On Thursday, Plan B launched itself to the world at the Horse Hospital – give these wonderful, wonderful people your money and support.

Save dayjobs, emotional stress, and family trauma, I’ve given up pretty much my whole life since Issue 1 of \\Careless Talk Costs Lives\\ went to the printers to this project, to act as orchestrator, pragmatist, accountant, and – I like to think – general voice of sanity. In return, our fiercely creative editorial team has tirelessly demeaned my endeavours and called me a yuppie with no soul. No matter. It’s here now and they’ve been superb.

Let’s have a party.

Plan (a) is to get everything arranged by midday.

This means: getting 200 plastic bags, kindly supplied by Rough Trade shop, to be filled with:
- Copies of the magazine (if it smells lovely to you, imagine having a the fumes of a thousand copies infecting your hallway)
- Garish green earplugs stuffed into baggies and stapled with our logo, on bright pink paper
- Flyers for the first ever Plan B London night (Spektrum @ Electrowerks on Thursday 15 July)

This means: burning a CD of Plan B music to open the night in Everett’s absence.

This means: finding the video presentation that Sarah Bowles painstakingly arranged last weekend.

This means: getting on the tube from Wimbledon to Russell Sq with bulging suitcases. And a CD player.

All relatively simple tasks.

Except…on Wednesday I travelled down to Brighton, ostensibly to talk through the reactions we’ve been getting to the pilot, and decide how to put our masterplan into action. Somehow I get convinced to stay the night.

…and on Thursday morning at 5.30am, myself, Plan B editor David McNamee, and my best friend Alice, are still up, still gurgling Passoa, still annoyed that we had our Quizatron triumph cruelly stolen from us by editors jealous of our youth, passion and knowledge. I awake at 11am, my head burning, my tongue tasting like sawdust, scream, and run to get on the train home.

I’m worried. I’m paranoid. (I’m \\desperately\\ hungover.) The phone keeps ringing and I collapse into nervous giggles. But, thanks to Daniel, Colin, Sarah P and Anna-Marie, we manage to get everything packed and to the venue, and – eventually – arranged on time, sneaking glances into the pub next door to check on England’s progress.

I needn’t have worried. After Rooney smashed us back into Euro 2004 contention, how could it have been anything less than a triumph?

The venue looks beautiful. Three TVs and a projection screen show spreads from the magazine and archive CTCL images. Posters are on the walls. Cute badges are on every flat surface. Magazines hang from the ceiling. People file in, slowly at first, and suddenly the venue’s nicely filled up. Introductions are made. Drinks are drunk. I flutter around looking for familiar faces.

Larry Tee is here, telling me about how useless NYC is right now, and how his boyfriend’s magazine \\Useless\\ will change that (we agree to help each other out). Michard Reltzer is nowhere as scary as his online persona or his stupid name (damn). Vodka is here, in two huge bottles hidden by the DJ deck. Stevie Chick, with his ubiquitous infectious smile, represents for South London with a new haircut for the occasion. Illustrators are – quite literally – begging to meet the elusive genius Andrew Clare. Sarah Bowles is beaming with the exuberance of her awesome contributions. Photographer Anthony has hoarded the spare magazines, having already proudly bought five copies to show his family. FMM arrives late from a gig and continues to succeed in her quest to be the sweetest person in the world, ever. Miss AMP apologises for not doing more for the pilot issue (as if her awesome features weren’t enough). Sophie Heawood, kicking_k and a besuited, behatted David McNamee provide musical accompaniment, frustrated that it’s NOT LOUD ENOUGH to the bemusement of everyone else, who are happily talking and dancing away, the atmosphere tinged with triumph and, and and. Vodka. Brr. Suddenly, it’s closing time, and I drunkenly thank the Horse Hospital for letting us abuse their space and hospitality, and hope we can come back in the future.

It seems appropriate to end with a quote from the song that begat this beautiful mess, and (of course) closed the night.

“You’ve always been searching for something
But everything seems so so-so
Tightly close your eyes
Hold out your hand
We’ll make a stand
Forget their plans
And their demands
PLAN B”

Later, we move on to the glorious hipster fetish freakshow that is Kashpoint, now on a boat on the Embankment. Larry lies to everyone that will listen that I am the most eligible bachelor in London. We drink even more ludicrous amounts of paint-stripping vodka. Sarah Bowles is setting the world to rights. Sophie Heawood is dancing like only she can. We dance the electro-dance until the sun comes up. Music fades as the cab purrs out of town. Celebration is still in the air.

(Big thanks to Colin, Anna-Marie, Sarah P, Melissa and Daniel and all those at the Horse Hospital - and Frances for suggesting it in the first place.)
**Chris Houghton**

Posted on Sunday, June 20th, 2004by Everett True