Saturday, November 27, 2004

The eve of boy band hell has involved burning CDs of a more credible nature. In a few hours of computer geekery I have been busy on edonkey (thanks, Katherine) grabbing hold of all things Doherty and unrar-ing 'em all. 3 CDs worth of Babyshambles sessions now live with us. Once again, this has been something of an activity displacement job, as I'm in the midst of penning a radio play about a residential home. The lives of these old folk are unfurling all the nicer thanks to the confident swagger of What A Waster eeking out of my tiny PC speakers. I do believe we'll have fun tomorrow. I have purchased some food items to get me through several hours of boredom (Danielle wants to go ridiculously early so she can wave at Charlie's eyebrows as they enter the Hallam FM Arena on chariot/eyebrow trailer). Am planning on seeing The Incredibles with Sam before the arena doors open. Have resisted the temptation of writing the review of the gig in advance, although have a solid idea of what's going to take place and have 325 words of the 350 I'll be filing at midnight tomorrow in mind. I'll sit there with my arms folded but, three songs in, I'll realise I'm starting to gyrate in time to the Year 3,000 and it will also become apparent that the 'boys', despite my best efforts to deny it all, really do play their own instruments quite well. Oh, I do hope I'm wrong.

Jeez, it's sub-tropical here in the East Riding of Yorkshire. Or in the house, at least. The central heating, faulty pile of shit that it is, kicked back in while we were out Chrissie shopping. Now, we daren't adjust the temperature in case it goes kaput again. So here I am, naked. Phew. Pass me a sponge for my arm pits. If I place a glass at the base of my spine and catch the droplets of all this beer that's sweating out of me, I could quench this raging thirst.

Reading: AA Guide to New Zealand. Listening: In Love With A Feeling. Drinking: Somerfield's increadibly awful and shoddily-named Lager 40%

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