All our CD’s have now been ripped into the computer and songs spew out at random thanks to the miracle of iTunes. Right now it’s Blondie. 11.59 from Parallel Lines. Which reminds me of Italy and the school trip where I learned to drink beer at the tender age of 15.
We discovered The English Pub which made pizza in a brick oven just outside Venice and served pints of lager. Our history teacher eventually discovered us, all inebriated, swinging on the lounge chairs. He duly rounded us up and shepherded us back to the hotel, where we ran amok and the hard kids painted Paul Jarrett’s glasses with toothpaste as he slept.
I found the hapless Jarrett character asleep in the hotel lobby the next morning. I’d taken the precaution of not sharing a room with the mental cases but was rooming with the Mods, Paul and Andrew, who wore green parkas all the time and listened to The Who. There was one other guy too. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? No, the name’s gone.
Anyway, we hauled our hungover selves into the tour bus…