voice in full force:

"ROLL UP, ROLL UP: SINGLE CELL ORGANISMS TO THE FRONT! HORSES TO THE WALL! YOUR SNICKERS AND COKE WILL LANCE THE KAISER'S CYST AS THE WEASEL OF THE APOCALYPSE STALKS US IN THIS FIELD OF DESPAIR! THROW YOURSELVES INTO THE AFFRAY! THE FINAL HARVEST IS COMINGGGGGG!"
"Thanks Jon that should do it."
"Good night Bo."
"G'night Jon."

29/07/98 - Emerson Theatre. Indianapolis, IN.

When I wake up in the afternoon I discover that the bandage has slipped off my arm and onto the bus floor. My duvet is by my feet and the tape tape that was holding the bandage to my arm has managed to attach itself to my penis. What the hell do I do in my sleep? Don't answer that. There's a trickle of green cream cheese running from my arm. The burn has gone septic. Yummy. I clean it up and head for the gig. 'Cold' who have recently joined the tour can't play tonight. Not because of 'Injury Day' or anything, they seem immune to all that. They can't play because they lost the drummer. I don't how they lost him, something to do with a truck stop, but they lost him all the same. Very odd. We've been playing together for nine years and we've never lost each other. We lost our soundman once but never the band, etiquette forbids. The show itself is good (sick of hearing that yet?). The crowd seem to like Pitchshifter and all is well. We've sold a few records here and it's nice to know that people are prepared to support the music live too. I stick a bandage on my arm to keep it clean while we play. The damn thing burns like hell all the way through. It's the sweat. It keeps running into it. Apparently 'chics dig scars' and so I'm going to be OK from now on. Dinner dates coming out of my ears and a full dance card. Better cancel my computer dating membership tomorrow.

After the show I meet a very large doctor. At first I thought she was a transvestite. Not because she's overtly ugly or anything, but because she's taller than me and she looks harder than me. She is in fact a woman, and a doctor at that. Doc Morrison takes a look at my burnt arm. She tells me it's a second degree burn and I should take care to keep it clean.

"Tell me straight Doc, how long have I got?"
"You'll live."
(I had to ask her, it was bigger than me, I just want to say the words once before I die.)

The picture? It's a picture of myself and the Butler boys: James and Biff. They're really nice lads and they both dig Pitchshifter. Their Mum is a very nice lady and their Dad is one of the Lords of Heavy Rock. Functional Heavy Metal family - I like it!

28/07/98 - Safari Club. Des Moines, IA.

Injury day has become Injury Week. As we pull up to the Safari Club I am greeted by Doug from Gravity Kills. Two sentences into our conversation he tells me about Chris (Gravity Kills stage tech). Chris has damaged his back lifting the equipment, he can hardly walk properly. Chris is a nice guy. I feel bad for him. I hope he can finish the tour. Another winner for Injury week:

"Chris, do you stick with your damaged spine or gamble the lot for a much worse and potentialy fatal injury? . . . I'm going to have to hurry you Chris . . . injury week can't last forever!"

The gig is one of the hottest shows we have ever played. The place is rammed (although sadly I see no pith helmets) and there's no air conditioning. The only AC is coming from the two fans we have on stage to cool ourselves down. We die up there. We slash songs out of the set every other song. It's just too hot to play properly. During the show a kid pulls me down as I try to get back on stage after a stage dive. I get away from him but my hand starts to really hurt me. I guess I twisted it. We play hard and fast and exit through the crowd. Not bad for no sound check. I guess we still have the juice, major label or no change in our pockets.

After the show my hand starts to really hurt. Burning. It looks all fucked up. I remember what happened now. I got pulled onto one of the halogen stage lights standing on the floor. I stuck my hand into the light to save my face and now it's all burnt. There's a blister on the side of my hand and a section of my skin missing from the wrist. Very nice. Injury week strolls ever onward. To recap: the soundman has broken his big toe, Johnny has cracked his head, Chris has fucked his back and now I've singed my hand. Get a hold of George Cloony will ya?! It's an episode of ER. The Gravity Kills and Pitchshifter Emergency Room Show. Come one, come all, only ten American dollars to see the travelling hospital Freak Show. All ages welcome. Book early to avoid disappointment. Also available for children's parties. Very reasonable rates.

