Hello everybody, it's me, Bob.

I'm typing from Tokyo where I'm still recovering from a stomach bug. I'm well on the road to recovery and am flying out to New York tomorrow morning to join the band for the show in New Jersey on Friday.

I'm going to miss the first two shows of the U.S. tour but have deputised Toshi, of the Fiery Furnaces, for bass playing duties. I'm sorry to miss the shows in Detroit and Philadelphia but if I'd have left the hospital too early there was a good chance my illness would have worsened again and might have ended up back in hospital somewhere in the U.S., probably missing even more shows.

I'm looking forward to re-joining the tour on Friday and am sure that the temporary Bob-less line-up will be fantastic. I wish I was there to see it.

Thank you for all your messages of support.

Best Wishes,

Bob.

I heard a good story about two friends of ours in Glasgow. They share a flat. Flatmate A discovered that Flatmate B had a secret stash of pornographic magazines. Flatmate A cut out the faces of Franz Ferdinand band members from various non-pornographic magazines and pasted them over the models' faces in Flatmate B's magazines. Flatmate B has discovered this, and although surprised and amused, isn't letting on to Flatmate A that he knows, as he doesn't want him to think that he has much call to use the secret stash.

I had a confrontation recently with someone who claims to be an artist. He wouldn't defend a piece of obnoxious work he'd done. Couldn't explain why he did it. I despise that kind of feeble-mindedness. I like art that's challenging and obnoxious. Particularly if it's funny. However, if an artist wants to challenge, they have to accept any challenge that returns to them. If they lack the dialogue to defend their stance, they are not an artist.

It's the reverse of Christmas shopping in Glagow, when you go in and out of buildings or cars in LA. In Glasgow, you freeze in the wind and sleet, then enter a shop to be met by a wall of stifling hot air. In LA it's hot outside, then as soon as you're inside, you're met by a wall of frozen air. The difference in temperature must be about the same. Too hot to too cold and vice versa. I find myself sitting in a car with goosepimples and a headache from the cold air blasting at my head. I think it has to do with the mentality of "I have a luxury, so I'm going to make damn sure I use it". When I was a kid, my grandparents had a big colour TV. It was a luxury. They used to turn up the colour and contrast settings as far as they could, as if they were getting as much luxury out of it as possible.

I like LA, though. It's so alien, so different from anywhere else. They have all this health stuff over here. Bob and I went to a shop this morning and bought loads of packets of health pills. They were full of weird vegetable extracts, vitamins etc. We swallowed them all and washed them down with coffee. I feel very healthy as I type. Last time I felt this healthy was at a club about a year ago.

We played at the Inland Invasion show last night. Morrisey pulled out. He was feeling poorly again. The news broke backstage just before Ian Brown was about to go on. The promoters wanted to announce it to the audience. Brown said he wouldn't go on if they did. It would put everyone in a bad mood. They let him go on without the announcement. When he was on stage he said "by the way, Morrisey's not coming". I like Ian Brown.

We're staying in the Hyatt hotel on Sunset Boulevarde. In the '70s it used to be known as the Riot House. Bands like Led Zep and The Who used to bring back tellys and chuck prostitutes out of the windows. Now they make you sign a contract as you check in, promising not to throw a party in your room.

I walked out of the hotel this morning to get some breakfast. I wanted to get some of those wee black beans and guacamole. I bumped into Joey Santiago. He was looking for a snow globe. He gets them in all the places he tours. The festival was great. Very hot. Toots and the Maytals were on before us. 54 46 Was My Number has the best Reggae bassline.

We played in Houston yesterday. It was Paul's birthday. He and some of the others went to NASA. I stayed in and designed the cover for This Fire, the next American single. We've been putting together another new song in soundchecks at the last couple of gigs. Well, a couple. The main one is without a title, as yet. We're calling it Well That Was Easy. It's about a situation where you have left someone, you are recalling their flaws, all their vile flaws, and yet are still heart-broken and in love with them. I like writing about things like that, where there is a lot of emotion and passion flying around, but none of it is as clear as it should be.

