Sticky sticky sticky


Goodness, nothing takes the shine off a hot day like a hangover. And isn’t a hangover so much worse, so much less escapable, when the air you breathe in is as hot as the air you wheeze out? I’d fallen into bed at VeryLate ayem on Saturday/Sunday after a Destroyers gig at the Hootenanny in Brixton – a massive, sweaty, brilliant hooley. The evening followed much the same lines as the night last autumn at Wilton’s Music Hall, even down to the beer spillage, except this time it was cider, plumed out by unseen forces and sprayed onto our heads. Ignored at the time (‘It’ll dry!’) and forgotten 30 seconds later, after several hours of heavy slumber it had fuzzed one side of my head into a sugary bird’s nest like some sort of low-rent fascinator. Eurgh. Back to the swimming, salads and sleep…


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