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I don't want to play stinking, beer-ridden clubs. It depresses me even thinking about that. I really hate it when you're finished with a show and you're in your dressing room with that stink of beer and sweaty girls. It brings back an ugly picture for me. I'd hate to have to do that again.

For it was Saturday night, the best and bingiest glad-time of the week, one of the fifty-two holidays in the slow-turning Big Wheel of the year, a violent preamble to a prostrate Sabbath. Piled up passions were exploded on Saturday night, and the effect of a week's monotonous graft in the factory was swilled out of your system in a burst of goodwill. You followed the motto of 'be drunk and be happy,' kept your crafty arms around female waists, and felt the beer going beneficially down into the elastic capacity of your guts.

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