Toronto, Canada
I've heard many excuses from airlines before, but the email I receive from Alex takes some beating. He's meant to be on a flight to Toronto to join us for some Maiden action but British Airways have lost their plane. There's 300 passengers ready to board but, erm, no big metal thing with wings for them to climb into.
I give him a call and down a crackly line he explains he's in Heathrow and BA are trying to get hold of another plane to take their paying guests across the Atlantic. How can "the world's favourite airline" have mislaid something so essential. It's not like they were unaware of their schedules but sure enough there's no plane laid on for them.
Alex estimates he'll be three hours late, same as our journey two days ago. I knew there's a reason I always fly Virgin. And it's a real shame as there's a special dinner happening in Toronto tonight which he'll now miss.
Fortunately Paul and I have opted for an altogether more civilized way to travel to Canada's biggest city; first class train travel. Ah, the visions I have of Oriental Express-style luxury, tempted by the website's description of a complimentary bar and three course lunch served as we travel around Lake Ontario, watching grand Canadian vistas pass us by. Turns out reality isn't quite so posh.
At Montreal's Central Station we collect our tickets and plonk ourselves down on plastic seats watching the queue for the 11.50 to Toronto get longer and longer. Eventually we board, getting a strange look from the ticket inspector as we do.
"Just to let you know, sir, next time you travel you can use our Business lounge and get priority boarding." Oh, now you tell us!! Transpires there's a swish clubroom to which we were entitled entry but having got our tickets from the machine rather than a person we'd not been told, so had sat with the plebeian mass on utilitarian plastic rather than lording it up in decadent armchairs with a cocktail service. Very unlike me to miss that opportunity!
Never mind, we've got five hours of luxury stretching ahead of us but upon entering our carriage it's evident that my high-faluting dreams of splendour need to be adjusted to a more prosaic reality. First Great Western to Devon is more high-end than this.
Paul and I are sat in aeroplane-style seats, with little tables we pull out of the armrests. There's no table-cloths, silver-service or fine dining, but there is a drinks trolley with a jolly stewardess dishing out enormous measures.
I've never been served a pint of Bloody Mary before. And to be honest, I don't think I ever want to repeat the experience. I mean, I like a tipple as much as the next man but a plastic beaker full of vodka and tomato juice is a bit much even for me!
Nonetheless I struggle through and peruse the menu. We're given approximately twenty seconds to choose between roasted red pepper gnocchi, dover sole or roast pork tenderloin, a second steward hovering impatiently beside us ready to steal the menus from our grasp.
We both opt for the gnocchi and when it comes silently chew our way through it, wordlessly reaching the same conclusion as to its quality. Thank God we didn't go for the fish, we'd probably have spent the journey glued to the loo!
The Canadian landscape is similarly disappointing. Like most cities, the outskirts of Montreal are less than picturesque and whilst I wasn't exactly expecting mountains the nearest we get is an endless stack of cargo crates.
Once out of the city sprawl we speed up and journey past plains, forests and the occasional lake. Sometimes little hamlets of clapperboard houses appear or we get the excitement of railroad crossings, woo-hoo! But for the most part it's just a monotonous vista of not very much at all. Paul unsurprisingly falls asleep, while I take advantage of the unfolding hours to do a bunch of work and upload some photos.
It's almost 5pm when we pull into Toronto's Union Station, underneath the grand old Royal York Hotel. My friend Katie who lives here had warned us that it was "hotter than Satan's balls" but we're still not prepared for quite how much hotter and more humid it is than Montreal.
We drag our bags three blocks to our hotel and collapse through the revolving doors, instantly grateful for the icy blast of air conditioning pumping through the lobby.
We're lucky enough to be spending three nights in this fine establishment as the gig is tomorrow but we have to stay over the Saturday night as well to get the cheaper transatlantic air-fare. So I take the time to unpack properly and freshen up before meeting Rod, the manager and Paul downstairs.
Also joining us are Dave who used to work for the band but relocated to Toronto three years ago and my old mucker and recent Shanghai companion, John, the band's photographer.
We all hop in a cab over to an Irish bar on Church Street, and after a quick beer enter the Golden Thai restaurant across the road where we've been invited to have dinner with both bands. Poor Alex should by now have arrived and be munching away on the glorious food alongside the rest of us, but there's still no word from him so we presume BA have found a plane and he's currently in the air, landing at some point tonight.
The meal is great fun with plenty of wine flowing and buckets of ice cold beer being consumed and then, with 11pm fast approaching we jump in cabs back to the hotel. We join Bruce for a nightcap, drinking some rather magnificent red wine he's discovered, and after an hour can raise our glasses and toast Alex, who finally walks into the hotel bar looking shattered but very happy to have made it to Toronto in time for the gig.
And before we know it, it's almost 2am. Time for some sleep...
