R&R

So I was tired, cutting corners left and right just to keep the pace. Exhaustion creeping up like a pack of hounds at my heels. High pressure work all over the place, money this, pressure that. Deadlines and dollars. And so, of a Friday the 13th there's a big gig curated by the record label that I'm involved in: Trepan Records. It's tipped to be a good event, 9 or 10 of the best acts in London Town, and the night tipping a big nod to Hunter S Thompson. It was brilliant, couldn't even watch a whole set for another incredible band appearing on the other stage. Everybody loved it. Unpretentious brillance all round. Projected visuals were better than ever, the crowd was a loving bunch of hard core friends, and goggle eyed newbs, and the music and drink was flowing beautifully. It was a family affair, and what a huge family! It's terribly satisfying when you see a project 10 years in the making jumping from strength to strength. We'd halved the entry, doubled the number of acts, and managed to turn over more than ever before, a record success. The venue was pleased as pie. Now that's what we call good business. And the whole thing is held on multitrack digital audio at studio quality, and multi camera HD. This is how you make a record in the 21stC. So we assembled a rag tag crew as the night drew to a close, and headed over to one of the after gig gatherings at my friend Christiano's pad. He's a proper music head, been in bands since a kiddie, now lecturing at LCC and generally being ace. He has a cupboard in his house which he straps himself into like a hairy fighter pilot and makes music at the speed of sound. Floor to ceiling musical instruments, buttons strings tape machines faders and computerised genius. More tech than you can shake a stick at. We picked up various provisions from the dodgy offie, including several bottles of wine and a bottle of Bushmills. I proceeded to make it my mission to drink that bottle, straight from the neck, down to the glass at the bottom. As the hard liquor began to kick in, my scottish blood started to fight back against the demons that had been haunting me. I became uncompromising in my humour. Christiano pulled out the double bass, I pulled out a guitar, and we started to play. And I remembered how good it is to start out on a journey without knowing where you're going. Neither of us really knew what note was next, nor did we really care. And out from the ether came good music. The semi circle of friends sat quietly, lapping up the magic. And so we headed out into the blazing sunlight, walking in zig zags and giggling like kiddies, no... adults who should and do know better. We looked like pirates, or fairies, bounty hunters & pirates. Rock Stars each and every one. We took a bus to breakfast. My mean mood was getting meaner and funnier. I was yelling at coppers, breaking and bending the rules like a gurkha, machete in hand, whiskey in hand. Hunter S was watching from his cloud marvelling at the fact that there is nothing more depraved or as desperate as a man in the depths of an ether binge. Off the bus, and a touch more zig zag, we met a fellow pirate, a drug dealer who'd made the mistake of sampling his own class A blended wares too much. He was in a dangerous state, and demanding whiskey. But he'd met his match, we were more together than he, and dosed him something shocking. He begged to give us very serious drugs, we politely declined. We were on harder, more legal substances. He took our gift as a man, all macho and posing.  But he had to borrow a girl to clutch as the poison coursed through his veins. We sent him on his way, with a little concern for his future. But somewhat stabilised.  And so we sat down for breakfast. I gazed at the menu, and all was blurry apart from the one horrific line "the english breakfast". Oh dear. We're here. And so I ordered an english breakfast and wandered downstairs to hug the toilet and do some backflips. And so I was coaxed from my wildly spinning and somewhat vomit stricken toilet hugging position into a cab and into my bomb site flat. My memory at this point went on strike in reaction to my extreme behaviour, and I have no recollection of what happened. Now as the story goes, when you behave like this, you awake to find your head beating like a blood filled blister, your flat trashed and the police worse still the army at your door. I stirred from my pickled slumber to discover something very strange. I was lying in clean sheets. There was a fresh smell of laundry. And a beautiful girl explaining to me that my whole house was being cleaned. I couldn't quite get my head around it. This was not the home I recognised, this looked together, organised. Fresh. I was deeply suspicious of this development, but in no state to argue They even had a silly hat to further puzzle me. This is awakeness 3 minutes in. They tickled me, and I woke up to the fact that on that morning I was possibly the luckiest guy around. And so I stumbled out of bed, and witnessed the wonder of women on a mission. They meant business. Serious business. No stone left unturned. My flat was to be tidy, and there was no argument. Not that I was in any state to argue. Lady legs are brilliant. And they know it. Women are hungry creatures, so I fed them good food, with culinary expertise acquired in China. My whole existence from that particular point has felt a little calmer, a little cleaner, and a little happier. The cathartic poison sapped an unhealthy buildup of mean spirited nightmare from my spirit, and upon that blanked canvas, these lovely girls painted a little picture of kindness, and proceeded to live with us for days. We giggled at the brilliance of our ways. And so, the moral of the story is: women are great. Never let it be said otherwise. Now these women are not just any girls I'll have you know, they are a Ms Evi Vine, blindingly good singer, veteran on the London music scene, to be found playing the BBC's stage at Glastonbury, and a Ms Regine Mowill, fashion designer touted as better than Galliano by St Martins. It's funny, no matter who you are, however A list, nobody has had their house cleaned by more talented ladies than I.