When I was a kid we used to holiday up t’North, which involved the inevitable drive from London, upwards. My parents enjoyed the popular beats of radio 1; being the (late) 70’s chart music wasn’t too bad and regular sing-a-longs would evolve as the city slunk away into the distance. One such day we were singing along to Roxanne by The Police and I asked my dad about the ‘red light’ bit (this anecdote isn’t going anywhere by the way) and he told me about the association of the red light to hookers (I already knew about hookers from the bible, which isn’t right really) and I remember thinking about the song thus:
‘Let me just switch this on…’
‘Roxanne, you don’t HAVE to do that, it’s me, Sting’
‘Ooops, sorry, I forgot –let’s do it, Sting. No charge of course, er, big boy’
I’m only mentioning all of this because late last night on BBC4 there was a sort of Police documentary compiled from footage shot by the founder member and drummer par excellence Stuart Copeland. What was abundantly clear from the outset was that Copeland and Summers were both quietly talented but Sting was always going to be a berk. I mean there was even footage of him wearing baggy lemon coloured trousers, the tosser, it was 1979 for crying out loud… Anyway, it was as dull as fucking toejam.
Yesterday had gone smoothly at work, despite the bastard coffee machine dying in the morning and I rushed back home, just as I did last Wednesday, in order to catch the tube to town. I met Swineshead (SH) outside a boozer in Holborn, it was our intended hostelry but was packed solid so we were forced elsewhere, not a massive problem in central London. Once established in a place near Covent Garden we drunk in earnest, pausing every 10 minutes to nip outside for a tab. After 5 or so pints and much backslapping we went our separate ways.
In the course of the evenings drinking I’d broken my beer bladder relatively lately, despite taking the last two leaks minutes apart, by the time I got on the tube at Leicester Square I was piss-pregnant. I knew that I was going to have to get off at Waterloo to micturate, Myfwt was waiting at home and I was already about 30 minutes late. At Waterloo I called her to explain my predicament and took a massive tinkle out which was eyeball rollingly excellent. I returned to the tube which for some reason was so packed I was forced to stand and I finally arrived home just after 10, Myfwt having made me pizza, bless her, none of that Prol Pizza *winks* stuff neither and ready with a glass of wine.
The rest of the evening is fairly predictable, the wine got drunk, as did I and I went to bed at about 1am following a session of groping about in the dark trying to locate my fucking shoelaces. Today I am hungover and exhausted.
One last thing, why does Sting sing with that foreign accent? And why is he called Sting… The tit. I need some aspirin.