I think it was Alexei Sayle who said something along the lines of, "You know you've had a good night when you wake up in an unfurnished flat in Istanbul and there's a guy in a fez standing over you holding a sign that says 'Your potatoes are ready.'"

When I lived in London, many a big night out was followed with a rude awakening in some home counties town by a bus conductor at the end of the night bus route. Hertfordshire is a terrible place at an hour but, believe me, at 5.30am when it's cold and you have no more money and you live in Tooting Broadway and you were on the wrong fucking bus in the first place it's a veritable Hades. For the benefit of my American readers, imagine trying to get to Texas but ending up in Montana . Yes, we're a small island but it's all relative and with 90% amnesia and a banging head it might as well have been the moon.

After one particular night in the Keith Moon Bar (I shit you not) in the now demolished London Astoria, I...I...I haven't got the vaguest idea what happened. The name of the venue probably holds a clue.

On this occasion, I did not get on any night bus, let alone the wrong one. No. This time I awoke on my back in bright sunlight. It was so bright that I couldn't actually see anything but I could feel a tapping on my foot. I tried to lift my head but it was invisibly tied to the floor as if I were in Liliput. The tapping continued and then came a voice.

"I say. I say!"

I managed to get a hand to my brow to shield the sun and look down across my chest and towards my feet. Standing above me was a city gent in full pin stripe and bowler hat. He was tapping my foot with a walking stick.

"I say. Do you know when the pelicans were introduced to this park?"

"No."

"In the reign of Charles the Second. Good day."

And off he went. I never saw him again but I think of him often. I wonder if he ever thinks of me.



Wake up! I want to say goodnight.


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