Two Canadians, a Welshman and a Black Cat walk into a bar...

It was Sheffield City Hall, maybe. I can't remember the room clearly. I can't remember the thousand plus pairs of eyes trained on us, I'd forgotten them completely at that point anyway. It was just me and and Geddy Lee seated on two bar stools at the lip of the stage and we were taking questions, or he was, I was merely helping facilitate the process. People would submit questions online, and if they made the cut, then I'd point out the audience member on the night, say something disaparging about their lineage/haircut/T-shirt, Ged would answer the question and then he and I would riff around his answer, or I'd toss in a supplementary question of my own. Or wrangle the audience. Whatever it took.

We go back a few years now - first becoming friends during the recording of Clockwork Angels, so that's a decade plus, remarkably - and like a lot of men of a certain age with little regard for societal norms or authority, and a mutual love of The Who, we think we're fucking hilarious. And some nights we are, but not then, I've no idea what question lead us there, but we were suddenly talking about Neil's (Peart) protracted illness and death and it was just two men who were lucky enough to have stood in Neil's light for a little while. For me at least. Geddy was talking about his dear dead friend and a shared lifetime of experience mutual love and the shattering of your head and heart that loss brings. And then it was silent, just this feeling that this well lit stage was facing an empty auditorium, the two of us static in time, Geddy's eyes behind the shade of his glasses filling with tears and I reached out to touch his arm, fighting tears of my own. And I've I still no idea what a curious audience must have made of that moment or even if they noticed at all, it felt endless, but must have been seconds as another piece of Geddy's remarkable life came careering out of an endless sky of memories and shattered on the ground around our feet.

It's almost Christmas, with people all around the world entertaining thoughts of heading home for the holidays, but not just yet for one Canadian. Welcome to Geddy Lee's My Effin' Life UK book tour.

"Try doing this for eight months", says Alex Lifeson.

We're seated backstage at the Guildhall in Portsmouth, no one knows Alex is here. Each night opened with a guest interviewer and Alex, being Alex, had offered to do whatever Geddy wanted, hence him rolling into sleepy Portsmouth on a chilly Sunday night. We'd only been out for a week or so, Ged and I, and as the three of us sat there eating noodles, the only thing I could think about was getting home. Dylan (my cat) was very ill and that might not seem like much here, but my world felt upside down then. I'd already dipped out of the tour to go home to London for a night so I could get him to the vet after our first show in Wolverhampton. I hadn't quite realised how much of a mess I was in until we were on stage and Geddy was answering a question from the floor and I simply stopped listening and felt like I was falling slowly forwards, and all I could think was how ill Dylan was and how stupid and selfish I was and that I should have been home with him and not out here on tour.

Lucy (and I hope he won't mind me talking about her here), one of Ged's beautiful dogs, who I was lucky enough to have spent some time with and watched chase squirrels through the park in Torornto, a white bundle of life rocketing along among green shoots of grass and rusty autumn leaves, had died not long before and we'd sit some times, the British countryside streaking past the car window outside, and talk about the unconditional love of animals and how that was a a two way street, Geddy, ever generous of spirit, always asking after Dylan, always checking in. When Dylan died, not much later, Ged was there for me very quickly and we talked a lot of about grief and loss that Christmas. Not just pet loss, real love and its diminishing light.

But it was real life and being in the moment we were were celebrating that night, as I snuck out to the back stalls of the Guildhall and waited for the lights to dim and for Alex to appear. My friend Jo (that's her pic below) had come down to the show and asked me if I could give her any hint on who might show up to interview Ged.

"I think you've probably chosen the right night to show up", I said, as her quizzical eyebrows shot up like McDonalds golden arches.

Though I don't think even Al was prepared for the reception the audience gave him as he walked out on stage. The sound was stupefying, he stood there dumbfounded (it takes a lot to dumbfound Al). An aside, and one which might explain Al's stunned surprise at his reception: we were once in the Rush offices in Cabbagetown, I was there to interview the band for the Vapor Trails album - the start of the band's long's journey back into the world after Neil's family tragedies - and was standing in the hallway and Al stopped to ask me that if the band played in the UK again then would anyone actually care? He was serious too, he wasn't sure anyone would show up. It'll be fine, I assured him, and it was, every wonderful time they returned.

Al composed himself as the cheers and applause finally abated and did five minutes of pure comedy gold, real shctick. Geddy always calls Al the funniest man he knows and that's because he is. He was an emotional and brave interviewer too, him and Geddy sharing stories of Neil onstage stilled the entire audience as they said things to each other that perhaps until then they'd kept for themselves, words shared over long nights and red wine.

The autumn sun is high over Toronto as Ged gives me a lift back to my hotel after a morning of rehearsals for the book tour. He, let's not forget, zizagged across North America on the first leg of his book tour the way his band once did. He's not a man to do things by half, as you'll know if you've read his excellent memoir (and you should). And we were tossing names back and forth for guest interviewers in the US and the UK.

Knowing how much of a Rush fan Nicky Wire and the Manics were (I'd once taken Nick and James to interview Alex and Ged backstage at Wembley for a magazine article, and Nick's fanboy nerves and awe were very much in evidence, it was a lovely moment and one I cherish), I suggested he'd be a good fit for one night and then I think Ged might have suggested Phill Jupitus. Ged and Al had done mine and Phill's 6 Music show (his name was above the door, I was just the producer) a few times and we'd irked some Rush fans by not 'taking them seriously enough'. It's odd that a band that brought so many people joy has so many sour fans, poor lambs. Anyway, Ged and Al had enjoyed their time with us.

