The kids aren't alright

This can't have been only two weeks. I've got blood in my urine, stools and carpet. I don't even drink yet my mouth is dry every morning. My eyes are bloodshot and I'm quite certain that if I had pets up here, they would have gout. I'm overworked, underpaid, my libido is shot and I'm quite certain that if I watch television I may well burst into tears. How the hell did I ever do this when I was coked out of my skull? Oh that's right. I was coked out of my skull.

I've got my day off tomorrow. I had big ideas of plowing straight through and cleaning up when everyone else is off. But sod that. I'm beat.

My first gig of the night doesn't start until 10pm and my last isn't done until 3am most nights. And I'm sorry but you young Scots who are up at that hour are just not for me. The boys sound like trucks backing over a bucket full of whoopee cushions and the girls sound like cats trying to bark.

No wonder there's loud, cracking gunfire shot off nightly, it's the only thing that can sound out the drone of the locals - so unintelligible, I can't even determine what sentiment they're expressing.

I'm getting old and I don't care. I don't want the young in my gigs unless they're still bashful like they bloody well should be. Kitson has nailed it. Next year I'm going on at 10am. The elderly and the committed. In my latter years I prefer the sound of giggling jiggling old ladies to that of lads going, "rayyyyyy" as they push one another in the arm. Just a note boys. "Rayyyyy" is not a laugh. It's a response to buzzwords you recognize. I had some teenagers walk out last night in the first five minutes while three old fellahs were slapping their knees in hysterics. I don't think I've ever been prouder.