IT'S the same every tour. You turn up at a show and roll out of whatever rattling rust bucket you just spent nine hours wishing you were dead in.

Following a quick blink of the eyes and a stretch of the limbs, you begin loading into a venue that should have been condemned before it was built.

Inside, there are a bunch of kids in awe of the perceived lifestyle.

"You guys are so lucky," they jabber.

If only they knew. 'Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll'? Hah. The older and wiser I get the less I care about anything other than playing a great show.

Just as well, really, because for most struggling groups – and some not-sostruggling ones – the harsh reality of touring is a mind-numbing minefield of bad food, worse sleep and interminable cross-country
hellrides.

On the Dangerfields' UK jaunt in March, for example, I was awake for 46 hours straight at one point. I wasn't snorting angel dust or hobnobbing with strippers, but trying to fit a family funeral into an increasingly hectic schedule.

Our guitarist had quit on the Monday, which was a traumatic enough
farrago in itself, but worse was to come on the Wednesday with the sad, sudden death of my uncle.

I had to return to Belfast for the funeral but didn't want to let down the promoters, the punters or my bandmates, especially bassist Jamie, who was bankrolling the trip.

I thought it would be a simple case of flying home, then back; I'd be a bit frazzled but wouldn't miss any shows. Needless to say, it was far from that easy.

For the first time ever, I had decided not to bring my passport on the road. I hadn't expected to need it, and, with a few strips of gaffer being all that separated the contents of our hire van from grasping thievery, it seemed like a smart move to leave valuables at home.

However, as anyone who has ever flown budget air will know, no passport equals no flight.

So, at 7.30am on the Friday, I hauled myself out of the pit of damp towels and dog blankets I called a bed and began a series of phone calls, pleading for leeway under the circumstances.

I could have my ID delivered to the airport before the flight, after the flight, during the flight… but no. THERE'S RULES.

By this stage, it felt as though the tour had taken on sentient form and was doing its best to crush me into the dirt.

But, with stand-in six-stringer Johny Skullknuckles of Goldblade fame doing a sterling job and Chevy Chase's defiant breakdown rant from National Lampoon's Vacation ringing in my ears ("This is no longer a vacation. It's a quest. It's a quest for fun"), I stood up, dusted
myself down (of dog hair and flapjack crumbs) and formulated a plan of attack.

That evening, we were playing an all-ages show at a place called the Civic in the grim northern town of Mexborough, near Sheffield
(don't look it up).

Nick, the English drummer from the US group we were touring with, had
kindly agreed to drive me to Stranraer in his car, which had been conveniently parked nearby.

So, following a 20-minute blast of screaming speed-punk, which seemed to rile the assembled chavs and chavettes no end, we bundled into the scruffy Devonian's VW Golf (dark green, with dodgy iPod connection and
sturdy drinks holders) and hit the highway.

Two-hundred-and-forty-five miles, five hours and 40 cups of coffee later, we arrived in Stranraer. While Nick bedded down in his boot, trying not to look like a homeless terrorist, I boarded the 4.55am ferry to Belfast.

I docked at 6.50, was home by 7.30, showered and in my suit by 9 and at the church for 10am. Six hours later, I was at the City Airport with my passport, a copy of Empire and a quart of Echinaforce.

I despise air travel at the best of times but this was an especially horrible flight.

We must have circled Old Trafford a dozen times before bumping down in Manchester, where I was collected by Ben, Jamie's Chinese acupuncturist brother (guess which sibling didn't spend his school days listening to Black Flag and necking Strongbow?).

Following a 45-minute high-speed chinwag, it was into Burnley for the first of that evening's engagements, at the Sanctuary Rock Bar.

Despite sordidly unhinged between-song banter, our good-time thrash managed to win over most of the poodle-haired Saturday nighters. The next and final stop was the Soundhouse in Bolton, where our 2am
appearance at an all-night 'three-room legal party' went well, barring one nasty scrape with a crusty would-be vanjacker.

The 75-mile drive to Jamie's zoomed in and by 5.30am on Sunday, 46 hours since I last lay down flat, I was asleep in a haze of confusion
and BO fumes. Rock 'n' roll may be a dirty, thankless, hateful job – but someone's got to do it.