Once upon a time in a distant land a beautiful maiden named Europa was whisked away on the back of a bull that happened to be Zeus himself and consequently I find myself on her shores sipping une cafe in a Parisian, well… cafe. What better time to fill you all in on the European adventures of Mumford and Sons thus far. Writing this, I feel like a soldier penning a letter to his sweetheart and for a brief moment meaningfully peering into the pale pink light of the Parisian evening and pretend this is so. I don’t think i’d have been a particularly good soldier.
Anyway, we have reached the midway point of our grand tour. First stop was Rotterdam, or was it Liverpool? It certainly wasn’t Rome. Good gig, good people. Next stop: Copenhagen, or to be precise Christiania- a community outside of the E.U. and, I believe, exempt from the rule of law, although I did notice I was banned from smoking in the venue ... interesting. Surely nulla poena sin lege right? Right. Smash! Stockholm. Our new merchandise man/sales executive/ all round good guy Tom Gray woke up with gut wrenching guilt in his belly. After crying on his own for most of the morning he bravely plucked up the courage to confess his error: 5 boxes of t-shirts were left behind in Denmark. The boys were good about it, recognizing that if anything it was their fault for not being more specific about his responsibilities. Still, gracefully forgiven. Tom felt like Edmund after meeting Aslan; he won’t let them down again.
24 hours later and Tom is considering running away after having temporarily lost several thousand euros. Money is eventually recovered, as are the t-shirts, but Tom is a shell of a man. Not really ‘Tour’ material.
Germany. Marcus and Tom break into a colossal ‘derelikte’ factory / train station. Two very English boys, one screwdriver, plenty of sweat and they were away. Not in that way. They then realise there was an open door into the factory 50m away. Marcus kicks the ball onto a 70m high roof (impressive, sure), and so loses the group’s world cup football, putting everybody in a bad mood, but manages to convince them Tom did it. Classic petty Marcus. Classic punching-bag Tom.
France- everyone concentrates on pretending to be cultured by not wincing at the strength of the cheese. Johnny Flynn plays trumpet for the boys during Winter Winds. Not sure he’ll be doing it again. Anyway, Strasbourg tomorrow and mon cafe est tres froid. Au Revoir mes amis..
Post Script: The following may be of interest to those who wish to understand Mumford and Sons banter. It’s a strange, complicated non-sensical vernacular that, I believe, is peculiar to ‘Tour’. I’ve just about managed to pretend to understand it, learning to laugh at the right moments to the right degree and so on. A sample of such gibberish is as follows;
Holland, Smash! Germany, Smash! Pro-Evo, R2 R2… SQUARE!!! (Through ball: triangle) Football! Ja Absolute. Ab.Sol.Ute. Alright mate?
Love, A Surrogate M&S HQ and MarcusTedBenWinston x