There's going to be a hurricane here soon. There's that ominous/before a storm/feeling. The skies are grey. There are little gusts of wind that are like grunts from a waking MONSTER. Bob and I went for lunch in the French Quarter. There was a hostage situation going on in a flat above the restaurant. We didn't realise until the cop cars and loudhailers appeared. Some guy had decided he didn't like his landlord anymore, so he was holding him at gunpoint. The waiter in the restaurant kept popping in and out to keep us posted. He seemed mildy interested in the way you might be if you liked football and a game was on the TV, but neither of the teams were yours. He assured us that there was a seven man SWAT team with rifles on the roof. There seemed no reason to doubt him. It didn't seem odd, under the meteorological darkness. We ate our lunch and enjoyed it. Alligator sausage. That didn't seem odd either. The guy sitting at the table next to us turned out to be the owner of the siege building. Other than occasionally fiddling with a huge sparkling diamond pinkie ring, he seemed calm. By the time we had coffee, the waiter announced that he'd given himself up. All that the man with the ring said was

"That boy's going to gaol for a long time... those SQUAT teams don't come cheap."

We met up with some of the others and took a bus out to the Bayou, then a boat out on the swamp. I kept thinking of Down By Law and Live and Let Die. We sailed past a cemetary that looked the perfect place for a little voodoo. Our captain told us that Indians had been burying their dead there for a couple of thousand years before the French arrived. He then told us about the erosion that was washing away the land. He pointed out the wooden trading post shack that was a hundred and fifty years old. He talked a little about the plantations. He pointed out the alligators that were swimming alongside the boat. The alligators. Swimming alongside. He was so blase. He tossed one a marshmallow. It snapped. It flicked a tail and was gone. Some were short, little youngsters with needley teeth and lithe wee bodies. The biggest was about eight or nine feet, a puffing grunter, bad tempered, growling and not really interested in a crappy marshmallow. We kept our limbs well inside the boat.

We played in Atlanta again, yesterday. Ben, a friend of ours who we met at T In The Park gave us a huge stack of Beatles bootlegs. I was so chuffed. I love that sort of thing, particularly when you can hear a song develop. There's a version of Jealous Guy from the time they went to India. It's roughly the same tune, but with completely different words and sentiment, all about being a child of nature on the road to Rishikesh. It's fragile and sweet, but I prefer the later version, where he's admitting to the uglier human emotions. It's more convincing.

Some girls gave us a copy of a video they had made for the song Michael, starring themselves. It's them dancing at home, in front of a handycam. I love it. They're obviously having a total laugh as they do it. It reminded me of how we were when we wrote the thing.

We played in Philadelphia last night. Roseland, NYC, the night before. The last couple of days have been intense, but wonderfully so. Roseland was, next to North Six, the best NY show we've done. It was a bit of a Madame Tussauds situation again, with the amount of celebrities there. Bowie came along. David bloody Bowie. No one is famous anymore. Those icons, remote and untouchable have been touched. I remember sitting with the sleeves of Ziggy Stardust, Heroes and Low, staring as I sucked in the music, perched on the end of my bed, head between the speakers. If that's going to be topped, someone's going to have to exhume Freddie Mercury or John Lennon. It is very strange to talk to someone who is so familiar, but whom you've never met. I found myself dithering over which eye I should focus on as I talked to him. I decided on the one with the little pupil. It felt like it was the one he was looking out of. We chatted about music. He was disappointed that he had missed the Futureheads as he wanted to see them. It's great to think that someone like him is still a music fan.

I'm sitting in some flea-bitten hotel in NYC. Literally. My room has fleas. Little buggers everywhere. I told the guy at reception and he said there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do? That's right. So, I should just keep quiet and learn to get on with the fleas? It seemed a bit off. I don't really like complaining about trivial stuff. If there are no teabags by the kettle, I don't really care. If there's no shower cap, or the guy next door has the TV on too loud. I'm not really bothered. Fleas are on a different level. I decided to go for a walk. They gave me a new room in the end. I realised that I'd been exaggerating the situation. They weren't fleas. They were lice.

What a bizarre and thrilling couple of days. Yesterday, we met up with Heidi Slimane and David Simms to shoot some photos. We played the Specials, danced around. Went to Grosvenor House to rehearse for Mercury music prize. Came back to hotel. Wrote a tune.

