I was very lucky. It was a case of being in the right place at the right
time. I'd been thrown out of three or four places before really landing on
my feet somewhere on Park Row. Making the most of my new upright
posture O shambled into the Ship Inn. It was a cold November evening
but the pub was exceedingly well heated. The Linkuns managed to
clear most of the front bar area after their first few numbers. I found
a good radiator and warmed myself up no end till I think I was the only
person left in the punters' area. The landlord was busy throwing bottles
at the singer so I was able to 'squeeze in', as we say, a few drinks. Had a
nice mix of spirits and Fanta. At least that's what at looked like in the
morning. Passed out in the Gents and then it was back to work as
usual the next day on the lookout for a suitable venue for my evening
entertainment. All in all a great night.



The heady summer of 1990. Patchouli oil. Unwashed hair, saggy jumpers and
overtight trousers. The zenith of my feral attraction. Bristol's hazy pavements,
steeped in the equivocality of history. Colonial mansions sweated from the sinews
of the underclass. The epiphany of my sensuality; sultry with fetid desire.
What a night. 18 August 1990. Etched across my septum. St Nicholas Street.
The Linkuns. Smokin'. Indescribable. If only I'd had change for the bus...

Burns' reply