In the words of saint Matthew, Christ, what a fucking week. New PM, the windies learned and forgot how to play cricket, Britain's largest indie record shop goes broke, there's terror in London and Glasgow, and Simon Le Bon sings at a gig for princess Diana.
I celebrated this weirdness with a cigar at a rebel pub with some sweet pretty acid house country gospel music. If I want consciousness expansion I go to my local tabernacle and I *sing*.
Friday was cocktails till dawn in Leeds. Yesterday was rum and expensive steak.
I've got a few days to hook up with an old ex-pat mate of mine I haven't seen in half a decade before the METALLICA

\m/ 0.o \m/

gig on Sunday at Wembley. Last time I saw this degenerate bastard we got so bombed he thought I'd drowned in his swimming pool. Fuckers never heard of short range free diving. I was looking for cracks in the structure. Testing. Resting underwater. An innocent submarine snooze.
Wonder if he's still sporting dreadlocks...
Bah... I can't get past the reverend D-Wayne Love's third step...