Driving South

Off to Toulouse to sample some cassoulet with Alex. No doubt there will be recollections of the virtues of hallucinogenic rough scrumpy imbibed in a sticky carpeted Bristol pub full of old men with one remaining stump of a yellow tooth. Either that or I'll be on the receiving end of a monologue about how "French women walk about with rods up their arses and British expats are only interested in booze and wife swapping".

After that it's three weeks in Soho trying to persuade a stuffed suit banker to lend me some dosh at a marginally less usurious rate than 5% above base. I'm thinking of resorting to the Bank of Cyprus or such like as British bankers, who were chucking money about like confetti not so long ago, don't appear to want to lend on anything.

Anyhoo, here's something for Kaz. She knows about ye olden dayes:



Dig them funky white afros baby. Jimi was having a bad hair day.