Most drunk South by South West memory…

I am just about to fall in to bed in my own little house but thought I’d share this anecdote…

My Most Drunk, South by South West Memory I bring you from Texas is…

Plugging my iPod in to a bar’s sound system and playing the Sensational Alex Harvey Band version of Delilah to the 150 or so drinkers.



I’ll get my PJs…

Drunk (and also Not Drunk)

Listen kids, alcohol abuse is not big and not clever.

The night before last was a drinkers wet-dream. It started mid-morning on East 6th Street in Austin, Texas, and finished about 1am the next day.

In a nutshell, I found myself in a bar called ‘Bikinis’ (where the all-female mid-20s staff wear… well, I’m sure you can work it out).

Lunch at Bikinis on E6th Street


While I was sitting at the bar teasing the barmaid, I met a really cool guy from Nashville.




And I had a few beers there.




Then I went somewhere else and had a couple there.

Then I went to the Austin Conference Centre to recharge my batteries (literally) and bumped in to a Spanish band.

They took me captive and forced me to drink a range of increasingly aggressive beers for about six hours.

Luisa, about to take control of me



Then one of the band, Luisa, felt I needed a bodyguard (as they had just released me from captivity).


And then it all got very hazy.


There was a lot more drinking.



And there were many, many bands seen.

Fortunately I have totally illegible notes to describe who I saw/heard and what I thought. Can’t think why my notes are illegible.

But that’s OK, I have a fallback, obv.

I woke up yesterday morning, after far too few hours sleep, with a mouth that resembled the floor in a Texan farmers bull-pen.

I also found myself looking at a small, tasteful tattoo of a blue butterfly.


Last night was a different kettle of fish.

I had a brilliant Mexican meal on E6th Street.

I interviewed a band promoter from Arizona.

I saw five bands.

I had two diet cokes.

And one beer.

And my notes are totes legible.

There is a moral to this tale somewhere.

I think it is: ‘Don’t drink and write notes’.


Despite last night’s cider and almost-frozen vodka chasers, I feel remarkably excellent today.

Finding myself partially-dressed, when I got out of bed, confused me slightly, but we’ll just gloss over that for now.

My Twitter stream, from last night, seemed terribly amusing at the time.

Slightly less so, in the cold light of morning.

Oh well.

Heike went to bed complaining about the food baby she was carrying.

Yes, I’ll admit I got the quantities of last night’s Chinese sweet and sour stir-fry a little wrong.

But she hardly eats enough to keep a sparrow alive, so it’s not really my fault, is it?

Today I’m going to be madly busy.

And we’re going to a gig this evening to see, amongst others, Black Hats (a fine trio of energetic talent, who purvey musical thuggery for their own enjoyment, as much as for anyone else’s).

The chaps have promised to ply me with alcohol.

Pints of crème de menthe and crème de cacao have been mentioned.


Heike leaves tomorrow.

This makes me sad; her company (not to mention her arse-kicking) has helped put me on the right track, and helped do it much quicker than I should reasonably expect.

I’m spending tomorrow (Saturday) night in Peterborough.

On Sunday I have an afternoon meeting in Lapworth.

And in between these things I have the usual domestic and equine duties to crack on with.

Sadly, on the equine front, the Vin-related news is not good.

The vet has said that the entire left-half of his head is paralysed, due to nerve damage.

We’re giving him a week before the vet comes back for another look.

But if there is no improvement, the prognosis is terminal.

I want to say something really profound here, but the bottom line is that we wait and see.

Wait and see.

I didn’t think life would turn out like this…

I am on the express coach to Oxford. I have had a drink but not much. Enough to know that the guy sitting opposite me is really really really really weird.


Since I got on the coach I have converted four sound files from m4a to mp3 for next Saturday’s podcast. And I have converted a video file to mp3 and then clipped that mp3 down from 10 minutes to 1m 30s – also for next Saturday’s podcast.

And I’ve written some notes – for the podcast.

And I’ve redrafted a project plan which is, of course, nothing to do with the podcast.

Right now I’m half watching an episode of Pets whilst half watching the girl sitting on the opposite side of the aisle.

She’s weird, faking phone calls left and right.  Well, faking phone calls anyway because earlier on we went through a fucking great tunnel where no mobile works and still she pretended to be on the phone to her mate Sarah.

Sarah, I ask you. What kind of a pornstar name is that?

No? Just me then?

I’m starving. But I’m embarrassed to tell Soph that I’m on the way home and I’m hungry. For lurve, as well as for food.

And I have written a simple exercise in descriptive narrative which I’m going to do and will also pass on to Amy to see if it helps.The weird thing is that I have just discovered a letter to myself in my laptop bag. And in it I name JFK’s killer – who is, of course

It was the summer of 19-something-or-other…

It had been a hard day at the office.

The office, at that time, was a small recruitment agency in Islington. I worked in a poky little space not much more than a large corridor with half a dozen unrememberable people – with one exception; a nice guy by the name of John Gunsell who, as well as having a ‘day job’ with me, was also a session drummer. I wonder what happened to John? That job was weird. I only had it as a rent-payer while I looked for a career move after hanging up my uniform. One day I was transferred to a Central London branch because everyone in that office had gone sick. It was raining outside, absolutely pouring down. The door rattled open and a drenched guy came in and sat at my desk. He wanted me to find him an office job. His current occupation? Guitarist with Ian Dury and The Blockheads. I worked out he was just sheltering from the rain so I got him some coffee and we talked music until the rain eased off. He gave me his autograph and said he’d get Ian’s for me. You’re expecting me to say I never heard from him again, aren’t you? Well, he called me four days later and I was invited to a recording session and yes it was Ian and the rest of The Blockheads and yes it was cool and yes it was fab and laid back and yes, I really did get to play guitar in a rehearsal room with three of The Blockheads while Mr Dury sat in the corner and chain-smoked and coughed and nodded at us as we rocked and ripped our way through Waterloo Sunset in a manner that had more enthusiasm than musical ability about it.


