Not the Stone Roses

The Stone Roses are tomorrow, me and Ruby are making a weekend of it.

Not as much of a weekend of it as the guys in our train carriage who made the last days of the Roman Empire sound like a tea party. I can't remember the last time I saw a bottle of sambuca being opened at 11am. I sipped my espresso, nibbled my granola bar and sniffed with disdain. Not as much as I sniffed when the toilet started to overflow.

Into Manchester and it's been turned into a Stone Roses theme park. Dropped the bags in the apartment, wandered through the carnage to Wagamama and strolled back watching the sights.

Ruby's having a great time. So am I. And the gig isn't even until tomorrow