returning with the coffee. “For Christ’s sake, don’t show him that page.”
“That’s the best bit.”
“The sentimentality of youth,” he frowns, handing me a muffin. When you ask for something to eat at Alan’s, you get it. Even if you were joking.
“So I’m just trying to find,” I begin, leafing through the book, “the gig that we spoke to him at.”
“Beef, I think. New Cross Venue.”
“The Heart Throbs at the Square,” I correct him.
“He was
at
that gig. But it wasn’t where we spoke to him the first time. Sorry, Clive, could you be a bit more gentle with the pages?”
“Sorry.”
“It was the Beef gig. I approached him halfway through that cover they used to do.”
“‘You Sexy Thing’?”
“No, the other one. ‘These Boots …’ and so on.”
I shake my head. “I’m sure it was at The Heart Throbs.”
“Depends which conversation you’re talking about. I’ve had more than one chat with him, you know—”
“Here it is,” I interrupt, triumphantly. “The Square, Harlow,
the seventh of April nineteen ninety
. ‘We spoke to Lance Webster!’—in very excited prepubescent handwriting, I must say.”
“Piss off.”
“ ‘We asked him what the real lyrics were to the bridge of “Me in a Room.”’”
“Oh,
that
conversation,” Alan huffs, tidying some papers.
“‘Dominic drove us, but finally was a wanker.’ Ha! I remember what
that’s
about.”
“He was never quite as useful as we planned, was he?”
We had befriended Dominic Browne for the sole reason that he’d just been given a car by his wealthy and spoiling parents. Driving the family jeep while holidaying in Spain meant that he was ready to pass his driving test practically by the time he’d finished breakfast on his seventeenth birthday. I was still sixteen at this point; Alan, much to his annoyance and embarrassment, had already failed the test twice. Credit where it’s due, Dominic had a fairly respectable alternative track record: he’d attended both Glastonbury and Reading the previous year, he’d used his new set of wheels to follow Claytown Troupe around the country during half-term and had already, we were envious to learn, been to a Faith No More show. The items that weakened his case to be a
genuine
gigging companion were that he excelled at sport
and
academic work, drank little, insisted on wearing a rugby shirt and proper shoes to indie clubs, was generally a bit full of himself and, we suspected, wouldn’t deliberate too long about screwing you over if it made his own life easier: ahunch that was conclusively proved correct that particular evening in Harlow.
The three of us had piled into Dominic’s convertible Volkswagen Golf (a car that further downgraded his indie credentials, we considered), ploughed up the M11 and, tradition dictated, necked a few cans of Strongbow before our arrival at the Square, an externally unpromising club that had nonetheless already played host to some pivotal musical evenings for me. We were standing around watching the support band, trying to think of witty chat-up lines for some of the tie-dyed lovelies scattered around the room—when Lance Webster ambled past, followed, as was often the case, by the pile of blonde dreadlocks known to most as Gloria Feathers.
“Did you see that?” I whispered to Dominic (Alan had gone to the toilet).
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “So?”
That was the other thing about Dominic. A fan of pretty much all the other bands we liked, he thought the Magpies were “a bit too commercial.” Whether he really believed this or just said it to endow himself with a highbrow opinion, I never quite worked out.
“Fuck,” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’ve got to try and speak to him.” Cautiously I looked over to where he and Gloria stood. A third party had joined them now, perhaps The Heart Throbs’ guitarist. As usual Gloria was doing all the talking.
Alan returned from the loo and instantly noticed the new
“That’s the best bit.”
“The sentimentality of youth,” he frowns, handing me a muffin. When you ask for something to eat at Alan’s, you get it. Even if you were joking.
“So I’m just trying to find,” I begin, leafing through the book, “the gig that we spoke to him at.”
“Beef, I think. New Cross Venue.”
“The Heart Throbs at the Square,” I correct him.
“He was
at
that gig. But it wasn’t where we spoke to him the first time. Sorry, Clive, could you be a bit more gentle with the pages?”
“Sorry.”
“It was the Beef gig. I approached him halfway through that cover they used to do.”
“‘You Sexy Thing’?”
“No, the other one. ‘These Boots …’ and so on.”
I shake my head. “I’m sure it was at The Heart Throbs.”
“Depends which conversation you’re talking about. I’ve had more than one chat with him, you know—”
“Here it is,” I interrupt, triumphantly. “The Square, Harlow,
the seventh of April nineteen ninety
. ‘We spoke to Lance Webster!’—in very excited prepubescent handwriting, I must say.”
“Piss off.”
“ ‘We asked him what the real lyrics were to the bridge of “Me in a Room.”’”
“Oh,
that
conversation,” Alan huffs, tidying some papers.
“‘Dominic drove us, but finally was a wanker.’ Ha! I remember what
that’s
about.”
“He was never quite as useful as we planned, was he?”
We had befriended Dominic Browne for the sole reason that he’d just been given a car by his wealthy and spoiling parents. Driving the family jeep while holidaying in Spain meant that he was ready to pass his driving test practically by the time he’d finished breakfast on his seventeenth birthday. I was still sixteen at this point; Alan, much to his annoyance and embarrassment, had already failed the test twice. Credit where it’s due, Dominic had a fairly respectable alternative track record: he’d attended both Glastonbury and Reading the previous year, he’d used his new set of wheels to follow Claytown Troupe around the country during half-term and had already, we were envious to learn, been to a Faith No More show. The items that weakened his case to be a
genuine
gigging companion were that he excelled at sport
and
academic work, drank little, insisted on wearing a rugby shirt and proper shoes to indie clubs, was generally a bit full of himself and, we suspected, wouldn’t deliberate too long about screwing you over if it made his own life easier: ahunch that was conclusively proved correct that particular evening in Harlow.
The three of us had piled into Dominic’s convertible Volkswagen Golf (a car that further downgraded his indie credentials, we considered), ploughed up the M11 and, tradition dictated, necked a few cans of Strongbow before our arrival at the Square, an externally unpromising club that had nonetheless already played host to some pivotal musical evenings for me. We were standing around watching the support band, trying to think of witty chat-up lines for some of the tie-dyed lovelies scattered around the room—when Lance Webster ambled past, followed, as was often the case, by the pile of blonde dreadlocks known to most as Gloria Feathers.
“Did you see that?” I whispered to Dominic (Alan had gone to the toilet).
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “So?”
That was the other thing about Dominic. A fan of pretty much all the other bands we liked, he thought the Magpies were “a bit too commercial.” Whether he really believed this or just said it to endow himself with a highbrow opinion, I never quite worked out.
“Fuck,” I muttered to no one in particular. “I’ve got to try and speak to him.” Cautiously I looked over to where he and Gloria stood. A third party had joined them now, perhaps The Heart Throbs’ guitarist. As usual Gloria was doing all the talking.
Alan returned from the loo and instantly noticed the new
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