Vingt Quatre

The thing about recovering from man flu on a Friday is that you're never quite sure how to react. Do you take it easy and just go home, do you go for a couple of beers and hope that the man flu just rears its evil self enough to send you home to the sofa or do you celebrate and get smashed.

Having convinced myself all day that home was the best option I obviously opted to have a couple of beers. This was meant to be followed by a Pizza Express (I even printed off 2 pizzas for £10 vouchers).

I knew I wasn't going to stick to the plan the moment I set off towards Oxford St instead of the safety of Wandsworth Town. Met Fletcher at the Marquis on Charlotte St, absolutely rammed and of course this being almost November in England absolutely packed outside too. This wasn't particularly pleasant as the little square stank of vomit, as though the previous night there had been some mass puke off involving several contestants. After a commercial cider over ice whilst standing in the road almost tempting the taxi drivers to wipe us out as they swung round the corner we met Daniel in Nordic.

Nordic is a tiny bar which tends to be packed, in truth there isn't a lot going on in this little basement bar except the thought that it will be jam packed with young horny Swedish girls. In my experience it never is but the owners do tend to staff it with some very fit bar maids who are squeezed into some tiny tops and therefore when people suggest going to Nordic you always go, yeah good idea. Anyway having fought off the Northern Line like conditions (hot and packed) we ventured back on to street level.

And here is when I should have gone home or insisted it was pizza o'clock but I was 3 drinks in now and a conquerer of man flu - I could have another beer, sure. But we chose Charlotte Street Blues, a live Blues bar packed full of Friday revellers is not the place for a quiet beer. On the door they are running an amazing £5 data capture scheme. You have to pay £5 to enter, not great but ok, it's a fiver and these days that's less than a packet of cigs. However, they then want you to fill in a membership form, oh so next time we don't have to pay. "No, you always have to pay". Fletcher was dutifully filling in the form at this stage, he told them, you're not having my e-mail address, Dan and I just burst through the data capture nazi, enough of this nonsense, it's time for a drink. A Corona, ok maybe you can have a quiet beer, better have another one though given I've paid an entrance fee. Uh oh what's this with my Corona, a tequila. "You'll love it" grins Fletcher. I've been drinking this shit since I was 15 in Tex Mex in Guildford, I have categorically never loved it, nor for the record do I love sambuca. I Like jager bombs and that's about it in the shot stakes. I didn't love it but I did then have a couple of mojitos and some more bloody tequila.

At one stage Dan almost broke my neck, I was prodding at his drunken carcass when he suddenly sprung into life like an angry bear (albeit a very short one). All those hours he puts in at the gym do mean he is very strong and I really did fear for my life, I had to grab his balls and his arsehole at the same time to get a release. The only other option would have been to have launched him over the bar but the bear may have taken my head with him. Whilst I feared for my neck I have to say, it has never felt so loose, it's quite liberating, thanks champ.

We poured some more booze down the bear before we watched the grizzly stagger off to his wood. Hmm now left with Fletcher, what a surprise. Time for Vingt Quatre? You bet, and we jumped into a cab. A fairly uneventful journey, Fletcher didn't feel a need to sing at the driver, although in fairness he tends to save that for Addison Lee drivers rather than black cab drivers. I did heckle some bloke who took way too long at the cash point whilst Fletcher was waiting to get cab money, tell him he owes us £3 I yelled, Fletcher though had cleverly noted that the chap was Italian and therefore called him an arsehole in his language, something like 'stronzo'.

Vingt Quatre is an odd place, 3 very large chaps on the door who look like eastern european organised crime types and on the inside it is a mish mash of drunken idiots, fitties, freaks and coffee drinkers. Some people have a full English, others a slice of cake. None though I noted were taking them up on their offer of a champagne breakfast, half a bottle of Krug, yours for £99! I mean if you don't buy a ticket you won't win the lottery but really, that's just taking the piss out of the toffs isn't it? Of course some of these young rahs will take Vingt Quatre up on this offer but I hope most people don't, its just exploiting drunk people (although I do like the overtness of it).

