So, the Welsh Music Awards was most certainly a time. I did not win, but Birddogg and I enjoyed our performance very much, as, it seemed, did the Welsh Music Industry. We had a table right at the front, by the GLC's, but they got kicked out for smoking weed, so it wasn't too rowdy.
Afterwards everybody went to a very nice underground kaleidescope type of a thing, where Gwil was rude to TV presenters and members of Cardiff FC, and everybody bought me drinks so I was much drunker than I tend to be nowadays.
So, anyway, what it was was, at around 4 or 5am, and suddenly I had left the club, lost my peoples, and I was having a row with Pancho out of Dirty Sanchez about, something or other, then I was wandering around Cardiff, freezing cold and ranting at the traffic, realising that I'd managed to lose my favourite coat, my amazing blue denim Akira jacket that my MAMMY MADE, and my bag, in which were 9 cans of Stella Artois, 6 pockets of Walkers (potentially cancerous), my laptop, the master CDs for my next EP, various letters of great importance, and, I just realised, my bank stuffs, and my PASSPORT.
Rubbish yes. I lost my phone last week as well. I had no numbers on me. So I was lost. I ranted and raged and felt awfully sorry for myself for a little while, wandering the streets of Cardiff in the freezing morning, drunk. But then I became settled with my lot, and started plotting ways to jump rains back to London and get a jacket with no money.
But then, as the sun swooped high and punctured my bloodshot eyeballs, salvation! Golden arches! MacDonald's! Internet!
And lo, it was true. And I internetted, and found a number, and made a call, and soon it came to pass that I was reunited with my peoples, and did collapse in the bed of a man called Moo, and have still not been able to find out if my bag is in the cloakroom of that cute mirrored hole in the ground, or the bowels of SATAN.