...Basically carried on as before. Conducting the show was great fun and many of us would round off every evening either playing gigs in St. Pauli's clubs and bars or just going to Medusa and try to scam free pizzas off the coke-snorting proprietor. We basically kept that dump of a restaurant going for many a night, particularly as they used to get mileage out of their advertising slogan: The Restaurant Where The Cats Eat. However, once they were full of other punters, they treated us like dirt. One day, I was so fed up with their behaviour that I went downstairs to the loo and kicked all their suspended ashtrays off the wall. The owner would never have clicked it was me had he not come down to sniff some Columbian marching powder. He screamed at me but didn't ban me, knowing full well he'd lose a lot of custom if I took my clan with me. In the end, once I'd done it a third time, he did ban me. Medusa is still there and so am I. Whether or not the owner is, though, I wouldn't like to guess.
Shortly after all this, I decided I needed a Cats dressing gown. This moment was to prove decisive and ushered in the most intense period of shagging I think I've ever known. Her name also started with A, but was as far removed from the other as it was possible to be. She was beautiful and slightly older than I, with that look in the eye that only ladies of a certain age and experience can master. I benefited from the lot, but I gave as good as I got.
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