Didn't go into Proud today because I felt like death (cue that "Bow-ooo-BOUM-BOUM!" music from Ferris Bueller's Day Off) and it left me with nothing to do except cough up phlegm, eye up our solitary bottle of red wine and spend money I didn't have. F and his big ol' Jeffrey-Lee-Pierce-cum-Rabbi hat are back, and I definitely should be in bed (not like that, you pervert, but it's sweet that you know me so well), but instead in an hour I'll be huddled in a fur coat outside kareoke night at The Birdcage on Columbia Road in the name of catching up with my (currently woeful) social life. My only official 'rokes songs, in case you were wondering, are "War (What Is It Good For?)" and "I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)". I pretty much exclusively perform songs with parentheses, with the possible exception of "Call Me Al", and only then because absolutely no-one can resist its siren call anyway (BAH dun dun DAH! BAH dun dun DAH!).
Tomorrow I'll be back in the gallery again, no doubt repainting the walls (if you're reading this, asshole who put his bloody huge footprints under Mick Jagger, I will find you and so help me God, I will tear you three utterly superfluous "new ones" in increasingly surprising and imaginative places, or at the very least give you a stern ticking-off depending entirely on how attractive you are) and trying to book artists for this lecture season we're doing. Drop in and say hello, if you feel like talking to someone who is both sick and surly (please rush me to my grave) about buying a £500 photograph of Bob Dylan from the sixties. Or not, you know, whatever. But he looks pretty fuckable in it, if that helps. Don't be shy, I know you swing that way.