November

[Sweder]

One of the finest hangover cures known to man; a seven kilometre slog along the banks of the Clyde through the heart of Glasgow in sheeting rain.

Fetid grey clouds, like zombies' breath, trudged across a brackish swollen river that looked for all the world like the fabled Styx, the stench of rotting fish mingling with the brewery's yeasty expulsions to add another dimension to my pain. I certainly felt like paying Charon for my passage; anything to avoid aggravating the pounding in my frontal lobes. Dark cobbles plastered with rotting leaves offered a slippery slope for my sweaty redemption.

Last night was the stuff of dreams ... and nightmares.
First up O'Neil's with the Irish Army, screaming in unison, Guinness sploshing onto the grubby wood flooring, as Robbie Keane fired yet another chance into row Z. The howls of disbelief were drowned by a blood-curdling roar as The Hand Of Frog set up the clincher. It had to be Gallas, one of the least-likable of Wengers' progeny, who got to bound about like an electrified mongoose, strutting the length of the pitch to celebrate Mr Henri's adroit intervention. I felt sick for the Paddies, yet one can't help but feel they had the match in the bag if only they could have netted the damned ball. Such is football. As one ruddy-faced man unfortunately wrapped in a skin-tight green and orange jersey remarked 'Och, Tis only a game. Life goes on!' before reaching for a fresh pint.

Life went on for me. I crossed Sauchiehall street - how many times can you mis-spell that name? - in search of happier climes and bumped into my Welsh counterpart, Girlschool tour tech Paul Tidy. He was weaving his way home having tucked away a skinful of 'Dark & Strormies' - a rum and ginger beer concoction that I am assured 'hits the spot'. After all of ten seconds I pursuaded him to come with me for more drink. Grinning wolfishly he spun on his heel and marched back into the nearest bar. This happened to be Nice & Sleazy, residence for the evening to Motorhead's crew. Oh dear.

Some hours later I awoke to the distant sound of a telephone ringing. It turned out to be mine, and it was only on the couch next to the bed, but there was some kind of opressive fog in the room dulling my senses. Then the penny dropped, albeit with a muted thud. The fog was internal, and every fibre of my being screamed for a painless release from hangover hell.

Now some 45 minutes later I feel like a new man. Well, less like a dead one at any rate. Food next, thence to the Apollo to complete the installation of several tons of ear-crushing electronics.