I was out the other night with my friend Mark on some sort of a strange little evening stretching from Soho to Old Street.
Along the way, we swept up more friends of Mark, namely drunken artist and his girlfriend, who is still at the stage where girl's smoking roll-up cigarettes is sort of cute and endearing, and a performance artist John Cash Money who spoke for much for the time in a southern American accent, which made him sound more like Elvis than the man in black, but hey, I'm splitting hairs here.
Anyway, we ended up at a pub in Old Street run by those nice people at .
Later, the guy in the orange Stetson turned up, another artist, but I can never remember his name. You could tell he was an artist as he sat on his armchair upside down. Maybe that was a sign, you know, like a David Lynch movie, but like all things in Lynch movie quite what the symbolism was referring to was wide open to debate.
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