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.
The M4 is flanked with fields of bagged Christmas trees, ready to be trucked in their millions to hardware superstores all over the country.
The beautiful single arc of the Severn Bridge into Wales is spoiled only by the weird shade of hospital green that all the steelwork is painted. I try not to think of Sheffield.
All the signs are suddenly bilingual. "Newport" is "Casnewydd," "Services" is "Gwasanaethau." Suddenly I'm spouting Dylan Thomas and demanding that we stop for a pint of stout with an egg in it.
The rest of the band remember Sheffield, and they decide it's a bad idea.
The gig, at the Toucan Club, is just as good as Derby. Queen's English seems to go on for half an hour, we're having so much fun with it.
It's two days after Wales is defeated by the Springboks; the pub dinner lounge is filled with a South African supporters club barking triumphantly at each other in Afrikaans, so we take our after-gig party back to the hotel.
The next morning, we wander around the town looking for breakfast. Cardiff swims in a grey light, as if all the people and buildings are in a giant fish tank that needs a good clean. There are just a few more shows left before the big one, Shepherds Bush Empire in London.
That seems to be selling out already, so, with a spring in our step, it's one last look around, then back in the van.
* Mutton Birds' frontman Don McGlashan concludes his column next week on the band's tour of England.
<i>Up Over:</i> It's the grand old puke from York
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