4 May 2006

So we draw ever closer to another gig and Croydon looms on the horizon like a dirty suburb of south London.

The dust is blown from guitars and from amps sat idle too long under stairs, in cupboards and garages. Their silent wires buzz with the supressed memory of past noise and the anticpation of more to come.

The drums are brought together once again from the far corners of Dave's house, lovingly reassembled by the hands of their abuser. He bought them from some blokes in Liverpool, you know?

Tomorrow we will gather in a soundproofed Portakabin as spring tried to breathe life into the dessicated corpse of the fens outside.

As she struggles and fails in the pitiless light of a May evening we will hammer and howl our way through four hours of practice - not so much rehearsal, more a preparation, a testing for the twenty minutes on stage.

We must be ready. We must be strong as we channel the collective fear and rage of a nation in freefall. We are Bomb Factory. We have a Fiat and the backsesats are folded down. We are coming, Croydon. We are coming.

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