Last night, I had the honour of attending what has long been looked forward to as the social event of the season, nay, the year; the debut EP launch for loveable miscreants and good friends When Good Pets Go Bad. The night was a tremendous success, and I came home a satisfied, if quite drunk, customer. I launched myself into bed and prepared myself for warm lovely dreams about guitars and Burt Reynolds.
I woke up at six in the morning, feeling the groggy dehydration of someone who's been mainlining rasberry flavoured vodka. I blindly felt my way into the kitchen, desperately trying not to wake up my mother, whose crazy pills kick in between 1 and 6 a.m. I chugged three glasses of water, and feeling like I should probably play it safe, hangover wise, reached for a blueish box, on which i could barely make out the word "aspirin". The kitchen was still completely dark, so I couldn't actually read the box properly, but eggs is eggs is eggs, right?