We had burgers, which we had to send back because they weren't big enough. The burgers were shit though, no matter that we super sized them, the bacon and cheese that accompanied them were also awful (on the small version you get 1 piece of incredibly small streaky bacon) and the chips were dreadful but strangely I remember the gherkins being nice. Something odd happened during this meal, Fletcher didn't finish his burger, nor the gherkins, he also didn't eat his chips, I was calling him out for being a bird who didn't want to eat carbs and therefore that obviously made him a gay. Went to the toilet and returned to find him asleep, I sighed, we weren't in NYC but he was still sleepy head. Dragged him into a taxi, woke him up to make him pay and then crashed out on the sofa waking up at 9am, dammit, why didn't I make it to the bed?

Now shall I go to the gym to work off my quiet couple of beers?

Man Flu Meals

So this week I've been struck down by the ever evil Man Flu, a real pain as it has coincided with me doing a lot more cooking than late (due to a trip to what is probably my favourite place in London, Borough Market).

Monday saw me take down a pork chop bought from the Ginger Pig - if you've never tried some of their produce then you really should, I once drove to their farm shop in Pickering (I was though living in Leeds so it isn't quite as random as it sounds) to pick up a steak and ale pie. Whenever I'm at Borough Market I stare at the Ginger Pig's little deli section, working out if I can justify spending £5.50 on a warm cornish pasty or whether I deserve one of their outrageously large sausage rolls. This one was of the rare times I didn't give into gluttony. Anyway, I roasted the chop (with a lot of fat to ensure moistness and flavour) with pears, some parsnips and potatoes - this was put together with a lemon and rosemary marinade. Not bad, should have cut the potatoes into a smaller size or par boiled them though.

Tuesday; monkfish night. I got to Borough Mkt late on Saturday and to my surprise every fish stall had sold out of monkfish, I had no idea it had become so popular (I did though pick up some awesome prawns which we had as part of a drunken midnight thai curry feast on Sat). So first of all I had to go to Selfridges, the man flu was hitting me hard and the central line is no place to be. So I went to the chemist there to pick up something to make me feel better, £15 later I had some apparent magic cure which came in 6 little test tubes. Well, they helped a bit but they weren't exactly silver bullets and for the price you may as well stick to Lemsip style products.

Anyway, I then went and bought some monkfish from the food hall - £10.45! I thought this fish was cheap as chips, what the fook happened? Obviously I bought it. I have a failing in Selfridges food hall, much like my one at Borough Mkt, I can't go there and just buy one thing. I found an excuse to pick up a little thai cake, with sweetcorn and spices, good even with man flu. Oh and I also randomly bought some Marmite rice cakes, I've not knowingly bought rice cakes before but put Marmite on there and bang, I'm making the purchases of a female dieter.

The monkfish was cooked in a foil parcel (it should be banana leaf but that would have meant a trip to the thai super market in Putney and I'd spoilt myself too much with Borough Mkt and Selfridges in the space of just a few days) with coconut milk, lime juice, garlic, ginger, chilli and coriander (there should have been lemon grass as well but I forgot to buy it), served with rice to, as Jamie O puts it, mop up the juices.

Wednesday; spaghetti with anchovies, lemon juice, garlic, chilli and pangaritata (breadcrumbs fried in extra virgin olive oil, thyme and garlic). Surprisingly enjoyable and some of the flavour managed to by-pass the man flu.

Este noche; chicken red thai curry with sugar snap peas, mmm. Lime juice I believe is crucial to thai curry, it makes all the difference to the flavour. Now, as I type I think this meal may have finally quelled the man flu beast (it got so bad today I actually had to leave work during the afternoon), fingers crossed.

So some good cooking just a shame I couldn't enjoy all the flavours. Interestingly I appear to have lost a few pounds, now whilst I haven't drunk or smoked this week I've eaten a lot and I haven't made it to the gym once, so I suspect it will pile back on in the coming days or failing that the Autumn rugby internationals start next weekend, so the Guinness will put the weight back on!

Hidden bar in NYC

Fletch and I staggered out into another chilly New York morning and made our way to The Coffee Shop in Union Sq.

Rumour had it that its entirely staffed by wannabe models, well, if true, what a treat laid in wait for them, 2 horribly tired pasty English boys who were still a little drunk from the night before, reeking of booze and cigs.

Well the rumours were correct, its packed full of lovely ladies, not the brightest bunch though. We met Trent, Ana and Carlota there for brekkie. I was the cause of great amusement by mysteriously asking for milk with my coffee, no idea what the simpleton's problem was and as for Trent's pain au chocolat, that proved so baffling (even once simplified to chocolate croissant) that it never turned up. I ordered eggs benedict, pretty poor in truth but the home fries they came with were sensational. Fletcher had some bacon cooked to a crisp in syrup, bad choice my friend, bad choice. Carlota showed us oldies how to do it by wolfing back a big stack of pancakes.