27/07/98 - Day off. Minneapolis, MN.

The tour itinerary shouldn't read 'Day Off', it should read 'Injury Day'. Two of us are down. Michael Caine is telling the Zulu's to stop chucking their bloody spears at him in 'Zulu' the movie playing on the bus satellite TV. The dolphin has become a rolling hospital. An omen? Are we to expect more? Johnny woke up with a cut on his forehead (see pic) and he feels [sic] 'weird'. Shirt (the soundman) looks like he's broken his big toe (see pic). It's all purple and horrible looking and to top it off he's twisted his knee on the same leg. He has to hobble to the toilet and back like the wounded soldiers in Zulu. I don't ask either of them how it happened. A man's injuries are his own affair, like his French fries. Never eat another man's French fries. People like to suffer on their own.

During the day we take the dolphin to Universal records and say hello to the people from the Minneapolis office. They are all friendly types and I leave with a good enough selection of jazz and blues to annoy the rest of the boys with for the remainder of the tour. (The bloody heathens.)

At night I take a jaunt with Greg to see Siouxie and the Creatures at a local venue. John Cale(who was the original guitarist in the Velvet Underground) was on first, then Siouxie came out and strutted her stuff. And where did it all go my friends? Right over my head, or rather I should say right through me. It all washed completely through me and I left after 15 minutes. From what I can remember both of these artists started off punk and now they've become the total antithesis of that; endless rambling lyrics and overly dramatic synth music. It's just my point of view. I don't want to bea critic. I'm just telling it like I saw it. They were not my people.

Injury day rolls on. On the overnight ride to Des Moines my brother tells me that Jim and he saw a woman get run over in the street today. A bus hit her in the head. She was lying in the street not moving with her eyes open as the shoppers filed by. On the local news I saw that three people got shot in Minneapolis today. On the national news I see that a rack of scaffolding has fallen off the side of a building in New York City and killed another three people. 'Injury Day' spreads over into a national holiday. The whole block has been cordoned off for safety reasons. The weird bit? Both our tour agent and our travel agent are housed in that block. Neither of them can get into their offices. We can t find out anything about the upcoming hotels or gigs. We are effectively blind. Tooling around the country in a blind dolphin looking for gigs. What are the odds of that happening? A million to one? You've got to laugh. As long as I am safely housed in the belly of the dolphin and I have food money I don't concern myself with all that. What will be will be, me losing my hair over it won't change a thing. Onward to Des Moines!

26/07/98 - Mall of America. Minneapolis, MN.

Today is technically a day off. We don't have a gig but we have something to do. We have to go to the Mall of America. None of us have any concept of what the Mall of America is and so we unsuspectingly await the arrival of the record company representative for Minneapolis. He's a nice guy and he wouldn't steer us wrong. The Mall of America must be OK.

CLANG! The Mall of America is a giant puss filled dripping sore on the face of the Earth. Forget the Ribfest, that's small potatoes next to this baby. The Mall of America is the new epicentre of evil for the Mid West. Let me explain: the Mall of America is a mall, obviously, except that this fucker is as big a town. There are thousands of completely normal people . . . shopping. The sickness is endless. There's even a theme park inside the mall (see pic). Ferris wheels, a roller coaster, rides, stalls, hot-dogs, trees? It's a fucking nightmare, some twisted combination of 'Stepford Wives' and 'They Live'. We (of course) are the Antichrist in this environment. Jim got totally drunk last night and let some lesbians die his hair luminous green. Mark's dreadlocks are sticking straight up and Greg's full 'rude boy' ska attire and his 'Made in England' neck tattoo go down a treat with the white trash. God help us. They're going to lynch us.

Our mission in this gateway to the underworld is to sign a few autographs and say hello to the folks at an alternative store deep in the heart of the Mall. The folks in the stall are very friendly and they are 'one of us'. An alternative oasis in a sea of shit. We gladly sign a few posters and CDs and generally mill around and look useful. How they survive being encircled by the relentless, pointless, consumer hell I'll never know. My hat goes off to you all. The second we can leave the Mall of America we run out of there. I actually have a headache. I haven't had one for ages. This safe haven for endless ineffectuality has damaged my mind.

