Thursday, 3 April 2008

The lowest part of the night

1.30am Thursday 3rd April. I'm in the Borderline, a nasty little venue which I dislike at the best of times, crouched in a dirty toilet cubicle with a snotty hanky grasped tightly in my hand, ridiculous songs about dolphins annoyingly spinning around my head, trying not to be sick everywhere as my stomach gurgles violently once again. My nose is blocked up to the point where it's become completely redundant and every time I breathe through my mouth the phlegm wobbles about pushing me one step closer to puking. It's not a happy combination. I take another swig of water, gingerly get back to my feet and walk out. The main room's dark, Avenged Sevenfold is booming through the PA and kids in vests with terrible haircuts are windmilling all over the place. Time to go home, I think. I've made a terrible mistake.

Moral of the story: When you're ill, do not travel 2 hours into London, drink for the next 7 hours and then go to a metal club. It's not big, clever or indie. Know your limits!


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