Saturday night's all right

Yeah well, Saturday night may be all right, but I'm sure as hell not.

I seem to have acquired an ailment with the incredibly attractive feature of making me cough repeatedly until I'm in danger of either retching or bursting some kind of probably quite important blood vessel in my face.

On my way home this evening, having made an early exit from a mate's gig in Camden, I had some kind of coughing, spluttering seizure type affair in the back of a black cab. As I wheezed and whimpered, eyes watering and wincing visibly as yet another thick gob of festering green lung butter dislodged itself from my breathing tubes and ended up in my mouth, I could see the poor cabbie looking nervously in his mirror, trying to check surrepticiously whether I was going to expire in the back of his vehicle. This went on for about twenty minutes as we were stopped at just about every red light in heavy traffic on the way back to Whitechapel. Thank God he didn't try to chat to me. He must have known it was taking all my reserves of energy and effort to keep from collapsing in a crumpled heap just long enough to stumble home and pop some much needed pills.

Anyway, a couple of hours later and I'm here propped up on pillows on the sofa typing away whilst wrapped in a slanket, watching Robocop for what must be at least the eighth time (although I have to admit it never gets old - "Can you fly Bobby?") so it's clear that I did make it after all. My suppurating corpse was not left huddled in the back of a London taxi as a stark warning to those who ignore the perils of deciding to push on and go out even when they feel a bit rubbish. Not this time at least.

Oh dear, I feel another coughing fit coming on. Time for another hot drink I think. I wonder if I have any night nurse left... .

Rock and roll, eh? Livin' the dream baby. Livin' the dream. Sigh.