Tommy came and joined us as we minced around the food market at Union Sq, the 3 of us prayed that the cold would distract our hurting bodies and that we might recover. It was really working, even spying Lucy Liu did little, so we decided to push the recovery button fully and jumped on the Staten Island ferry and raced up to the top deck.

On a summer's day I imagine this is beautiful, especially on the return leg as you approach Manhatten. In October it's a beautiful hangover cure but it is a do or die, if you're too weak the cold wind and spray will break you, I've no doubt. After that it was obviously lunch time, perhaps as much as 2 hours had elapsed since brekkie!

Well I say it was lunchtime, it was actually G o'clock in a spot in Soho, I can't quite recall the name, on a corner, black outside, orange sign, maybe something like Fratelli. It is bloody busy and run by shrill angry women who shout, a lot. They bark at those waiting for tables, we got into all sorts of bother for asking for a table for 6 but only 3 of us being present (the others were wondering around the shops), 2 or 3 times we didn't have the full complement, not the done thing. We also got into bother when 2 people left their seats at the bar, the banshee bar maid screamed that they had a table for 2, none of the waiting tourists wanted to get that close to the female megaphone and declined to take the seats, we booed, again not the done thing. The bar maid yelled to one of the waitresses that she was being heckled (oops).

Eventually we got a table for 6, well there were 6 for us, at some restaurants it would have been a table for 2. Concerned that my meat intake was down after eggs benedict I manned up for a bison burger. That was my bison debut, to be honest though I think a normal juicy burger is the way forward but I'd give it another shot.

Lunch done, the others went off in search of culture; Tom, Fletch and I decided to take a stroll around the city but in the best possible way - a pub crawl. Kicking around University Place, we had a beer in the Red Lion, a beer in The Reservoir (where we witnessed an obese couple playing a sort of safari hunting game, they were left wheezing by the number of video game animals they slaughtered, I found the game deeply worrying) and then ten pin bowling, obviously with beers. I'm shite but managed to win a game, so did Tom, unlucky Fletcher.

We returned to the flat, rather than a quick power nap we tried Tom's homemade espresso martinis, hopeless but then again the coffee and vodka was a welcome boost. We then headed off to meet the Pfau in a Mexican place.

I think the Bison had settled now as I wasn't that hungry, a real shame as the Mexican fare was damn tasty - not many places fire up a Guacamole tasting menu with fresh tortilla chips - we also took on a selection of ceviche and some tacos. In truth I haven't eaten much Mexican but every time I do I like it. I guess it's a bit like discovering Thai food for the first time, a whole array of new flavours and each time it is a treat.

A quick point on one of the few downsides of New York, toilets. There are hardly any, and often they are pretty shoddy, why do the yanks like ones which have a short door at the top and bottom with gaping holes in the sides? Anyway, this Mexican had one (albeit it was a rare beauty) for both sexes, I was busting for a piss and had to literally jump up and down whilst I waited for 2 other people.

Throughout the meal Tom had been banging on at Sarah to phone the hot dog place, he carries the nickname, 'Guilbelly' (amongst others, e.g. Gaypride) but surely his tubby alter ego wasn't lining up a desert of hot dogs? Anyway, off we hopped to Criff Dogs. Fletcher, very oddly in my opinion, fooking loves a hot dog and was like a pig in shit when Tom asked him whether he wanted one. Bemused I looked to my left to see Sarah in a telephone box and knew something more interesting awaited us, either that or they had ordered the world's largest hot dog and were calling for it to be winched in.

And interesting it was, a door opened to the side of the telephone box and we entered an old prohibition bar, very fucking cool. We ended up on a table by the toilet, this was both good and bad (n.b. there were 2 of excellent quality, as I said we were in a cool place).

BAD

- Some dickhead Aussie girl came and sat next to us, she was a right fucking pain and couldn't fuck off because she was waiting to use the toilet.

- We had people coming and going every few moments.

- More dickhead Aussies came and sat, bringing their shit banter.

I'd like to point out that I like Aussies, even if like rats you are only ever a few metres away from one, no matter where in the world you are. I found the root of this infestation, back on street level (we were underground) there was an Aussie pie shop with a flag flying - like an unofficial embassy.