Got up at 6 this morning, went to he heavily armed-guarded American Embassy and got a new visa. Pulled the most disturbing face I could for the photo. Suspect may regret it at passport control at some point. Had a wander around some guitar shops with Nick. Met up with Paul Smith for lunch. He's extremely exuberant. We had a good chat about colour. I think we have the scheme for the next set of songs. Then went back to the dress rehearsal of Mercury. Met up with my wee sister, who was my date for the night. Had a drink, then nipped out the back with the others, where there were three mini convertables waiting. They took us round the block so we could "arrive" at the front of the hotel, where there was a red carpet and loads of blokes with cameras. We all walked up. They took photos. Had another drink. Played Take Me Out. Felt exciting. There were so many good bands nominated and there was a great atmosphere at the place. The girls singing for Basement Jaxx were sitting next to us. They were a good laugh. After we played, we nipped over to the GQ awards. Felt like we'd crashed someone else's party. Too many celebs. Like that floor on Madame Tussauds, where you can stand beside them for a photo. Except Hitler wasn't there. Or John Travolta. Elton John was, though. He came up to say hello. He was down to earth and chatty. He had on a pair of Janis Joplin Specs. Rory Bremner was presenting it, lots of catty remarks about Blair and Rooney. Michael Howard received an award. He was hissed at. Paul bumped heads with Boris Johnson. Sharon Osbourne then presented us with an award for being Newest Best Group. She was very flattering. Said she fancied us. Hope Ozzy doesn't batter us. As we were leaving, Jordan arrived with Peter Andre as the front and back end of a pantomime horse. Time to go. Arrived back at the other place. I was feeling exhausted, having not properly eaten all day, and a little wearied by too much chat, so sat behind the stage for a bit of silence. It was good back there. It reminded me of sneaking down to my parents' parties when I was a kid, intrigued by the smell of booze, vol-au-vents, fags and sausage rolls, hiding behind a door, wondering what was going on. Got back to seat for the announcement. Was curious to see who won. We'd all presumed we wouldn't win, since we'd heard we were the favourites.

I'm back in an airport again, sitting in one of those Wireless Zones. I like the idea of wireless - it sounds so inapropriately quaint, making me think of someone plugging a crystal set into their titanium palm-pilot. Palm-pilot? Who thinks up the lingo? That is horrible. It sounds like a schoolboy euphemism. I'm sitting beside another gadget called Fingabox. It's great. For kids. A helicopter pops up on the screen, winks and lauhgs mischeviously, then hides behind one of the clouds. The clouds then swirl around and the kid slaps the screen, guessing where the helicopter guy is hiding. They get very excited about it. There has been a succession of siblings sitting on the yellow bench, slapping away. Usually they end up slapping each other, as eagerness to belt the helicopter smothers their eagerness to share.

I love the way kids jump so quickly from ecstatic joy to complete desolation and heart-rending dismay. Then back again. Usually depending on who has the upper hand. I can see the little kiddie politics, at they turn the affections of the dim parent against the other. God, they are so smart. A wee girl of around three has just strutted up to her big brother - Hi Benjy! She chimes, sugar coated fairies fluttering around the words, as dim parent looks down, smiling benevolently. I said. Benjy she yaps, flicking the words into bile-coated stilletoes as witless parent is distracted by the sale items in the Marlboro Classics shop. Benjy snarls. Sisters elbow jabs. Benjy bares milk-fangs. Brings nail up for the gouge. Brain in parents tail tells brain in parents head something might be up. By the time the diplodocus looks down, the brown-eyed cherubs are embracing. Parent turns thoughts back to gazing.

I've not been updating this much. Too busy not being busy. I cycled to Edinburgh along the canal, the day before yesterday. It's the same canal that was the setting for the book Young Adam, but barely recognisable, apart from the odd glimpse. The filth and industry have been replaced by wildlife preservation schemes and grannies tea parties at the Falkirk Wheel. The wheel is a fantastic thing. The principle is so simple a Greek guy in a bath could work it out, but it's perfect. I like engineering with a sense of style, too. This thing looks like it should be on the cover of a 60s Asimov paperback. That is good. I like engineering to instill a sense of awe - that we are catching a glimpse of a future unimaginably better than the present. A bit of metal that scoops boats from one canal and drops them in another. That does it for me.

Emil Hodil Granat do Atomove Elektramy. It's the Czech equivelant of those "Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge" rhymes that people use to learn the order of musical notes. It translates as Emil hurls the grenade into the atomic reactor. It's a bit more dramatic. Stuff your fudge, I've got a grenade.

Plums steeped in petrol. That's the taste of one of my favourite spirits, Slivovic. Reminds me of when I was stuck in Montenegro a couple of years ago, part of a convoy. We stopped off at Pogronitza, the capital. Jolyon, a friend who had been there before, said that last time he'd been there he got stoned. What, he met some friendly locals and had a bit of a smoke? No, they threw stones at him until he got back in his truck and left.

I finished reading Ham On Rye. Thankfully, it was great. I'd read a few disappointing Bukowski books recently. It had the funniest line of any of his books: "I don't know. Throw a rock at it?" It had me laughing for about ten minutes.

