By DON McGLASHAN

By DON McGLASHAN

We are on the road to York. It's almost dark, so it must be mid-morning. After staying the night in a bleak truck stop on the Manchester ring road, we're on the M62, in the rain.

York is an old, walled city, with buildings leaning at crazy angles and cheery signs saying: "So-and-so was martyred on this spot in 1342." The flooding has hit hard. The Travelodge carpets squelch with river water as we check in.

The travelling has made me thirsty so I drink water from the tap in the room, forgetting I'm not supposed to do that. The pub is old. Although there are no obvious traces of 14th-century lynchings, the walls bear evidence of evil goings-on. I'm talking of tribute bands, and we seem to have stumbled on the mother lode: the Jamm, the Rolling Clones, T Rextasy, Fleetwood Back and, my favourite, By Jovi.

In a dark corner, there's a poster for a band called Crowded Trousers (what sort of show is that?)

Over generous after-gig whiskies, the promoter tells us about an outfit called Rock Bitch (a sister act to Crowded Trousers?) who play at the venue regularly.

Their show-stopper seems to be "throwing the golden condom," a witty parody of wedding reception bouquet tossing, in which the punter who catches the condom gets to go up on stage and ... (At this point I start to feel ill, but don't immediately connect it with drinking York water.)

By Sheffield the following night, I'm a pale green. I stagger through soundcheck, have to crawl under a pile of old backdrops to sleep before the gig, then manage four and a half songs before falling off the side of the stage and puking into a rubbish bin.

I black out, and wake in London the next day, to hear that the entire Sheffield audience refused to have their money back, but promised to come to the next gig instead.

They do just that. The Flower Pot pub in Derby is loaded to the rafters, and the show is blistering.

It feels like we're hitting our stride; Ross and Andrew throw musical challenges to each other with the swagger of TV wrestlers; new sections of songs appear out of nowhere, teeter on the brink of falling apart, then come back together in unrepeatably inspired ways. And I manage to keep my lunch down. Everyone's so happy afterwards that the gear seems to load itself into the van.

Back in London, we do some interviews and live acoustic songs at Bush House for the BBC, then drive to Cardiff for another radio session.

There's a momentary break in the showers, but the sun's not coming out because it'll be dark soon, and anyway, he wasn't given enough notice.