>>>>>Killing Time<<<<<

So, while the music industry descended en masse on Hammersmith for the NME awards, we headed to the arts centre up the road to watch Curtis Stigers, who's somehow become a jazz artiste since he first shook his flowing locks at lovers of MOR jiggery pokery. We were given the finest seats in the house, an on-high vantage point behind the sound desk, prompting a chap, who must have assumed we were with the entourage, to ask whether we were from the States. Tee hee. I responded that we were from council eStates and suddenly the class struggle threatened to rear its ugly head in my middle class face, as a burly gent taking my silliness out of context asked what was wrong with council estates... I embelish for dramatic effect but you get the gist. The night got off to a wobbly start. As we pulled up outside our house, a mere 30 mins before the gig, I passed M the house keys, only to watch them slip through her mitts and fall down a drain. Yes, I too thought this kind of thing only happened in cartoons and sit-coms. But there I was, swearing, stomping John Cleese-like and, once I'd stopped jumping up and down like a psycopath, ripping off the drain cover and lowering my arm into the mire to relocate the keys. I did wash before our date with the Stigermeister. In homage to the debauchery and hedonism over at the NME shindig, I imbibed alcohol. Two Stellas and half a gin & tonic. Rock 'n' Roll! Or jazz. White jazz. In suits. Suggested headline: "Stigers jazzes over audience".