Kate Moss presents: The Beetroot Lift Incident

They are calling, bellowing, even, below the knee. Through the gloomy, day-for-night light, She approaches with her outstretched hands full of colourful, cow treats. Underground, a suit paired with an earring appears to scream 'estate agent'. Armpit to armpit, 'beetroot' is a funny word when abruptly mentioned in a moving room. 1'6d for a pint of whelks, governor. And then. I fell foul of an unexpected step.

A random, anemic Tom sidles into view at Amy Winehouse's favourite bar, the glow of his white face reflecting in the pretty trails of duffel coat sputum. I smooth his fag and it arouses me. Faithful Fluffel rebuffs the consistent wineular advances and plumps for a hoegaarden. An aural blast of power courduroy booms from the top floor, as She looks up from her wood pulp home.

Mr UEA Norwich has a big head. The view of vampires is heavily restricted, until one last nasal explosion persuades the furry Shins into a spot of uplifting board treading. We cheer. It is not enough.

The drunky unLondoners vigorously discuss the evening's merits. Madonna is crowned the lady-King of Hammersmith, gobble gobble gobble. Her personal lady-bouncer brings an end to the proceedings by spicily pointing in the direction of the honk stop. It is the end of the road.

The haze of booze begins to clear and all that can be remembered are these few, short snatches of incoherence. They are my gift to you.


Currently listening: Cease to Begin by Band of Horses