Smoking Bordello

I blame Gogol Bordello and the intravenous speed machine known as La Phaze (political punk with boots on; they’ll leave your ears ringing). Soaking me in sweat and other people’s vapours and then spitting me out into the cold Hammersmith night last Saturday.

Or maybe it was running round Battersea Park in cheap red fabric soaked through to the skin, with one hand holding up my Santa trousers and the other breathing nose-drippings through the beard.

Whatever the cause, I’ve spent the past few days running the kind of fever that I last picked up somewhere between Lusaka and Harare. In the midst of my delirium I also managed to inhale some sort of sharp-clawed creature that has been raking the inside of my chest ever since in a desperate effort to get out.

A lifetime’s love-hate relationship with the Indians’ Revenge hasn’t helped with the latter. But we’re not seeing each other at the moment, and however painful the scars might be from our past liaisons, it’s nothing compared to what it would be like if we were still together.

I love the scented vapours too much to say for certain that we won’t ever see each other again. But I also love my lungs enough to give them far more consideration now than I ever used to in my youth when it seemed like they would go on breathing forever. I’ll be taking them out on a trail of pre-Christmas festivities over the next week or so, and despite all my libertarian tendencies the first winter with a smoking ban is going to feel both welcome and right.

Two thousand Santas and Gogol Bordello

I don't know how we'll explain this to the kids who think that Santa Claus lives on his own with his elven workforce at the North Pole, but there are going to be nearly 2,000 of us in Santa costumes running around Battersea Park tomorrow (Saturday) morning. There are at least a couple of dozen other Santa runs taking place this month for one good cause or another, not to mention events such as next weekend's Staffordshire Moorlands Xmas Cracker, when a mad few hundred or so will turn out in fancy dress for a six-mile dash to the top of the Roaches and down again.

Give me a wave if you're in the vicinity of either run. I'll be the one with a white beard and red coat.

Alternatively, look out for me wearing the purple for Gogol Bordello at the Hammersmith Odeon (Apollo if you must) on Saturday night. I'll be the one going mental on the dancefloor.