GOOD

- Nobody could work out that the door was a sliding affair which meant that we got to bellow "it's a slider" in a hysterical drunken fashion to virtually every patron of the 'john'.

- Fletcher and I started to tell people that we were charging them $2 to use the toilet, that they were free to use it for as long as they liked but could they prepare 2 bucks on exiting the facilities. Hilarious you can imagine but it turned out not to be a money spinner.

- Somebody actually got stuck in the toilet, they forgot they had slid the door open and were now thrashing around like a cat in a box. Cue more yelling of "it's a slider" and manical laughing. This riled the bruiser inside as he thought we were playing a trick on him. Luckily he worked out we were being helpful before he ripped down the door but not before he had pathetically texted his wife to come and help rescue him.

Fletcher was beginning to rock under the weight of tiredness, all day boozing and now bourbon. He decided to try and exact some revenge for all the bitch slaps I gave him the night before by giving me dead inner knees, as you do. Having let him knobble one knee I pulled the other out of the way and he floored my freshly poured double amaretto and ice (I say ice, it was one singular massive cube, apparently somewhat of a signature for this place), tit.

After a replacement was drained we staggered off into the streets of New York, poor old Fletch thought we were bed bound but the poor little sod didn't know I had one more bar in me (Summit). To make it worse I needed to get the address from Tom's flat, so he even tasted safety before I dragged him back out. This though turned out to be a flawed plan, not long after we got out of the taxi and I was enjoying the first sips of an ice cold beer did I catch Fletch starting to drift off (obviously standing up). Actually I've just remembered, I knew it was a flawed plan as I walked down the street and Fletcher staggered behind repeatedly yelling at me to slap him to wake him up, "You were happy to slap me last night, why won't you slap me now? Slap me". I still resisted a bitch slap and tried to reason that all he had to do was wait until my beer was finished.

The barman cranked up the music, Fletcher began to sway from side to side, muttering that he just needed to find a beat to stay awake. Christ, I better drink this beer quickly I thought but actually the collapse came quicker than anticipated. Fletcher grabbed my shoulder, "we need to knock this on the head" he said, I looked at him and realised it was indeed home time and really only a matter of minutes having got out of a cab we were back in one.

We got home, had more drunken fun and games with the lock and then finally fell through the door. Fletcher avoided making the luggage his bed and passed out fully clothed, he didn't even have time to remove his jacket, he literally saw the sofa and let his body collapse - see the pic below and his hungover grinning face showing off his unique sleeping style.

A long day in NYC

So up early with the promise of fantastic coffee... No. 71, seconds from Tom's flat duly delivered, it was a very strong effort, almost as good as my all time fav on Beak St (London), Fernandez & Wells. Whilst collecting my coffee I spied a pot of marmite, I decided not to pass that opportunity up and ordered some with a plain bagel - this would have been belting were it not for the fact that you also need to request butter, I sadly didn't.

A stroll to Tom's office by Madison Park was followed by a long walk down Broadway purely undertaken to work up an appetite. Fletcher was en route from London and had demanded that we go for a burger on his arrival but that wasn't going to be until late afternoon so I needed to burn off some calories to deal with the guilt of effectively having 2 lunches. Lunch 1 took place at Friend of a Farmer, next door to No. 71, trying to keep things relatively light (tricky as they were offering hearty delights such as beef pie) I ordered a chicken wrap. Forgetting this was America, I naively thought that this would be a singular wrap - oh no, silly me, of course there were 2 wraps, strangely accompanied by green beans with garlic. Not a bad wrap although I would have preferred melted mozzarella rather than the cool lumps they wedged in. 

This I followed by a cig and another excellent cup of coffee from No. 71 before Fletcher arrived - not quite bushy tailed but then who the hell would be after enduring immigration hall, although apparently the fucker breezed through in no time. We hit the streets and I led him in totally the wrong direction - its a grid system, apparently you can't get lost, well I tested that theory. However, we rallied and made it to the Shake Shack. Apparently this place is so popular people queue for more than 2 hrs, Tom once phoned at 11.30am to order a takeaway and was informed he would have to wait until 6.30pm!