Lynch/Kafka - 1, Pitchshifter - 0.

25/07/98 - Day off. Minneapolis.

I'd just like to stick my tongue out to all the net sceptics out there. "The internet is an over-hyped pile of rubbish that's only good for porn."

Yeah well I've heard that a million times and it's a load of bollocks.

I woke up, I logged onto the Vegetarian's guide to America' and I found the Minneapolis page. It listed the top 20 restaurants with veggie dishes in town and each one had a map to click on and a star rating. Try getting all that info on the telephone on a local call number. I don' think so. I ate a delicious veggie meal and didn't have to wait. Naa naah. The 'Ribfest' is real.

The Jamaican taxi driver from yesterday wasn't crazy. Minneapolis is holding a festival in praise of ribs. There is a whole portion of the city centre cordoned off for rib stalls. Inumerous tents shelter huge skillets continually cooking dead pig bones. The city is voluntarily rejoicing in the eating of pig ribs. People have driven in from out of town to eat pig. Whole families are here. Baseball capped fathers eat ribs with their freckled goofy teethed children sitting on their shoulders . . . eating ribs. The smell is making me sick. There's a giant inflatable pig to welcome the carnivorous horde. The pig is smiling and holding a plate . . . of ribs. This place is all fucked up. Each stall has it's 'Ribfest' trophies on display. Large sporting trophies on ornate stands with little silver and gold pigs at their pinnacle. Huge things, five feet tall. I have to get away from here. I've stepped into an episode of 'Sliders' without noticing.As I swiftly exit the Ribfest area of town I am confronted by another horror. Beach volleyball. These sick bastards have gone and brought in tons of sand and nets and crowd seating for inland beach volleyball. The living embodiment of Hell has manifested itself in downtown Minneapolis. Twin towns? You betcha. Twinned with Hades. Thousands of half asleep working stiffs are milling around a state sponsored bloodfest and they have to heighten the depravity by adding tan happy nuclear family types playing beach volleyball? Satan is at work in Minneapolis. It's the epicentre of evil for the Mid West. I say kill two birds with one stone. Eat the beach volleyball players and you still get to have a Ribfest. I'm a fair man. You could give them a sporting chance. Line them up after the game. Give them three chances to live:

"1 - What do the 13 stripes stand for on the American flag? . . . No? Next chance."
"2 - What's the square root of minus one? . . . No idea? last chance."
"3 - How many sides does a dodecahedron have? . . . No?"
BLAMM!
"YOU'RE RIB MEAT!"

Maybe I'm being a little extreme. I know, I know, I need professional help. I can see the CNN special now:

"LONE PASTY LOOKING ENGLISH GUNMAN KILLS HEALTHY TAN AMERICAN KIDS CELEBRATING NATIONAL MEATHOLIDAY."

They'd start with a character profile:
"He was a loner sinceschool days. Other kids would be playing team sports while Jonathan would be smoking marijuana alone in his bedroom and listening to brainwashing punk rock music."

Then they'd move onto a summary:
" Obviously this hideous crime was a cry for help, Jonathan just wanted to be one of those healthy happy meat eating kids but he couldn't be because he was a pinko-lefty weirdo and so he had to destroy the thing he craved."

And of course the obligatory comment from a next door neighbour to finish the piece:
"He was such a quite man. He kept himself to himself. You would have never thought that he was a homicidal maniac. We used to let him baby-sit the kids."

Atnight we console ourselves from the beach volley ball and dead pig revelry by getting hammered. It's not big or clever, but we have three (count them, three) days off in a row and here we are in the heart of a pig slaughtering state holiday. So we invite ourselves to the very accommodating record company representative's house, drink his booze, play his stereo loud and then leave. I don't think we broke anything and his girlfriend was still smiling as we left so we must have behaved ourselves.

The weird bit: when I got up the next day I found a picture of a KISS painting (see pic) on my camera that I have no recollection of taking. I think it was from the record company guy's house, but I can't be sure. Very strange. What does it mean? You wanted the best, you've got the best.