"Imagine if you two brought that energy to the show", said Ged, "I'd love that".

And so we shook on it as he dropped me off at the Ace Hotel, driving off with a wave. That was Wolverhampton and Glasgow sorted at the very least.

It's strange to think now, and I had almost forgotten it, but that's not why I was in town at all. I'd taken a train across the US (https://www.philipwilding.com/post/the-stars-at-night) in order to finish my third novel, The Everything Room, and my week in Toronto with Ged and Nancy was meant to be my reward and the chance to meet my new agent, who I shared and still share with Ged. As it turned out, I'd finished the manuscript in the Ace Hotel a few days before that morning, but it was October already and December was close, the changing air told us that much.

"I can play in front of 10,000 people and not give a fuck", says Nicky Wire, a look of worry etched across his face, "But this...".

It's the opening night of the tour and we're both standing in the wings of The Civic in Wolverhampton. A room that the Manics have played many times, a room Nick loves to play though not so much tonight, not yet at least. Ged is already out on the stage, much to the audience's delight, who greet him like he might yet be about to strap on a double neck Rickenbacker guitar and break into Xanadu. Not tonight, but he's a wonderful performer throughout, his readings from the book are animated and eloquent, he turly brings the manuscript to life. He's funny, serious, thoughtful, open, much like he is in real life, once he's away from the stage.

Which is of little comfort to Nick as he twitches in the wings of the theatre like an expectant father waiting to hear the wailing of his first child entering into the world, he needn't have worried, as soon as he walks on to reiterate the story of his older brother Patrick gifting him the world of Rush and opening his eyes to their very particular, life-affirming brand of magic, the audience is on his side. I mean, who doesn't remember the first time you fell in love with the introduction to 2112 or stopped as as the opening chords of Closer To The Heart played?

And they soon fall in step, two bass players, lifers devoted to pretty much one band their entire careers, fortunate enough to have spent their careers making music and memories with some of their best friends. Theirs is a rare, shared experience and it's a wonder to watch their conversation unfurl from one side of the stage. Later, Ged will remark that he could have kept that conversation going for another hour, he enjoyed it so much. Which is a blessed relief to Nick who had made notes on the notes he'd made before the interview. It's a good opening night, we all feel it, even as Nick heads to to Wales, me back to London and Geddy goes to north to prepare for another show and until we meet up again.

I'm not not sure how you feel about the rail network in this country, but as we dipped through the silver grey skies over Glasgow on our private flight from Manchester airport, I gave up a silent prayer to the gods above that our transport infrastructure is so fucked in the UK that we opted to fly in after the Sheffield show the night before rather than chance the railway system and be late to the next show in Scotland.

I could lie to you and tell you that there were nerves before the Glasgow show, but as soon as Phill and I realised we were sharing a dressing room and there was Rush beer in the fridge (not that we drank pre-show, we're not young men anymore, ie not as idiotic as we once were), then there really wasn't too much to do or think about apart from talking trash about a lot of people we used to know, not least at the BBC. The occasional member of the crew would pop their head in to check what all the noise was about, we both laugh like the proverbial drain and swear like a Taranino script, and see if we needed anything and then leave again, as our foul-mouthed laughter filled the hallway.

Two things stay with me from that night, Phill doing five excellent minutes of material on the fly about now living in Scotland and having seals as his neighbours, and the audience - who had, as far as I can recall attended a RushCon in the city that day - standing as one when Geddy entered and singing an acapella, word perfect rendition of Closer To The Heart, in honour of the wonderful take on that song from the so called Glaswegian Chorus at the long gone Apollo on the band's live Exit...Stage Left album. Both gave Geddy pause, for very different reasons, but both resonated that night and still do. I remember standing in the wings as the crowd sang and started to think about Neil, though I wasn't dismayed or upset, his memory just hung there and sat with me, his words bringing him briefly back to life there in the half shadows.

The crew party at the hotel that night was a happy extension of a dizzying high of a night. Clinking glasses and tall tales and talk of home as the year was beginning to turn.

I got to stand on stage at The Barbican as Alex and Geddy stood side by side for the second night in a row and do something I never thought I'd get to do in my life, annouce: "Ladies and gentlemen, Rush!" That was all my Christmases coming at once. Not least the delirious cheers that greeted it.

And then later in the final hotel bar, the sound of a jazz piano playing, Al's flight booked for the next morning, Geddy and Nancy staying just a day or so more, keen to to see their families too. We talked about the tour, the highs and lows, 2024 and what that might yet bring, the long shadow that the idea of of R50 was already beginning to cast, but no decisions made, let the year play out just yet. Let one door close before opening another. And then in a black cab home, crossing the Thames, London darkening with just one week left to Christmas.

I'd lose Dylan not long afterwards, before we ever made it to 2024 and the promise of something renewed, before we could ever reach the next thing, to see another spring. And so I sit here caught in the moments between stages, entrances and exits, the roar of the crowd, curtain up and then the final curtain call. An empty auditorium, all the lights extinguished, waiting in the dark, calling out to Dylan, hoping to hear the familar tattoo of his approach, to hear that kind of applause and live one more time.