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Here, it is still socially acceptable to smoke cigars, and pretty much de rigueur to get ragingly drunk. Told that all this was a central part of the Frankfurt experience, I sheepishly give it a go: after six glasses of wine, I have half-convinced a French publisher that the time is right for a Gallic-flavoured biography of Pink Floyd, and managed to get myself pencilled in for dinner in London with PJ O’Rourke.

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