Slightly late with the editorial this week: I was too cut up about the Paddington rail-crash to write anything…

Nah, who am I trying to kid – though I imagine it’ll be a while before anyone on that line complains about BR sandwiches again (got that line off a guy who’s written stuff for ITV, which says a lot). Friday night, I was out in the wilds of Chelmsford, bravely braving [er…] the Essex club scene, while yesterday, I got engrossed in the baseball playoffs, watching my potential $700 fall to earth like a fly-ball misplayed by a substitute right-fielder named Tony Womack.

But that’s getting ahead of myself. The TC launch drink on Wednesday was a thoroughly enjoyable evening, meeting friends old and new as well as TC contributors and those whom are yet to write for us, while Chris bought the most geographically-disparate round of drinks I’ve ever experienced, from Phoenix to New Oxford Street. Also met James Wallis, ex-Bizarre dude, who is now editing Crazynet, a new Internet publication. Yep, I can hear you yawn, but blow me, it’s rather good. First issue: James Woods, Buffy, Denise Richards on the cover. If some fairy godmother gave me a million quid, this is what TC would look like. It’s certainly the first time I’ve ever read every page of an Internet mag. Ł2.99 from W.H.Smith’s. Go buy.

After sobering up from the first serious drinking session post-September’s sobriety, it was off to the wild blue yonders of Braintree + Chelmsford. Yes, Essex: previous experience there = one day in Southend and a job interview at Marconi. Going clubbing in Essex was always, equated in my mind, with the kind of place where they ask if you have any offensive weapons, and if not, offer to sell some to you. Yes, an old joke. but when the first club you has a large sign proclaiming itself “a violence-free zone” alongside pleas to “leave your ego at home”… Ulp. Things weren’t helped by the search at the door. You go to Heathrow, you set the metal detector ringing like Big Ben, you won’t get a search like this. I’ve had lap dances which were less up-close and personal. Even my Hello Kitty key-fob was examined for its potential use as an weapon; I guess it could choke someone perhaps? Actually, once inside it was pretty good, with music which took “non-specific” to wild extremes, Kenny Loggins sitting next to Nirvana. I just kept waiting for World War Three to kick off, but it didn’t.

Got back here on Saturday, intending to catch some Z’s, then listen to the baseball later on while updating the site. However, suddenly discovered a) the game has started at 1pm, not 7pm, and so was in its 5th innings, and b) my RealRadio connection wasn’t working. Frantic attempts to download a new copy were crippled by their demands I give them my credit card details (for a supposedly free product? Get out of here!), so I was forced to resort to frantic hitting of “refresh” on the CNN play-by-play screen. Finally, I cracked and phoned Chris, so that she could hold the telephone up near the TV, and I could hear the Arizona Diamondbacks fall apart, yet again blowing a late-innings lead. Still, 100 wins in their second year, the biggest turn-around ever in baseball history, last-place in the league to first… and one fly-ball into the sun sums up the entire season. Baseball is truly such a heart-breaking game.

So here I am, late Sunday, finally catching up, and wondering where the weekend went. Drinking, clubbing, travelling, sleeping, and mourning gently. Just another weekend in Tulse Hill: roll on the next one…