5th January 2001 - 8:14 p.m.

I awake in the morning feeling rather more able to face the day than usual. I wander upstairs and run a bath, put a tape on, stare into the mirror. And just stand there, watching, reminiscing. An entire Walker Brothers album passes me by and the water begins to threaten the carpet and I'm still reliving these past few lost days.

** ** ** **

Her eyes still glisten as she gives her young cry:
I want to die really really living!

Lost in Soho, paying tramps for directions; galavanting around Where It's At until it's far too late and I'm moaning about wanting my bed and wondering whether, being too jaded to talk or dance much, I should kiss someone or other; the overly-deferential valet in the Gents tells me, whilst bowing, that I am sure to have "free poonani all night" and I give him a pound and run.

An afternoon stroll through the crowds in Notting Hill; I notice the sign on the door of a pub informing customers that "unfortunately, scooters may not be ridden inside". Is this what it's come to? Nightmare visions of Yuppie paradise/ human hell: a circular pub, bar in the centre, and a pack of guffawing loudmouths - fucking Nathan Barleys to a man - bombing round and around on their infernal silver machines, a constant drone of idiot-voices into hands-free phones. "Yah, Nigel? I'm just overtaking you! Ciao!". Like one of those modern youth roller-discos we see so often on Crimewatch.

[shudder]

Stick that in your Blake exhibition and smoke it.

Fast-forward to New Year's Eve, and we find our hero wretchedly wandering the windswept estates of Canada Water in the driving rain, having temporarily excused himself from Stephen Trousse's party to get some fresh air and a bottle of wine, his constitution unwilling or unable to withstand much more tequila. And now, lost again, with little knowledge of how to get back to the house. Well, you can't just give up and make your way to your bed, can you? People will think they've been snubbed, and anyway, you only came out tonight to avoid the Scrabble-party taking place at home. So, onwards, through another indistinguishable estate..

An hour later, we're back into the festive throng, dripping wet and sobbing mascara. And it's hard to join in the drunken dancing when you've spent the past few hours keeping an eye out for hedges in which to sleep.. So we move on once again, from bus stop to bus stop, station to station; lugging that precious wine through the streets, lighting sparklers in the tube station, catching glimpses of fireworks over the skyline.

Midnight itself is spent on the tube somewhere outside Stratford with Matthew and Erica, which - well, let's face it, if you were going to be stranded on the Jubilee line at New Year with anyone, you'd want it to be them, wouldn't you?

And after that, nothing but flashes of high-spirits, low-spirits, truly wicked behaviour and, in the early hours, the lonely five mile walk back to E17 - an experience which, in retrospect, takes on its own variety of ridiculous charm. But I still recall the vague hope that I might drop dead somewhere along the side of a certain A-road or other and be spared the remainder of the journey.

And to think, you probably missed all that because you were in a nice warm pub somewhere, dancing to Madonna records. And how’s that going to fill up an overly-chronological diary entry, hmm?