The bad arse rock boys came over last night. Hodad, Throb and (oh, what nickname can I pull out of my arse in a hurry?) How arrived and laid into the hardcore drugs. Ok, Red Bull syrup isn’t a banned substance, but y’know, if I drank a bottle of it I wouldn’t have had any sleep last night.

Throb started looking at my CD collection. This made me feel very nervous and exposed. Despite the frequent culling, there’s still enough stuff in there to reveal almost every side of my personality. He found the Rubicon CD. “I DIDN’T BUY THAT!” I yelled. No one believed me. Then he got really excited. He had found my David Hasselhoff “Close to Heaven” CD. He put it on and the boys mercilessly mocked it. It was great.

Then we all piled in a taxi (yes, one piles in to a taxi) and it was off to the St James for Sly and Robbie. Ok, this is what it comes down to: there was a moment when I realised that I didn’t know who was Sly and who was Robbie, but then I realised that it didn’t matter. What mattered is that there was some really excellent music being played and that I was really enjoying it and having a bloody good time.

This is how mighty the show was: at one stage the PA cut out, but the on-stage sound was so loud that the music could still be heard, and the energy and the vibe in the audience didn’t really drop much. Fortunately the sound soon kicked back in and the mighty, glorious beats returned to the St James. We pity the fools who went to the Audioslave concert instead.

Back at my whare, the absence of M2 was felt. It just seems right that when you come home from a gig that watching music videos is the right thing to do. But “Jackie Brown” was on. There were a few scenes that involved two people talking, and the camera would cut between each person. It seems very much like each actor had filmed their lines separately and then the conversation was edited together. There was no flow, it was slow and unnaturally paced. So, the question is, is “Kill Bill” going to be a magnificent return to form, or will Mr Tarantino reveal himself to be a two-trick pony (albeit an inspiring and highly influential one)?

Oh, but I digress. The bad-arse rock boys settled down for the night and were very well-behaved. In fact, I almost wish they had fucked shit up a bit, then I’d have an interesting tale to tell. Instead I could relate tales like my friend who’s about my age and he’s wooing a girl ten years younger who lives in another town, or my friend who’s 16 manho and is doing rude things with creme eggs. I’m such a nun.

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