Where was I?

Oh yes.

It had been a hard day at the office. So after work I went out for a drink with a girl who worked at the nearby accommodation agency – she’d got me the flat in Tooting Bec that I was temporarily calling home.

And we had a few drinks. Then some more. And another one or several. And after a series of events which included a little more alcohol and several pubs we ended up, in the very wee small hours, at a party. I didn’t know whose party it was and neither, I suspect, did the girl. But there we were, swilling and spilling somebody else’s booze, eating somebody else’s buffet, listening to somebody else’s music in somebody else’s flat.

And that’s where things began to go pear-shaped. No, not the flat. The music.

Talk of The Town, by The Pretenders. How I hate that song. If God wanted to give the music industry an enema, Talk of The Town is where He’d stick the tube.


I happened to accidentally voice my opinion about the dreadful din that underlined the truth that Talk of The Town is nothing but a controlled clash of downwards-plummeting musical values. I say accidentally because the booze had somehow transformed my thoughts in to the spoken word. I’m sure I was only thinking the words ‘shite’ and ‘dross’ but magically they found their way in to the party.

So I’d accidentally mentioned to the girl from the accommodation agency – I seem to remember she had to retrieve her tongue from the throat of some random guy before she could give me her full attention – that Talk of The Town wasn’t worth the bog roll it had been printed on, when the person next to me said she’d co-written it.

Fuck. What does etiquette demand one do in such moments? I did what any self-respecting gentleman would under those awkward circumstances.

I offered her my condolences on her loss of hearing and degraded sense of taste, and hoped that they’d both return as easily as they’d left her.

And then, inexplicably, there was a little argy-bargy which involved the contents of a glass of beer moving in my direction but splashing all over the wall because I’d had the common sense to take half a pace to the left and in so doing had cracked my knee on a coffee table and went down quicker than a sack of potatoes and somehow pulled the coffee table and its contents over with me which, unfortunately, struck Miss Hynde in the shin and then there was cursing and rage and anger from her but laughing from other people.

Anyway, I got to my feet, retrieved the peanuts from inside my shirt, brushed myself down and left.

So from this you can deduce two things.

1. Coffee tables are dangerous pieces of furniture and should have a public health warning attached, and
2. Talk of The Town is not ever going to make it on to my Desert Island Discs list, but it would be a front-runner for my Room 101 list.


Move along, nothing to see here (sea hear?)

I’m fine this morning thanks. Yep indeedlydoodly. Rocktastically good. Excellent. Brilliant. Really very well indeed. Oh yes.

Sorry about last night’s post though.

And the biblical nature.

But today I’m good thanks.

And not religious at all.

Although my first thought this morning when the 05.30 alarm kicked off was ‘Oh God!’



Today’s lesson comes from the book of Alk-oHol

And so it came to pass that He had drunk much, for with His colleagues didst He go out in to the wilderness being Victoria SW1 on a social evening.

And yea, there was much socialising in the evening and it was good.

And texting too.

And mirth.

And after a couple of hours He and His colleagues did see off Lisa for she may be a proper lightweight.

And later He did see off Peter, yet He stayed behind in the pub.

Yet He was ere joined at his table by two Canadian girls off of erm Canada and Lo didst they chat Him up muchly and flirt with Him well, and He may have flirted back at them too.

And He didst do that thing where He got his laptop out and showed them photographs of His horse and they didst say Awww and make other noises of appreciation and yet the fairer of the two didst stroke His leg and He didst get embarrassed.

And more alcohol was drunk.

And the flirting became serious and He was sorely tempted to succumb to their charms but He considered His options and didst seek counsel from His conscience and His conscience told Him to behave.

And so He made His excuses and He didst pick up His things and leave those two Canadian birds in the pub but as He stood up He saw He was being mightily examined in His fore and aft and He was much pleased.

And so things became blurred in His mind.

Yet it came to pass many hours later after a journey that encompassed the South Coast, the East Coast, the West Coast and probably the North Coast too, didst He arrive home.

And then a miracle did occur, for in His hands were His belongings yet also two pints of milk for the Shreddies and a portion of chips for the vinegar.

Upon entering the house He did eat until He could eat no more and then He felt unwell. He did swear that the unwellness was related to something in the chips and nothing to do with the quantities He had eaten neither the alcohol He had consumed.

And He didst decide to go to bed and His head didst advise this was a wise thing to do.


After a night out…



Yes you.

The girl so far up your own arse that if you shoved a toothbrush up your bum you could clean your own teeth.

See the way you spread yourself out all over the seats and the table?

See that?

See the way I pick up all of your stuff that wasn’t in your section of the table?

See the way I dropped it on the floor?

That’s you that is.

Tough fucking shit.

I really don’t care that you look like some over-hyped version of an Asian princess.

If you put your shit in my space it’s just fucking shit.

Yes that’s right.

I’ve had a drink.

Actually no.

I’ve had a whole bucketful of drink.

And you and your friend. The one that you’re on the phone to?

You are scum.

Cheap chavvy scum.

Fuck you.


You can look at me all you like but the truth is I really don’t give a toss.

Pick your stuff up off the floor and shut the fuck up.


And stop looking at me like that otherwise I’m going to take your handbag off the seat, open my fly, get my cock out and piss in your bag.