I once read somewhere that the key to being a successful entrepreneur/businessman is to be able to function on very little sleep. All the greats from Jeff Bezos to, er, Alan Sugar kip for barely a few hours, giving them ample time in the day for thinking up brilliant money-making schemes like Amazon and, um, the Amstrad PC?
Being more of an owl than a lark, I always envied these hyperactive, super rich biz folk. However, having chronic jet lag over the past few days has given me a brief snapshot into a) what daybreak looks like fresh-faced rather than at the wrong end of a heavy night in Dalston, b) the limitless possibilities of extra hours in the day. Not that I’ve used them.
I believe a similar scenario presented itself to my old mum when, in the 1960s, she unwittingly began a lengthy course of prescription amphetamines in order to lose weight. In her own words: “It was great. I stayed up all night studying and was on course for a first, until I hit my room-mate over the head with my tennis racquet and thought it best that I stop taking the Purple Hearts. I got fat and ended up with a 2:1.”
This is a long-winded way of saying I’ve been in the UK for the past fortnight, destroying my already frail body with a succession of stag weekends, weddings and late night parental drinking sessions. The jet-lag will eventually cease, I hope, but these images will remain with me forever:
Nothing bad ever starts with a Buckie, does it?
The morning after the wedding the day before. Somewhere in a field near Glasgow, awright…
The man who won Trafalgar. Geordie hero.
Newcastle Races. A LONG way from Happy Valley
Perfectly judged club-art. Newcastle, of course.
Death Noodle 