I woke up at ten on Saturday morning, had an omlette, watched a documentary about the clash and headed for Prague, to have an afternoon bowl of soup with Amanda. She asked me what was ahead, in terms of Saturday night. I said I thought a big one was overdue and in order. She asked me if I’d want to go dancing. I asked if she’d ever seen me dancing. She said “no.” I said that was because I didn’t dance.
After an opportunistic sunbathe (my first ever tan is approaching) in the park and the burning of a CD I got home to rest myself and gather some energy. What an old man.
Then the Blind Eye didn’t live up to anything at all. Nobody had turned up except Bob and Michelle and they’d had a zanax each and weren’t exactly talkative. Things looked up when Tom, Chrissy and some girls turned up. The girls were vaguely annoying, in the way only English girls can be, but to their credit they did have Bumped into Julia and spoke to her about this blog and my replacement. She said very politely that all I do is get drunk, which isn’t really very accurate, though I will concede she has a point. Still, what else is there to do? I spend an equal or greater time reading and listening, but feel it out of place to branch into arts criticism. I don’t have much time for self criticism either. I’ve spent enough time doing that and consider it at best masturbatory and at worst tedious and dangerous. So I’ll stop now.

I called Johnny on the way to Akropolis and we all went and hung there,. The main room was open for a change, but dull as hell, so we all moved to the smaller bar, where some proper techno was going on. A lot of people in Prague don’t get dance music and I’m through trying to explain. All you have to do is feel it, and I did. I danced for a few hours, mainly on my own. There could have been nobody else there. A regular feature at Akropolis is a beardy guy with a jaws harp miked up. It may sound strange at first, but after ten minutes you’ve forgotten he’s there and after 20 his playing has become an essential part of the music.
I was into everything enough not to notice that all my friends and acquaintances had gone and that it was 4.30 by now. I gave it another half an hour, ideas for how I could write about it tumbling around in my mind, inspirational ideas, then thought I should better leave and get a pen while I was at it.
Tom was still on the steps. He didn’t have one. Neither did the guy at the petrol station, though he tried to sell me one for 69 crowns. I would have got one from somewhere if the tram hadn’t come immediately and connected to the metro and bus like lego. Within 40 minutes I was home, a light drizzle covering me and the dancefloor revelations having slipped out of my brain somewhere around Palmovka.

On Sunday I felt like hell, and went to IKEA with Amanda. I like places like that usually (and I’m really not proud of it, but why deny) but there was too much furniture for a hangover.
I wonder what life is like in England?