In my new spirit of healthy living, I left work and briskly walked from Mornington Crescent to Piccadilly Circus, probably smoking the equivalent of 10 B&H in exhaust fumes en route. I walked, uncharacteristically, down the eastern side of Tottenham Court Road to get a brand new perspective on rows of ripoff merchants of electrical goods. It was vaguely enlightening. Then someone bumped into me and didn't apologise. That's the kind of behaviour that I've heard is typical of the eastern half of Tottenham Court Road.

Annoyingly I was too late to go see Rufus Wainwright play for free at HMV on Oxford St, so I pressed on westwards. Host were due to play at one of those West End venues run by fly-by-night promoters who send bands emails claiming to be at the forefront of London gig promotion, with literally, some shows under their belt. They're generally rude, inefficient, desperate for bands to play and have problems spelling the word “Piccadilly”; i.e. one place on the evolutionary scale above the legendary “Pay To Play” promoters of the late 80s like Jon “Fat” Beast and the like. But hey, Host are on a “gig a week” trip, so they get the gigs and wow the kids where they can. The venue was just off Savile Row; at first I thought the gig was on Savile Row and wandered past several gentlemen's tailors looking for a dingy club. There was no dingy club. But eventually I found the dingy club. It wasn't open yet, but I whisked myself past a shrill, peroxided doorlady, claiming close personal relationships with various members of the band, and a desperate need to go to the toilet (one of which was true.) Various mates of Host weren't so lucky, and after battling with her for 20 minutes they gave up and went home. Despite this, Host played a bouncy set (despite a relatively unbouncy Rob on bass having a stinking cold) in front of a decent crowd who seemed won over.

Post gig, Anthony and I met Shirley from Spearmint at the front of Niketown – the essential meeting point for movers and shakers in the music industry – to argue vehemently about the best venue for Host's album launch in September. As part of the discussion we walked down Wardour Street to visit St Moritz, a Swiss restaurant run by a Swiss gentleman called Roger who, as the only prominent Swiss in London, is inevitably contacted by the media whenever they want a Swiss perspective on international events. We wanted his perspective on the idea of us hiring out his basement for 3 consecutive Mondays. He seemed thoroughly amenable. Anthony wanted to ask him about the PA specifications, but it looked like his specialist area of knowledge was julienning carrots, so we left it, and decamped to a pub where I put £2 in a fruit machine and only got 2 spins out of it. I advised the staff of their malfunctioning pub entertainment. They did nothing.