I awoke with a hellish hangover even by the standards of this previous experience.
I was due to play in a busk with the Samba crew at The Mound. I thought that might help to blow the cobwebs away and perk me up a little. It didn't.
I still felt grim as I made my way along to The Stand for the evening show. The Dance Brothers were in attendance. This would be their first witnessing of me doing my thing. I downed a couple of Irn Brus to try and fend off this increasingly horrible hangover. It hadn't eased up all day. To make matters worse I was full of self-loathing on account having smoked 3 cigarettes the previous night in the midst of my premium lager binge. Stupid twat.
The Saturday crowd was much better than the previous night. They were really responsive and generally much more up for it.
Bearing in mind how terrible I felt, I thought my spot went really well. The adrenaline had got me through, and my fears of hitting the front rows with a spray of projectile vomit were not realised, (thankfully).
We watched Greg McHugh before heading off. His material isn't the most brilliant I've ever heard, but his delivery, timing and general stagecraft are impeccable. He's also very good looking and a big hit with the laydeez. Bastard.
We headed off to The Pear Tree to catch up with nerdy Physics Lecturer Martin Evans, it being the occasion of the day before his 40th birthday, (he decided to celebrate on Saturday night).
As the adrenaline wore off, I started feeling really shit again. I started drinking a pint but failed to finish it, made my excuses and went home.
I couldn't believe how bad I felt. Straight to bed for Jimbo.
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