Keef

Hey get this, I'm on my way out of Honolulu, when the customs guy picks up Bobby Keys' saxophone and a syringe falls out. He's busted and I'm next in line with Keef. (What are you talking about Davison? You're on a crowded bus in rush hour London on the day of the tube strike). Oh great, so I'm momentarily sent hurtling back to reality, surrounded by people on mobiles, phoning home to explain they won't be on time for dinner because the traffic's backed up for miles.

I was at Waterstones in Piccadilly as Keith Richards was turning up to sign his book, which I've been getting into since I bought it last Monday. I turn up late, the queue big, the security as helpful as ever.

"How many people roughly have been through so far, 100, 200?"

"It's not for me to say."

Great, another unhelpful thick shit who can't count is put in charge. The table where Mr Richards sits is surrounded and I don't even catch a glimpse of him. I just wanted to check he was real.

Reality isn't what I need this week, everything is falling down, having to deal with idiots entangled in crappy administration systems which fail you every time (Yes you - Islington council), customer services that never offer you a thing until you're leaving. Too little too late fuckers. I'm getting through the crazed world of Keef with the drug busts, the dealings at customs and all the crazy characters on the world tours, waiting for Sunday.

Sunday is where it's at. Ah, sweet Sunday. Tracy is working at the t-shirt shop so I'm cooking. The sweet smell of Bramley apples drifts from the kitchen, the lamb is slow cooking in the oven and the coffee is on the hob bubbling away. The heating is on, the 45s and 33 1/3s were dusted off and on the turntable earlier, but now I'm listening to Mr Cocker on 6 music, with his wonderful crackling records, on an autumn day.

The next time I go to Honolulu it'll be with Mr Oliver and Mr Hardy. Honolulu baby, where'd ya get those eyes?