24/07/98 - Ground Zero. Minneapolis, MN.

In the cab on the way from the hotel to the venue the Jamaican cab driver keeps shouting about ribs: "Many ribs! No cover charge! Festival of ribs! Big stage! Many ribs!"

Whatever, just get me to the gig my friend. You can't shout about ribs all day weirdo.

Before the gig Jim and I do a video interview for some local boys. They set
us their lights and clip mics in the back of the bus and we talk about the
new LP. The interviewer is a very genuine man and it's a pleasure to be
asked some intelligent questions about the band and ourselves as people (a
point which many folks seem to forget - that we are actually autonomous
individuals as well as being band members). During the interview I take a
picture of the camera man (see pic). He doesn't know what to do. Poetic.

The gig is raging for about the first three songs. The crowd are digging us
and things are hotting up. Then my monitors fizzle, distort, cut out and
everything fucks up for me. I give up in the middle of one song. I just
can't hear what I'm doing. I don't think the crowd notice. I take a stage
dive instead. I figure it's all the same. If I sing or if I dive into the
crowd. As long as there's something to look at. It's not the house
engineer's fault. The monitors suck because the equipment sucks. At least he
is sitting by the desk and trying to make it work for us instead of sucking face with some girl. During the show there are a couple of gay guys waggling
their middle fingers in their mouths at me. Being boring and heterosexual I
don't know the specifics of the gesture but I figure it's overtly sexual and
it's directed at me. Sponge or stone? I guess I'd have to be stone boys,
sorry.

We try our best to salvage the gig but it's too late for us. We've lost the
flow tonight. We should just play our bit and get the fuck off stage so that
Gravity Kills can maybe save the day. The crowd genuinely cheer us as we
scuttle away. I guess they enjoyed it. The highlight for me personally was
leaning down and giving a condom to two girls locked in a kiss. Well, I
thought it was funny. No offence intended.

After the show we head to a local club for a good time. Denied. They're
playing some god awful house music and it's a real cattle market. Under the
guise of going to the toilet I manage to slip away from everyone else and
sneak back to the hotel room I've booked. I can't sleep on the damn dolphin
tonight. I need to stretch my legs out and sprawl around. There's only so
much Captain Ahab a man can take and I'm all bunked out.

23/07/98 - The Ranch Bowl. Omaha, NE.

The Ranch Bowl is a venue and a bowling alley.
During the day they let the bands bowl for free.
I like these 'theme' venues. There's a gig in Seattle that's a launderette and a venue. Wash and go. Today it's bowling. I hook up with Matt (guitarist from Gravity Kills) and we shoot a round. I've only ever been bowling once before and so I don't hold up much hope as to my performance. I got 107. Whatever the hell that means. The big Claydowski I am not.

After a Chinese meal I crack open the fortune cookie and read the tiny paper enclosed within: 'DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE HAS YOU ASSIGNED'

Hello Thomas Selby Jnr! Do I need a fortune cookie to tell me that I'm trapped on this dolphin for the next five months? I don't think so. But thanks for rubbing it in. A quick glance around the other tables reveals no Kafka. I read the cookie again. What kind of grammar is that? 'which fate has you assigned'. Does Yoda write these things. Try reading that sucker back with a Yoda accent and it all fits in. Mr Lynch? Table for two? Right this way Sir.

The gig is another good one. I wish I had something more interesting to tell you, like the crowd hated us and we had to leave under a police escort, but it's just not true. We had a great gig. We really enjoyed ourselves. We realise how lucky we are to be able to do this instead of a shitty job and the crowd really liked us. Thank you Omaha. During the show Geoff (vocals for Gravity Kills) bobs up in the front row of the crowd and gets down to a few Pitchshifter tunes. Yeehaaaw. There is the obligatory flash of knocker and I'm tonight's victim.

I swear to you we don't ask them to do it, they just do. It's some weird mammary cult. During the gig I notice a gap in the back doors of the venue. Through the doors and outside I can see the day light. These 'All Ages' shows are early and so it's still light. There, just outside the venue, in the day light, are two beach volleyball courts, and there are people playing on them. Some twisted cracker spawn has constructed two full beach volleyball courts, with sand, outside the venue. There are dozens of demon seed shiny happy tan smug beach people bobbling around as we play. Here I am trying to get that spark of creativity going, that first thought with the youth of a nation and Satan waiting outside with ice cold Coke-a-cola and beach volleyball. The scales are tipped.

