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Saturday Night Sunday Morning

Sometime past midnight. Back in the hotel room. Leg started complaining, and it’s been a long day, topped off by upsetting a fan artist who was too mumbly to be understood and I suspect too drunk to understand me.
The convention location is long and narrow, and very much in the hand-crafted, small press inflected tradition of the other Scandinavian festivals I’ve done. Despite the bottleneck of getting bodies into the site, everything seemed very smooth, very organised, no hiccups.
The stage is actually in the dealer’s room, which is wired for sound, so people were listening to me both in the fifty or so seats on the stage and in the main room as they walked around. And also in the circle above the stage. Very interesting way of doing it, and I was kept talking by questions from the audience for far longer than expected.
After an excellent, leisurely and somewhat riotous meal, I attended the festival party at a club called Dubrovnik, where my leg started killing me, I ran out of cigarettes, and I was descended upon by said artist (who was pretty good, in a Teddy Kristiansen/Ted McKeever/Ben Templesmith style, but he couldn’t understand that I was telling him his pages were good) and his buddy, who managed to kick me in the leg three times in the act of sitting down and begging cigarettes. “Why are you alone?” he said. “I don’t know anyone here, it’s been a long day, and I really just wanted to sit on my own, have a drink and listen to the bands,” I said. So he sat down, pointed at his friend’s folder of art and said “Look at it!” Doubtless there’s going to be a Finnish LiveJournal entry about how I’m a prick tomorrow.
I did a shot with a local rock star called Jyrki, of the 69 Eyes, before leaving. I should have gone back, really, but the place was packed and my knee was screaming. Hoping I’ll see him tomorrow for drinks, as he’s a good guy.
Tomorrow I have to give the festival’s closing speech. I have no idea what I’m going to say. I don’t even have an old talk with me to fake it with. Sacrifice a goat, or a bottle or something, for me.

Published in mobilesignals