Oh god it's another night, and your head is feeling like a lump of lead. You should never have drunk those party fours, you should have been home, being good instead. And the feeling of deja vu in the end is the same again. You ran out of your silver things, and you're trying to be so high class but you need a bath, and you hair's looking like string. And though you're nearly broke, you end up paying for all the drinks. And you tell them "Oh, it's nothing, there's a million where those came from". And then you whisper to your longest suffering friend, "Please lend me a few quid".

Oh god it's another day, and your stomach's feeling like a blown up balloon. You should have never eaten that greasy food, the doctor told you that chili was bad for your blood. And you're standing in the chemist's booth, coughing up your guts like you're at death's door. And all this for a packet of Dodo's. And the assistant gives you a wink, and you turn bright red. It's at times like this that you wish you were dead. And you take the whole packet, and you feel like you drunk a bottle of bleach. And you tell yourself "Never, never again ... not until next week, anyway". And you were never one for holding drink, and you stagger off to the toilet and you throw up like it was Christmas, and you miss the bowl and you hit your shoes. And there's no paper towels, what else can go wrong with you? It's a choice between a cab fare home and a packet of cigarettes. So you choose, and the money sticks in the machine, and the manager says "Tough shit, drink up and leave".

Oh god it's another disease, and you just got rid of the last. You were beginning to feel okay, and the friends you gave it to were speaking to you again. You find yourself having sex in the back of a car, and the girl underneath doesn't care who you are. And you're nearly there and she still doesn't care, and her chewing gum is getting stuck in your hair. And there's something wrong, something that you've forgot ...oh shit, you've forgotten the rubber! And you don't want a kid. Well, deny it was you. Oh christ, if your dad finds out, then he'll make you stay in and do your homework and cut your hair, and wear your school uniform out in the street ... what a fate worse than death. Well he can't hit you, you can hit him back, and play your records so loud. All the ones that he especially hates, Deep Purple in rock, Led Zeppelin too ...well even you hate those. Well on second thought, I think I'll leave home and go and live in America. Because they earn more money there, and you can get away with murder.

Oh, it's a mug's game. I can't wait 'til I'm twenty-one, and then tell them all to sod off.

Miami is a very strange place. I guess I always assumed that Marc Anthony/Ricky Martin/Enrique Iglesias videos were artistic embellishments of club life. They're not. They're Miami.

For an old stick in the mud like me, seeing a guy reenacting the ice scene in 9 1/2 Weeks with a girl splayed out on the bar is a little much. Especially when you've spent all day at a scientific meeting, listening to science, talking science, and getting bombarded with questions about your science. At that point I wanted a nice cold Guinness and a dark room, not a Corona and lime, a day-glo Caribbean hut, and a deafening salsa band.

I was temporarily entranced at the idea that I was staying at the hotel where they shot the opening portion of Goldfinger. Despite the hotel's history, I soon learned that it's room service stunk and the 60 blocks surrounding it consisted entirely of other hotels and condominiums.

Exiting whiny old fart mode ...

I would love to be in the room when VH1 interviews music celebrities for their "100 greatest ____" lists. Just watching the edited show, you can sense the undercurrents and unspoken opinions of the people being interviewed. It is pure comedy at times. I had a bunch of giggles while watching the 100 Greatest Hard Rock Bands of All Time.

• The topic of Nirvana (#9) elicited some polite responses from metalheads and hair bands. A chorus of brief praise seemed to be practically dragged out of assorted rockers. C.C. Deville (Poison): "I loved them. (pause)". Dee Snyder (Twisted Sister) was more to the point: "Nirvana sounded the death knell for old school heavy metal. But they were great. (pause)". The statement, "These guys ruined my career. What the hell do you want me to say about them?" was written all over their faces. Hilarious.
• Chuck D of Public Enemy appeared here and there and made a bunch of forgettable comments. I swear he was thinking, "If I had known doing 'Bring The Noise' with Anthrax was going to condemn me to appearing on these shows forever, I never would have done it!"
• As usual, Henry Rollins made a couple of inflammatory remarks. On the subject of the Sex Pistols (#12): "They were more cute than anything. If Johnny Lydon was here now, I'd pet him like my lap dog." I was peeved for a second, because the last thing I want to hear in the midst of a bunch of heavy metal worship is someone dismissing punk. But what were the Sex Pistols but a bunch of drunken morons that Malcolm McLaren thrust into the limelight (while carefully pulling their strings)? They certainly are responsible for creating a new school of music (and thought), but let's not wax poetic about what brilliant guys they were.