After the show we meet Rob. He works at a bike shop and he builds his own bikes. He's also constructed a large metal clock frame in the shape of the Pitchshifter eye logo (see pic) and had the decency to lug the thing half way across town to our gig and present it to us as a gift. What a guy. I don't know how in the hell we are going to get this monster home but we appreciate the gift. It's nice to receive gifts from genuinely cool people instead of threats from deranged lunatics. Thanks Rob. Bonus ball tonight, another two cool PSI fans, Mark and Braden show up and present me with a copy of 'Cat's Cradle' by Kurt Vonnegut Jnr. (yes he did write 'Slaughterhouse Five'). You just keep the cool gifts coming my friends. Here I am in the supposed turgid hell of the Mid West, the area of the country that the rest of the country makes fun of, and I get a copy of an excellent book and a large hand made Pitchshifter clock! Gimme Nebraska or gimme death!

22/07/98 - Ogden Theatre. Denver, CO.

Uh oh. We've all lost it. The insanity of the road has crept into our
dreams. Last night Johnny dreamt that a meteorite crashed into the Earth. He
was standing in a crowd and he saw a meteorite hit the horizon. The
shockwave hit him first. Then he heard the sound of a jumbo jet hitting an
apartment block, then the cloud of debris and dust hit him in the face as
people ran screaming all around him. Later he said that it was like Mad Max,
people killing each other for a bottle of water and a can of petrol.

I, on the other hand, dreamt that the little curtain had fallen off my bunk.
In my sleep I had kicked off my duvet and was lying there naked . . . with
an early morning hard on (EMH to the initiated). The rest of the band and
all the crew were all standing in a line next to my bunk, pointing and
laughing at my erection. Johnny gets the end of the world as we know it and
I get sexual ridicule. It's so unfair.

Denver is a mile above sea level. A city of super lunged athletes. A genetic
experiment. They win. After the first song I'm dying. I just can't get
enough oxygen in my lungs. Feeble. The crowd are great tonight though. They
really dig Pitchshifter and they want us to know it. They throw money,
cigarettes, chewing gum and one condom. Thanks guys. I stick the dollar
bills in my shorts like some cheap titty dancer and give the cigarettes to
the band. Well, waist not want not. I can be a whore for 45 minutes and live
with myself in the morning.

After the show we hide from the rain in the dolphin. The dolphin likes the
rain in all it's bluey goodness. Soon there are some girls on the bus. I
don't know how they got there but they want signatures . . . from the crew.
This tour is just getting plain silly now. Women want the crew's signatures?
Where will it end? Stilly (our stage tech) has a 'logo' instead of a
signature. He always makes a line drawing of a mug tree. You know, the
little wooden thing you can hang four coffee mugs from in the kitchen.
Whatever. Soon I'm confronted with two stomachs (see pic) for a photograph.
As the designated impartial observer and holder of the digital camera I am
obliged to document the tour and all it's lunacy. I don't know why these
things happen or what they mean. I'm just the bag man.

As the dolphin pulls out of the parking lot. I finally mange to get rid of
the last straggler. The boys soon got scared and ran away from her. There's
a woman singing happy birthday in Spanish to me and intermittently telling
me how smoking as much crack as she does makes her very aggressive.
"Do you ever get really aggressive Jon? Do you ever feel like you could
kill? Do you ever stop typing on that computer?" (I'm typing this as she
rants) "Do you ever stop the tippety tap of the tappety tipping? A moment of
your brain scored to the keys - and who has the keys? I can't find them - I
need a guide. Can you take me there Jon? Would you marry me? You are so
very handsome. Want some coke?"

I get the tour manager to get rid of her. Who the hell is he anyway? Why me?
I was just typing on the computer and now some demented female Stanley Unwin
wants to shoot me full of crack and marry me? Sorry to say again and about
such a cool city, BUT GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!