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> Blah! > Movies, Music, Guitars & Comics > Fiction
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It was sometime in the late afternoon at our terminal in the Bahrain airport, when we ran into trouble. They were never told that there was a group from Malaysia going to London to perform, and this did not sit well with them. Somewhere behind me an African with a curious looking passport was being hassled. "Why are you going to London?" asked the Hazamat looking customs official. "I can go wherever I want," said the Big Boi-looking African, "it is my business where I go!" He was pulled to the side. We were pulled to another side. Myself and my bandmates, two people from the organizing comittee of the Global Battle of the Bands in Malaysia (otherwise known as GBOB), numerous people from Astro and two winners of a competition to follow us to the show - a young Chinese man, his first time flying out of the country, and the Silent Cancer of the first runner ups, Revenge. We had our papers, we had our visas, there was no reason for stopping us, but Hazamat would not allow it. Not until he had heard it straight from the horses mouth. One month ago my band Y2k won the GBOB. It was totally unexpected, to say the least. We thought we hadn't performed as best we could, but somehow the gods of rock looked kindly towards us, and gave us safe passage to London to compete in the finals. Or so we thought. Hazamat looked through our letter of invitation from the London office of the GBOB. He dialled the number and got his confirmation, cursing to himself as he did so. "Ask them why they didn't fax us!" said his colleague. But it was too late. They had to let us pass, onto the plane where we would have to endure cramped seats and recycled air for another eight hours and where I would also end up spilling water all over my crotch and snore uncontrollably. I realize I sound negative. This is not the mood becoming of someone who lady luck has decided to deem worthy of going to another country to play a gig, and not just any country. The land where I once lived, and studied, and did silly things. Now I was going back to rock out with my cock out, so why should I be so negative? Because of the water. I am typing this from the Generator Hostel on Tavistock Place. The weather in London is cold, even colder with the wind-chill. Our room is a tiny closet with bunk beds, green and blue walls and a very large number over the door resembling a prison cell-block. I am not a number. I am Y2k. But even this doesn't bug me. What bugs me is the water. Namely, hot water. Or, as is the case with us, the lack of. Yes, there is no hot water, and no one in this hostel, not one of the hundreds here, have taken a proper, comfortable shower. Those that have, have not enjoyed it. Like my guitarist, Hermano Grande. He braved the cold, freezing shower at 5.30am, unable to sleep, numbing himself with the negative degrees of celcius just so that he could cleanse himself. I opted for scrubbing just my armpits, itself a difficult and painful endeavour. And don't get me started on the nether regions. We have no hot water and are surrounded by frenchmen. God help us.
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