A couple of days ago, I got back to Glasgow. I picked up the local paper to buy a car, as I fancied getting out into the countryside. I found another old Mercedes (this is my third) for 275 quid. They're the best old cars. You could barely hire a car for that amount of money. They're so much fun to drive, more like a hovercraft than a car. The first one I got a couple of years ago was an estate for 190 quid. This one's a Y reg and used to belong to a farmer near Wishaw. Today I drove it up the West coast, alongside Loch Fynne, past Tarbet and got the ferry to Islay. It's very beautiful. George Orwell wrote 1984 on Jura, which is next door. I'm going to visit some of the distilleries tomorrow. Whiskey from Islay is the best drink in the world.

We've been in the studio for a few days. We've recorded "Can't Stop Feeling". It sounds very high energy, yet steeped in tragedy. I hope we can pull off the video idea that we have. It will be a great surprise if it works. I saw some more of the rushes for the "This Fire" video. It's exactly what we wanted and more.

We've recorded a couple of other songs too, a rough version of This Boy, a new song called Your Diary and Maid To Minx by Lungleg. The latter is a fantastic song, which we'd like to use as a B-side at some point. The melodies are so catchy, yet so unconventional. I've been writing a few new songs, one of which is for Bob to sing. He's not keen at the moment, but I'd love to talk him into it since everyone else in the band has had a go at singing. It's called "I've Got Ten Pounds" and it's a very "Act Naturally" or "Don't Pass Me By" sort of number, which is perfect for Bob, as he is always claming to be the Ringo of the group. "I'm not even the best bassist in Franz Ferdinand", etc.

We had to follow Brian Wilson last night at the Benicassim festival. Yes, follow the guy playing his songs like Good Vibrations, Heroes and Villains, Wouldn't It Be Nice, California Girls etc. At first, as I was watching them play, I thought "how can we possibly follow this?" Then I started enjoying myself so much, I didn't think about it anymore and when we went on stage, I was in a really good mood. It was a great night. The audience were wonderful and the bill was impeccable. I saw a bit of Patrick Wolf who was good, although I prefer him with more of a band. I left his set to go and see Love, which I regretted. Arthur Lee was pissed or stoned and his inability to sing and bare ability to stand was embarassing. It was a shame, as I'm a big fan and quite a few of my friends have told me that his shows have been great in the past. LCD Soundsystem had loast all their gear at Heathrow, but were still very good.

The site was overflowing with weegies. There seems to be an annual pilgrimage from Glasgow. I bumped into Mick Cook and he said that they had a similar experience to following Brian Wilson the night before when they followed Lou Reed. Hearing Wilson's songs reminded me of a time about five years ago when I was completely obsessed with Pet Sounds and Smile. I had a bootleg tape of Smile and would listen to it on repeat every night when I used to deliver curries in a bashed up old Fiat Panda in Glasgow. The stereo was a bit knackered, you could only listen to one speaker at a time. I'd listen to the left of one side of the tape, then the other, then switch to right, trying to match what I was hearing in my head with what I'd been hearing earlier.

( Tokyo. )

( Leaving Tokyo for Fuji Rock. )

The Auckland gig was the best kind of mayhem. It was in a decedant feeling old theatre. From where we were playing we could see the ropes and weights which operate the curtains and scenery. The stage was well invaded. A girl was swinging off the rope ladder. Loads of people were dancing onstage. One guy was hanging from my neck at one point during Matinee. I fell backwards into the crowd at the climax of This Fire and bounced around on everyone's hands for a bit. We played Can't Stop The Feeling for the first time. It felt good. Very dramatic. The new arrangement makes it. Audience seemed into it, which was good.

The other bands have been good on this trip. Last night it was Good Shirt and Die Die Die. Tonight the Red Riders have just finished. The Fiery Furnaces have been on top form too. Andy Knowles is the biggest show-off in the world. Makes Keith Moon seem shy and retiring. He's been joining us for Shopping For Blood. Always a treat. Matt Friedberger has been walking around with a huge grin on his face since Byron Bay, like the inverted crescent moon that was hanging in the sky - quite ecstatic. I saw quite a few people from Glasgow last night and there are a lot more coming tonight.

I've been writing a lot of lyrics recently, usually in the back pages of whatever book I'm reading at the moment, as I always seem to forget where I put my notebooks. I'm not sure if I can use them, as they are about some pretty extreme events that happened to people who would certainly recognise themselves from my lines. Well, the ones who are still alive will at any rate.

