That warm feeling

Sunday afternoon, 6.30pm. Sigh9 and myself board the Northern line towards Bank and ultimately Liverpool St, our destination, the grammatically challenged Gramaphone. We quickly realise, along with our more compos mentis fellow travellers, that there is a curious river of liquid running along the floor. All eyes quickly turn to the gentleman in the corner, and the remarkable stream of urine cascading forth from his jeans. Anyone who has ever relieved themselves in the ocean or the school pool, knows the iniquitous delight of pissing in their pants (God Forbid I'd every promote such behaviour, ahem.) Sadly this man was too far gone to appreciate the warm primal glow of the voluntary soiler. He probably awoke to a chilled crotch and the gentle ministrations of the London underground staff, hurling him into the street. We took this as a sign to keep our beer consumption within reasonable limits and went on to enjoy some hearty Teutonic banging (No Spencer, not that sort of Teutonic banging) care of Marcus Hartmann (The Siamese twin with the chiselled cheek bones) from Pulsar Records in Berlin. At the end of the evening, as a special treat, la Sonje led Strcprstskrzkrk and myself a merry dance around the city streets in search of that holy grail of bus routes 'The 35'. Naturally we failed dismally in this quest and found instead a series of small walls knocked up by some Romans or something. Two days later we got home just in time to miss 1st look 'Lost', nice. Ah well, apart from the minor detour around London's tourist hotspots, a very successful outing indeed. I come over all warm just thinking about it.

B