First up, if this post makes less sense than usual, blame it on the several Manhattans I drank earlier. IF you want to know how to make a special Manhattan like I make them, then you can ask me for my recipe… I’ll put it up as a Friday Drink sometime.

Anyway, it’s roughly 3am at the time of this little incident.
Standing outside of St Paul’s cathedral, waiting for a bus to come and take me home with Jaz, Jake and Zak. Unsurprisingly, there’s a whole bunch of tamagothies waiting to catch the bus as well. The surprising element is that one of them (to his credit, wearing a Korn tshirt when he couldn’t have been older than 19) says “Hey, don’t I know you from at Manifest?” [sic]
To which I reply “Yeah, I run it now”
“Oh, that’s cool”
“No it isn’t… It really isn’t”

End of conversation.
I went up the back of the bus with the cool kids. By which I mean the people still drinking and managing not to spew on their shoes before they got in the bus… He’s down the front with the spewers.

When you’re out on the piss, being recognised as a guy from somewhere isn’t all that cool.
We all want fame and recognition, but it tends to come at the times we least want it. Like when you’re attempting to concentrate on not pissing your own pants because you’ve had far too much to drink and didn’t think to go to the bathroom before stepping out into the cold night air.

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