We flew in a helicopter over Auckland today. There are a lot of volcanoes on little islands around the bay. We played Can't Stop Feeling in the sound check. I think it's almost ready to play live. Not quite, which is a shame, as I would have liked to have played it tonight.

We played Splendour in the Grass last night. It's a great festival, a littler smaller so it feels a bit more personal. The surrounding countryside is verging on the tropical and is very lush. It feels like the botanic gardens in Edinburgh. I watched Dizee Rascal. I love his vocals - the rhythms are incredible. There was an odd thing in the middle of the set, where he dragged some girls up from the audience to do 'sexy dancing' then encouraged the audience to cheer or boo their appreciation of the girls' sexiness, eliminating those who weren't sexy enough. There was a dance-off with the final three and a winner was a declared. The next song started and Dizee pointed to security saying "Clear the stage! Clear the stage!" and the finalists were returned to the audience. The MC5 played too, but I missed them, as our bus left too early. Evan Dando, the guest vocalist, serenaded me with an acoustic guitar before the show. I was lying on my back between a couple of sofas I'd pushed together, having a nap with a friend, when he appeared and started to sing Strychnin by the Sonics. It felt a little bit surreal.

On Thursday and Friday we played the Metro in Sydney. So much of the days seemed to be in a daze, due to jet lag. I felt like I was operating myself by remote-control, as if my body was doing things I was telling it to do, but that I wasn't actually in it. That changed completely as soon as we were on stage. As if a switch were flicked, the adrenlyn started to flow and I was completely there and awake, as if I had sucked on a battery. The Australian crowds have been superb, quite raucous at times. A crowd surfer was flung over the barrier by his friends. He somersaulted over the bouncers and landed directly on his head. He was completely knocked out. He was lifted to his feet, blood gushing from a great gash. Then he came back round raised his arms and the audience cheered. On Tuesday, we played on a show called Rove Live. It started off as a chat show, with Will Smith plugging his new Film "I'm A Robot" and some reject from Aussie Big Brother burbling inanities, but then Lenny Henry appeared and it turned into en episode of Tiswas. Custard pies were flying everywhere. In Sydney we played a gig for channel V in a studio that opened out onto the street. There was a great audience, most of whom seemed to have skived off school to come to the show.

I'm flying over Botany Bay in a tiny plane, as I type. Bob is sitting next to me, knuckles white from gripping the seat with fear. As I look out of the window I can see the propellor turning and a rainbow directly below us. It's as if it has been following us for the last quarter of an hour.

We arrived in Melbourne at some point last night. It's winter, no leaves on the trees. We went out for a bite to eat in Chinatown. Had a weird thing they called 'porridge' which was like a gloopy white rice soup with bits in it. I liked it, the bland warmth of it being a soothing welcome after such a long flight. I think it took us about twenty four hours altogether. I passed out a few hours after we left London; not in a going to sleep way, but in a something's wrong with my brain way. Apparently I turned grey and my eyes rolled back into my head. Nick, who was sitting beside me, was slapping my face hard, trying to get me to come round. When I did come round, I felt a bit self-conscious, as there were flight attendents fussing around me, insisting that I wore an oxygen mask, asking about my medical history etc. The rest of the flight was pretty boring.

A friend of mine sent me a great email, from which the following is an extract:

>my teenage
>second cousin stole my telephone numbers in an attempt to contact Franz
>Ferdinand. I know this because she texted my friend Bob(not Bob from your band but another friend Bob who is an architect) saying she loved his groovy basslines and that she didn't get his number from me!

I love the damning line denying where she got the number from.

The rest of the last week I took things pretty easily. I had dinner with Jacqueline one night--she seems quite amused by how people now know of a tiny snippet of her life. We then popped up to the Art School union, where a band was playing. It felt like I hadn't been away, talking to people as if resuming a conversation we were having a week ago. My parents were getting rid of their old piano, so I nabbed it. I got some guys to deliver it, as I live on the third floor. It took them about five minutes to carry it up, which was impressive. They said they're used to carrying Wet Wet Wet's pianos around for them. One guy asked if I had spare CDs lying around, but I didn't. "That's allright, my boy'll download it fae the internet for me" he said cheerily.

I met a guy outside my flat the other night. He was a bit drunk, but very enthusiastic. He said something along the lines of "How! Big Man! You're that cunt fae that band, in't ye? Nice one, big man! Some cunt telt us ye stayed oan this street. I said there's nae way nae cunt fae nae band stays oan this street, but here ye are! Nice one, big man. Ye need tae come tae the Kerryoakey and sing Take Me Oot!"

I'm going to. I love karaoke.