I think I must be overcompensating for an ascetic, near-teetotal existence in Glasgow. Over the past couple of weeks I’ve met up with anyone and everyone I could in an effort to break in my drinking habit again.

A couple of Fridays ago, Doug, Keef and I engaged in a mini pub crawl around the city centre to debate the meaning of life, the universe, and everything in between. (With particular emphasis placed on the eternal question of choosing a mobile phone operating system. I will admit to bringing this up forcefully and repeatedly until taken at least half-seriously. Did I mention I’ve treated myself to a new phone after a year spent out of contract?) We ambled the length of Rose Street until pitching up in the Voodoo Rooms, where we grabbed a few drinks and found seats at a temporary table off the main bar.

The place was hoaching: there was some sort of burlesque club being held in the ballroom, and so some very strictly dressed young ladies (a more licentious commentator might say that they were in fact not strictly dressed) mingled with the greater bulk of the cocktail bar-hopping clientele. For the uninitiated, the Voodoo Rooms has a sort of gaudy chic thing happening, with so much gold paint and black leather that it shoots straight past ‘tasteful’ and squarely bullseyes ‘pompous’ instead. It’s a bizarrely schizophrenic place: half of the customers were dressed to the nines, looking down their noses at a trio of unshaven, jeans-and-T-shirt sorts; and the other half were almost overdressed, Vegas style, and playing up to the camp décor splendidly. Who was right? Is the Voodoo Rooms genuine or pastiche? I have no idea.

The next week I met up with Doug again, this time over on Broughton Street to hear a band called Horsebreaker play the Phoenix Cellar Bar. They were good, although a couple of numbers sailed dangerously close to becoming performance poetry. We hung around after the show, Doug hoping to grab a few words with the lead singer. He pounced as she walked past.

“Hi! I’m Doug from Coba Fynn. Our bands are friends on Myspace.”

“Oh, hey! So glad you made it,” she smiled.

“Yeah, so—”

“Well, great to see you! Bye,” she smiled again and continued on without stopping.

Tremendous.

We retired to the bar upstairs and drank on. And on.

I felt distinctly unhealthy the next morning and it was with a degree of revulsion that I took my first sip of Guiness that evening, back in the pub again to discuss The Project with Jeff. I’ve been a little hesitant to mention The Project here — a fear of commentator’s curse, perhaps. In fact, all you’re going to get this time round is an acknowledgement of A) its existence and B) the fact that Jeff is acting as both editor and slavedriver in equal measure. Need to know basis and all that.

Anyway, we drank and pontificated and drank and played Zeppelin on the jukebox and drank some more.

The next morning, something miraculous happened. I was without hangover. I skipped to work (through the snow, if I remember correctly) and performed a normal day’s work without the slightest hint of cranial retribution for the previous night’s alcohol abuse.

I had mastered tantric boozing.

In other news, Ash & I went round to Jez & Serena’s last weekend for pheasant (shot out of the sky by our own estimable host), chat and some impromptu hat wearing, and Coba Fynn are limbering up for the first gig of 2009 at the Barfly once more. We even have proper tickets an’ all. Good times!