I wake with severe muscle pain. I appear to have pulled the muscles across my stomach. I didn't realise I had muscles across my stomach. I've recently relied on a T-shirt to retain my distressingly large girth. I'm developing a gut. This is bad.   Tonight is 5th Avenue night. Despite my love for being able to hear, I decide to accompany my flatmates to this haven of musical taste, pausing only to deposit my pen knife in the lodge in case the bouncers think I'm some knife-wielding maniac.   Fifv is moderately more pleasant than DTMs, one of the other pits in Oxford. Mind you, I have only visited DTMs once, and then I was rather drunk. I even managed to 'dance' (or at least, move vaguely rhythmically without causing too many people to laugh openly).   Only mild tinitus.
			The characters and situations in this diary are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happenings. Any resemblance to such things is coincidental, or just for humourous effect. All names have been chosen to implicate the innocent.