Luckily for us it was cold and about 3ish so there was only a short queue, the masses may also have been put off by the mentalist who decided to talk (shout) at Fletch and I as we munched on burgers and crinkle cut fries (obviously accompanied by a beer). He was cunning this nut job, to ensure he had our attention he gave us a copy of The Onion, we now owed him conversation. On hearing our accent we were asked if we were from Boston, no my dear boy we are not. Upon learning we were English we got asked questions such as whether we knew the Beatles; painful.

He launched into several monologues about how these were the best burgers in New York but that the beer was too expensive, he gets his own, no surprise his fav beer is over 7% and that he had already drunk his, I would imagine that was brekkie. He also suggested that the whole city produces better pizzas than England and that ones with Italian names such as James and Nick's (classical Italian names) would offer the very best.

All of this was accompanied by the crackle of his radio (playing some form of white noise probably to stop the corporations from enslaving him), a horrible laugh and constant asides about how he hated pigeons but not birds - we opted not to tell him that they pigeons also fell into this group he so admired. 

Finally there was a loose invitation to watch the ball game at his place in the Bronx, we loosely declined and buried ourselves in that copy of The Onion. Elated to have met such an excellent character (he was wonderfully fat, bald on top but with long hair on the sides, and squeezed into a Yankees t-shirt depicting the old stadium, reminding him of better days) it felt only right to start drinking in earnest.

We headed off to the Side Bar to watch some of the game with pitchers of beer. I'm not sure they could have crammed more widescreen tvs into the bar, it was impossible to focus as they were showing different matches, they also had a healthy surround sound system which really leapt into life everytime there was an ad break to leave you swaying. I opted to focus on the beer.

Side Bar was followed up by a trip to an apparent recent addition to NY, Lillies - an Irish Victorian bar (it wasn't going to be an English bar was it). Here the boozing began in earnest s we met up with Ryan, Erin, Mark and Faz - they were heartily reducing the bar's white wine reserves. After a few beers we exited to spruce up for more boozing, returning an hour or so later, the gang were still in place but livelier than before.

Going out for a ciggie, Fletch and I met a chap who pointed out by dragging us to the window to see for ourselves that he was the only black man in the bar - it seemed he was correct, we were less sure about his claim that he was originally Welsh. He also wanted to buy us drinks on his credit card, "the more I buy, the more sky miles I get" and debt I pointed out, he wasn't after my dose of reality and headed back inside.

More drinks followed and the lovely Sarah Pfau rocked up; upon bumping into me outside during yet another ciggie break she pointed out that I looked tired and cranky, there was another adjective, I can't remember what it was, hammered would have been apt. 

Fletcher started to flag, I slapped him about like he was my wife who had failed to get me some eggs. We then hit upon the idea of Espresso Martinis, a favourite, the staff didn't know what they were, I started bitching (with about 1 hrs sleep in 2 days I was getting horribly rude and obnoxious) and slating the staff, Fletcher took the superior tact of explaining what one was and filled with glee ordered far too many.

Pepped up with booze and a hint of coffee we went Meatpacking and hit Homestead, an excellent steak restaurant. I gave $20 to a waiter to get himself and I a pack of smokes, I helpfully hawked trade for the restaurant as I swayed outside, although the cover charge I was quoting for entry strangely kept people out. I also decided to give Ryan a lapdance, this wasn't met by approval, unbeknown to me I was actually in a family restaurant. I pointed out it was 11pm and I wasn't exactly tripping on Bugaboos. In between being an unruly drunken diner I did tuck into a sensational fillet served with a potato cake with a side of delicious creamed spinach. I thoroughly recommend a trip there.

Tiredness was really kicking in now (I'd slapped poor old Fletch hard at least a dozen times during the meal) but we weren't to be halted, oh no. We veered across the road to Pasteis, another lively spot. I tucked into G&Ts and much to my delight found we were in conversation with a gaggle of females but hang on a second, they were women, not lovely young New Yorkers but 40 yr olds from out of town who were talking about gardening. Time for a ciggie break, on my return, much to my dismay, I discovered that they were still talking about gardening.

I haven't come all the way to New York to talk about fucking gardening I ranted (on repeat). When finally asked what I did want to talk about I, slightly oddly, suggested anal sex. This was a no go but my insistence led to one of the oldies to flag up she was a nurse and we got to talk about which 'foreign objects' she had removed from patient's vaginas. People began to drift off, I treated Fletcher to a few more meaty slaps and then the group dispersed. I marched Fletcher off to Gaslight down the road for another drink, he was far from delighted. 

