Hell's bells, I just wrote this moments ago and lost it in a flashpan of disaster. A few hours ago, through a gin & tonic haze, I bought a fuckload of pyros for my demi-arsed Independence Day fete. Found a joint called The Boom Boom Room or some such thing and it was a low-budge enterprise and seemed like it was in a trailer. If it wasn't, it should have been, for perfection's sake. Upon entering one is treated to a spread of pre-packaged goodies and, behind chicken wire, yet more choices. I wondered if the nice man at the helm might say, excuse me, madam, under Canadian law I cannot lawfully sell you fireworks whilst your breath reeks so of gin. Afterwards, I went to purchase more Canadian goods: Canadian tampons, and a Canadian cup of joe. A ruse, you see: tampons would flabbergast the man at the border, something I'd mention if I thought his laser eyes might be drifting over to my trunkal area where the cache lay quietly, and coffee to seem o-so relaxed. Mr. Innocent asked if there was anything to declare. Just coffee *giggle* I said, eyes wide. Onwards I sped. I was in Canada shooting a 50th wedding anniversary gig and afterwards (after punching out so to speak) was practically duct taped down and force-drunk the gin and tonics by my friends Jamie and Paul.