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Prague Diary Extract -

"Fell down the escalators last night. Got on the metro in the wrong direction, fell asleep, and woke up the opposite end of the city. Came all the way back and fell asleep again on escalator on the way up. Don't usually suffer from narcolepsy.

Luckily I managed to pirouette round when I felt myself going and took the tumble head first instead of backwards. It was a hard fall. Felt like the world was swung against me like a wrecking ball.

I lay there in pain, letting the escalator carry me to the top. But the jobsworth in his little box saw me on his monitor and hit the stop button. So I had to jog all the way to the top pretending I was OK, because I didn't have a ticket and didn't want to get fined.

Each step of an escalator has about fifty steel teeth, and they bite. This morning, my leg and stomach are both gashed. I look like I've been attacked by a werewolf.

Plus I'm hungover. James Brown's "I Feel Good" playing at quarter speed in my head as an ironic counterpoint to my condition, and my brain feels clogged up with baked beans.

I stumble around the flat for a little while, without doing anything. All I really have to do to feel good is have a shower and make some coffee. But that's too hard, so I crawl back into bed and jerk off."

Praha, 2002 - What's going to happen next?

"Something's been wrong with my face for a few days now, and it's taken a while to figure out what it is.

I'm frowning. That's what it is. Spring has arrived, and the atmosphere in the city has changed with the season. Out come the little skirts and tops, and I can sit on Petrin Hill looking over the city with my beer and Crocodile baguette, thinking about all the suckers back home.

But I'm frowning. I feel drained. The effort of constantly trying to understand and be understood has done me in. Being surrounded by another language is exhausting, because you're always trying to decipher the chatter.

I miss things. I want brown sauce. I want proper bacon. I want Pot Noodle. I want to go into the newsagents and buy a ***ing paper without spending four quid on it. I want to go into a restaurant and order what I want, rather than something I vaguely recognise as edible.

"This is London..." the BBC World Service begins, and then tells me the Queen Mother is dead. That makes me feel a bit better. After the OTT outpouring of public grief after Di became roadkill, I'm glad I'm not in England for this one.

I get ready to go out. Suddenly I'm singing "God Save the Queen" by Sex Pistols, and I've got my punk head on. Time to show Prague what it's all about."

Praha 2002 - What's Going to happen next??