Slot machines; that two-pence game; shooting games with funny fake machine guns for your toddler; fights outside the Wetherspoons; smoking kids – the riches of Torquay know no end.
It’s a foggy afternoon when we arrive and oddly, a great white globe that seems to come straight out of the Prisoner is sitting there bobbing on the beach to greet us. We make no further enquiries into its mystifying appearance, but accept it as a good omen.
Once we have checked into the hostel with its eccentric German lady owner and her small sausage shaped dog, who promptly decides to scurry about like a cockroach under our beds and then elegantly secrete a viscous yellow liquid onto Cathy’s shoes, we kill some time in the arcades before loading into the venue. We are mesmerised by the flashing light panels covering the back wall of the stage, to the point that we are almost able to block out the smell of vom in a sweaty sock which permeates the basement club.
After several electrocutions and a psychedelic freakout jam of a soundcheck, we sample the local cuisine over an animated debate of the pros and cons of rabid ethnocentricity, sparked by our previous viewing of the the Introduction to Scientology DVD in the tour van. L Ron Hubbard (our Hubby, as we call him) obviously being respectable in the “field of man” (he did after all hunt with Pygmies in the Philippines), there has to be some sense to his talk about primitive cultures. Get your blinkers on!
The night continues with no major mishaps and we have a good show. Torquay’s budding indie scene has welcomed us with open arms and, our job here being done, we ride off into the sunset towards our next destination… Exeter.