A fine weekend had, on the whole. Saturday afternoon at the football, watching Barnet lose 3-1 to Macclesfield Town (my 34th live sports event of the year, just three more to go to hit my target of going to see live sport on ten percent of the days in 2008); and a Sunday evening way down in south London, in Forest Hill, my old neck of the woods when I first moved to London in 1997, watching a night of comedy at The Hob pub compèred by the wonderful Daniel Kitson.
I did manage to lose a full pack of fags on the way, though; running to catch at train at London Bridge. Anyone who knows that station knows the hassle of your train departing from platforms 14, 15, or 16, being quite a distance form the concourse. As I did my smoker’s best to sprint along with less than a minute to catch it, the full pack of Camel Lights must’ve fallen out of my pocket. Damn you, pockets. Damn you, British government, for charging six fucking quid for a measly pack of smokes.
Anyway, today is Monday 24 November 2008. I like guns, they are fun things to be shooting bullets out of; I like roses, they look pretty and smell lovely; I like Chinese food; I’m a fan of democracy, too. I went to the shops, bought a copy, and I’ve just loaded the new album into my iTunes. I kind of daren’t listen to it. I really hope it’s gonna be great, but I’m not holding out much hope. Although I am holding out some hope. Frankly, some of the song titles make me a bit wary: Riad n’ the Bedouins, Madagascar, Prostitute.
Right, then: headphones on, and fingers crossed…