I switched my whiskey mixer from Coke to ginger last night, and got more hammered than I’ve been since I was last in New York. Jeres says we got a cab home, but I have no memory of that at all. Jeres also says he’d have a go at me for being such a fucking horrible drunk, but that’s what I do to him, so he shall refrain, because he isn’t a prick, or something.

I remember shouting at Piranha Deathray (who were very good, actually), running into Frankie Poulaine (who I haven’t seen since The Darkness were supporting Robbie Williams), dancing in a quite hardcore fashion with Jeres, or maybe Gwilym, to whatever it was Luke was playing. That’s about it. I hurt I hurt I hurt, now I have keyboard issues to digest and assimilate.

Still, at least I didn’t go getting arrested at Heathrow airport for fighting coppers like Snoop Dogg. Damn!

OK. I have things to contend with. Here’s a nice bit of joy by Robert Fisk concerning the Death Of The American Dream.

— Thursday, April 27th, 2006