We bumbled around until I caught Fletcher sleeping standing up - a talent but not one known to gain positive reactions. Reluctantly I slapped him into the cold air outside and waited for a taxi, this brought him to his senses, slightly. He noticed the bar and suggested we went in, I pointed out in my finest Anglo Saxon that we had just left that bar and slapped him into a cab.

Amazingly we slurred the correct address and found ourselves outside of Tom's apartment, I had the key but I couldn't operate the simple mechanics in front of me. Sleeping boy had a crack, he failed and doubtless earned another slap or two. Finally when it looked like we would have to sleep in the corridor or wake the disabled person who lives next to Tom (well actually he probably was awake, terrified that some drunken burglars were in the building) the Gods smiled on us and I worked the lock (it really isn't too hard). Fletch fell through the door and decided our luggage was his bed for the night. I imagine this earned him a final bitch slap for the night before he made it to the sofa, obviously he didn't get in the sleeping bag he had lugged all the way from home.

I lay on the air bed, reading Max Tucker, wondering if sleep would ever wash over my shattered drunken carcass whilst listening to Mario, still stuck in the heating system, bang around with that wrench of his.

Pete's Tavern NYC Oct 09

Service is shite on American Airlines so I decided that I wouldn't entrust Delta to fly me to NYC to see Tommy G, oh no, I'll pay £20 extra for the French to take me. Once I confirmed my purchase I remembered that not so long ago one of their planes fell out of the sky on the way to New York - money well spent, I've given it to the garlic munchers who having pocketed it may now surrender me to the gods, bugger.

As it turned out the French were more cunning than I expected, they took the extra £20 and then put me on a Delta flight, they don't fly it themselves, probably too busy being on strike, blockading some road somewhere outside of Paris - 'bloody French' as the old man likes to mutter.

Anyway I got there, late - thanks to the ever miserable immigration hall - having endured some filthy food, I know I'm travelling cattle class but do I really have to be fed like I'm livestock? The taxi driver dropped me off in the cool (fooking freezing) New York air on 17th and Irving, home of Tom G and also Pete's Tavern. Rather than do something sensible like go to bed, we went to Pete's Tavern which apparently is one of the oldest pubs in town.

We minded our own biz, catching up and then the fun started; I went for a ciggie and was forced to talk to Chris, a dickhead and a hedge funder (double bubble). Surprisingly he failed to tell me if he was Irish or not, a rare slip on his behalf but he did take time to inform me that menthol cigarettes (he was smoking one before gladly taking one of my normal cigs) were only for black people and strippers, something I wasn't aware of.

I returned to the bar for more revelations as some drunk (I hope they were) people in their late 40s insisted in talking to Tom and I. 

Their opening gambit was to question whether we knew who President Regan is (technically was), we replied yes and that we also knew he was once an actor and, as an added bonus, if required we could also name other Presidents. 

Our mistake of course was to engage with these people as it apparently meant we wanted to listen to them suggest how Tony Blair had it right in wanting to flatten Saudi Arabia with bombs and turn it into beachfront properties - now whilst Tony had a few interesting ideas during his term in office I'm fairly certain this wasn't one of them. 

We were asked if we were Republicans, I suggested no, somehow this fired them up, we were asked if we had heard of Vets? We queried whether they meant war vets or animal vets, cue a speech about if it wasn't for them we'd be speaking German. Tom thanked them for helping the war effort so early in the piece rather than idly watching the Germans impose their language across Europe. Luckily one half of the foursome left and we were now stuck talking to the other couple but they seemed the gentler pair. 

However, after a few sweet moments about Donald's niece living in London (Slough actually but hey it's a small country) we discovered that this lawyer had some good chat on him too. "She's got foxes on one side of the house and Arabs on the other, hopefully the foxes will bite the Arabs", followed by manical laughing, oh dear Donald. I made a mental note that if I required legal assistance I would rather go solo than enlist the help of this chap.

Tom and I cut our losses and headed back to his flat for a night cap beer and then I made a futile attempt at sleeping, no matter how little I have (I only fell asleep on the plane a few mins before landing) it still doesn't help me get any more. Also, I'd like to point out that the sleeping effort wasn't assisted by the heating system in Tom's flat which sounds like Mario himself has been made prisoner in the vent and is banging his wrench until help arrives - it doesn't.