I took down all the clocks. Nobody had a fucking clock in there. I wanted to rub my face across a man's moustache but my photographer was accused of gyrating on the floor. I swallowed two mouthfuls of vodka then told them he was just dedicated while he slid on his back across the floor in front of the crowd, in front of the band.
Aidan Roberts has no arse and the accordion player needs a dancectomy. Pip Smith later told me she thought the crowd was lovely. Pip wraps her youth around her as a mantle but that's not important. The crowd was just making each day of the year while I swallowed mouthfuls of vodka and filled my dress pockets with slithers of lime rind. Somebody called out "Judas!" over the clicking alignment of my spine. It was a joke about electric guitars and they laughed but I glanced down to where the top pocket of my denim jacket would usually be. I can't explain why I wasn't wearing it, I'm sure you wouldn't believe me if I told you Bob Dylan lives in there.
Someone called Judas over the clicking alignment of my spine and it didn't feel wrong, this has nothing to do with anything but slow motion moments, sometimes music is a substitute for tears. Listening to their album feels like a swing. Implausible apex pausing of time.
I ended up chasing a rat down the street past The Hollywood at three in the morning. I saw it running in the gutter, I told Superman I was going to chase it then I ran but Superman soon overtook me and the rat, in a bold move, crossed the road. Rats and Superman can both run faster than me, this doesn't change the sound of The Maple Trail which is excellent. In case I wasn't being clear go and buy the album Dirty Echo Spark.