If there's one thing I remember well about my six-month stay in southern England in '03 it was the copious splodges of dried 'claret' decorating footpaths of a Sunday morning. The luscious crimson bespoke horror fisticuffs the night before, the sites of fights themselves never too far from a pub - but then there were 9 pubs or so* catering to this ( Read more... )

I had a terrible, terrible evening. Everything seemed to want to fall apart on me, in me, about me. It was just the pits. I hate having to prove my sanity to myself (or to anyone else, for that matter) because the harder you try, the madder you seem. Today I'll be in recovery mode. I know it. It changes your entire aspect, a night like that ( Read more... )