22 November 2009


I love winter and the close of the season.

The bands come out to play and they jam.

To boot, venues are opening up close to civilisation, so no more trekking out to Sidari and the siberiads of the south.

The clubs are getting their sound systems together, paying attention to acoustics and doing sound checks.

Smoking ~ no-one seems to give two-denarii cuss about it.


Let the pols sort out paperwork, *then* the boys'll git it on.

Right on, dudes!

My season of toadying and worming my way in with my tinkly strumming and constant buying everyone drinks has paid off

Mega ego trippin': walk in the place,

'Hey, guys, wassup?'

'Chris Chris Chris! Darling! Large ones all round, Pavlo. Hey, good to see you, man, and that table over there, Pav' - make it a bottle.'

Hey, Lucy! You know Lucy, doncha Chris?

Wotcha having, Luce? Chris' paying.

And all 'em folks there, Pavvers.'

Ulp. Price of popularity, I guess.

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