|Vocals, Acoustic Guitar:||Frank Turner|
|Percussion, Backing Vocals:||Nigel Powell|
|Double Bass, Backing Vocals:||Chris Brinck-Johnsen|
Monday morning comes a-crawling in from another weekend choked with cigarettes and sin. And I've been busy so much lately that every time I get some time to spend I end up drunk or sleeping in. And I miss you, you're busy too, we call each other up when we're messed up and say we'll meet in the new year. But it's perfectly clear that we'll do no such thing come the spring.
Friday evening barely even begins before my phone begins to ring with people asking where I am. And I can't suppress a smile, we talk a-while, but chances are that I am far away and so I'm phased out of the plan. And that's how I miss out on another night, the kind of night where nothing really happens, but everything goes down. And in the end I'm just a promise to pick up the phone when I'm in town.
But when the evening casts its shadows on the corners of my days, and I am old and I am settled in the place where I will stay, when my wandering meanderings have finally reached their end, yes whatever else may be, I will not forget my friends, and may my friends remember me.
Singer-songwriter Frank Turner has had an extraordinary two-years in his native England. Heralded as "The people's prince of punk poetry" by the NME, he has …