Most of what happened last night was excellent and still being processed. But I’ve just got to tell you this:
Last night, around midnight in SIN nightclub (that used to be Rouge) in central London, just as I was about to jump onstage to play piano with Frank, I bought a pint of orange juice and lemonade from the bar (£3). There’d been no water left in the dressing room by the time I got there (I guess a lot of bands went through that place last night and ours was the last set).
Anyway, my drink came in a plastic pint glass. I took a couple of big gulps before realising it tasted almost entirely of disinfectant. Then I smelled the glass and fuck me it stank! I didn’t have time to complain because of the impending gig and rammed bar, so I slammed it down and went on. It wasn’t in my imagination though, my friend Mel smelled the cup for me (!) and confirmed it was awful.
Then within seconds, halfway through the first song, my lips were burning.
This morning, my lips sting like fuck, a bit like when you’ve got really bad chapped lips from cold or hot weather. Cunts. Makes me nervous about what I swallowed – and you won’t find me saying that often.