I do have a feeling that I took the tickets out of my coat pocket fearing I would lose them when I went somewhere if I took my coat off, but if so I presume I would have put them in my bag, but amidst my dirty knickers and dirty socks and dirty T-shirts I can find no sign of them. I spend the whole time drunk so my memory is appropriately vague to non-existent. I go to the night bars now filled with torpor and lethargy, when back in 2004 I used to hurry from the kabins of BEC or Sarah Young to Stuttgarter Platz almost literally hyperventilating with excitement and anticipation of what voluptuous huge-breasted houris might be waiting for me, in Hanky Panky, or Mon Cheri, or Golden Gate, or Monte Carlo. How long ago those magical nights seem. The drug was new then, and my receptors were very alive to it.