Wednesday, August 9
Tel Aviv

The hubble-bubble is still giving me all sorts of pains. Go to the beach and a heartbreakingly beautiful Jewish woman comes up in a swimsuit and asks if I'm Thom Yorke. Given the shorts I'm wearing I consider denying everything. She looks me up and down and I feel reduced to the size of the sand. I weakly reply, Yes, and watch her disappear, curiosity satisfied.
Feel even stranger than when I woke, so scurry back to the hotel fearing sunstroke. Despite fears of possible boiled head, however, I feel reluctant to wear my Jewish orthodox floppy hat purchase of yesterday. Especially at the beach.
It IS sunstroke! I now feel like a very sick old man. I meet Mr Stipe who gives me and Jonny what he describes as an organic pick-me-up. It's not speed, he says. He's pissed off because some paparazzi guy has been following him around, photographing his every move. Backstage at the gig it seems like all the friends and families of everyone who works there have turned up. The security guards demand autographs from everyone who passes. A long-legged blonde asks me whether I know the band. She appears to be angry that none of R.E.M. have offered to sleep with her yet. I can't think of an answer and walk off.
Suddenly, during the show, Michael's stuff starts kicking in fabulously. I feel like I've been plugged straight into the mains. Then, as I walk off at the end, I realise that I can hardly move and wonder in mild panic what I've done to myself. The whole world appears to be going in slow motion. The rest of the evening is hell and I can't bring myself to do anything but moan. The last thing I remember is Jonny saying that he's off to the Lebanon in a jeep. OK, I say.