So it's near enough midnight ...

... last Friday night and I'm sitting on the roof terrace of the Caffe Bar Libar chillin' with the dudes , or whatever the expression is, and I get a call from my colleague in Glasgow.
"West", he says urgently. "You've got to go to New York and sort out the mess on" ... (names the place where the mess is occurring).
"But I'm just about to get into a higher gear here!" I protested. Anxious faces turned towards mine as my consternation communicated itself to the assembled company. They sensed that something was going on which could put a dampener on the party atmosphere. They drew closer together, gaining comfort from each other as events unfolded.
"It's all arranged, West, your ticket is booked, Split to Frankfurt ten o'clock tomorrow morning, just enough time to sign a few autographs at Frankfurt, then it's next stop New York. The Big Apple's waiting West baby, start spreading the news".
"Are you fucking mental!" I screamed. "There's stuff to do here, babes to service, conquests lining up." But he was gone, the die was cast.
"What's happening West?" Spokesbabe number one asked tentatively, her eyes downcast. The others hung back, waiting.
"I'm sorry babes, I've got to go. It's New York for me."

And so I departed old Dalmatia prematurely. The late Friday night/early Saturday morning high jinks at the Club Tribu just about did for me. Honestly, the next day I thought I was going to peg out, but once I had rehydrated and medicated myself with half a pharmacy I summoned the strength to get out to the airport and was off, in shambling order to New York via Frankfurt.

After the mess was sorted out I made sure to head back down to Manhattan. I arrived there last Monday evening at about seven thirty. Just enough time for a long soak and then a short stroll down to Thirty Second Street to get the subway to my spiritual home, Hoboken.
I lived there for six months from October 2002 and I just love the place. I got off the PATH and strolled down 1st Street to call in at the Nag's Head Pub run by Barney Finnegan, the most disagreeable pub landlord I have ever met. Unfortunately Barney was not at home so I had a quiet pint of very agreeable Guinness and headed off to the Scotland Yard Bar home of the Monday Night Blues Jam with Big Ed Sullivan. I used to go to the Yard religiously every Monday and I'm glad to say that nothing had changed. It was still great. Christine was still behind the bar, Big Ed was still running the show, and great musicians like Arthur Nielsen and Dave Gross, the wunderkid. And so many other fine musicians, most of them enthusiastic but gifted amateurs. The regular drummer is good and really can drive a good rocking blues number, but there was also another, younger guy there who showed some unexpected subtlety in that company. Great music, and all for the cost of a few beers and show your appreciation in the tip jar.

Next day it was down to Macy's for the shopping and another chance to soak up NYC. Being as how it was the Fourth of July the place was relatively quiet, as the office workers had abandoned the canyons for the day and left the place to the tourists. A handbag for the lady wife, a Boston Celtics vest for the sprog, and two original 1960's Superman comics for the wasting asset. And so to the airport, relax in the business lounge, a few glasses of wine, board the plane, dinner and a few more glasses of wine. I slept like a baby all the way to London.