Month: January 2009


"For a cautionary tale, everyone cites Paul Bradley Carr." - THE SUNDAY TIMES


You want to know something? I don’t think Mozart’s going to help at all

The bed in my upgraded hotel room is enormous, there’s free WiFi, an enormous minibar, I don’t have an ounce of jetlag and there are four naked Swedish girls in my bathtub. Oh, and did I mention it’s all costing me less than £60 a night?

Only one of the above statements isn’t true. But, fuck it, who needs WiFi when you have the Swedish girls? I’m thinking of making them stand really far away so I can pretend they’re thumbnails. Is that weird?

So – yes – hello from San Francisco. I flew in yesterday – New Year’s Day – on an early morning flight from Heathrow. Given that I’d spent the previous night welcoming the arrival of 2009 with the usual gang of drunks, this was, of course, total fucking idiocy.

Who in their right mind flies long haul on a New Year’s hangover? Two hours sleep, boarding while still drunk, cleaning my teeth with my finger on the Heathrow Express. There was a moment, about ten minutes after takeoff when I found myself staring into the mirror of the tiny cattle-class bathroom, contemplating the eleven hours of wedged-in airlessness that was to follow and wondering whether, actually, I’d be better off flushing myself out into the troposphere.…

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You want to know something? I don’t think Mozart’s going to help at all

The bed in my upgraded hotel room is enormous, there’s free WiFi, an enormous minibar, I don’t have an ounce of jetlag and there are four naked Swedish girls in my bathtub. Oh, and did I mention it’s all costing me less than £60 a night?

Only one of the above statements isn’t true. But, fuck it, who needs WiFi when you have the Swedish girls? I’m thinking of making them stand really far away so I can pretend they’re thumbnails. Is that weird?

So – yes – hello from San Francisco. I flew in yesterday – New Year’s Day – on an early morning flight from Heathrow. Given that I’d spent the previous night welcoming the arrival of 2009 with the [1]usual gang of drunks, this was, of course, total fucking idiocy.

Who in their right mind flies long haul on a New Year’s hangover? Two hours sleep, boarding while still drunk, cleaning my teeth with my finger on the Heathrow Express. There was a moment, about ten minutes after takeoff
when I found myself staring into the mirror of the tiny cattle-class bathroom, contemplating the eleven hours of wedged-in airlessness that was to follow and wondering whether, actually, I’d be better off flushing myself out into
the troposphere.…

Read More...

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