Today licked tramp scrotum so enthusiastically it's better to think about the weekend's entertainment.
On Friday saw Junior Boys perform live @ The Arches.
They didn't really bang it out the way you want at 2am on a Saturday. In that respect they're similar to Hot Chip in a live setting (too much boo-hoo, not enough largin' it).
Both bands do that sorrowful, soulful, deep electro thing with consummate skill, just don't make enough big tunes.
The venue was fat, though. Aside from being on the correct side of the river as so few top class London clubs are, it was your typical open-brickwork, strobe and smoke-machine cavern: A cross between Fabric and Heaven, albeit on a smaller scale.
A decent night, particularly in Room 2 where the Greco-Roman soundsystem had a few interesting heads (including Kieran Hebden aka Four Tet) laying down dark breakbeat, twisted two-step and some brilliant music that defied categorisation but had psychedelia and afrobeat influences. Sweaty, vital fun.
Saturday was all about Stella during the England game before experiencing my first ever bike race in the flesh.
Hit Smithfield to see the whooshing majesty of lycra-clad bods travelling at unnerving speed with the trusty best mate. These days he prefers cycling to football. But then he does support Millwall.
He was also the first person to tell me about Critical Mass and ghost bikes. Both are important for cycling in the capital, the former a bold celebration, the latter a sober warning.
The day didn't finish at Smithfield but kebab minutiae, furtive phone calls and a tube conversation with a drunken Irishman aren't exciting to anyone but late-night novices.