"You gonna get it?"
"Dunno, man. I'm not really that keen on it."
"Me neither. I prefer the other side."
"You heard it?"
"Yeah, Janice Long played it."
"I was thinking of just buying it on seven-inch so it gets a good chart placing."
"Ian Brown reckons it'll be number one."
"He would. He's full of it, that guy."
"So what d'you reckon it'll get to?"
"Top ten? Maybe."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Pisses me off, though, man. They'll beat the Magpies to it."
We rounded the corner and found ourselves outside the pub itself. Two minutes to seven. There was a moment's awkward silence; I was feeling pretty wretched with nerves, and it wasn't easy to tell whether I felt better or worse for Alan's presence. On balance I think I probably felt worse. I was certainly going to be even more self-conscious with his seemingly unflappable confidence next to me, and was foreseeing all sorts of horrific tripping-over-word scenarios. So you can imagine how much better I felt when, just before we entered, Alan was the one to say it.
"I'm shitting it, man. I hope they're nice to us."
"We'll be fine," I smiled, and pushed open the door.
The first thing we noticed was the pub did not contain Carter. The second was that it was fairly hard to imagine it ever doing so. The youngest person there was about fifty-five. The barman looked about seventy, and more important, far from the sort of guy who'd be relaxed about the drinking age. Most people in the room looked up as we entered, then returned expressionlessly to their pints. A raddled old mess in the corner nursing half a stout looked like he'd recently died.
"You sure this is the place?" Alan whispered.
"What are you asking me for?" I hissed back. "You led us here."
"But they definitely said the Blue Posts, right?"
"Yes!"
The decor was plain, unadorned dark wooden panelling, and probably hadn't changed since the war. It was a good few years before the benefits (and the irony) of visiting such an establishment would occur to younger folk, and as we gingerly approached the bar the landlord smiled dubiously at us.
"Looking for McDonald's?" he gruffed.
Alan coughed anxiously.
"Um ... can we have a couple of pints of cider and black, please?"
"And you are, of course ..."
"Eighteen," we chanted.
He gave us a long, hard stare, then to our amazement started to pour our pints.
My drinking career still being in its infancy, there was quite a kick to be had from sitting in a pub with a pint. I hadn't much affection for the bittersweet red liquid which I now sipped; it was simply a relatively palatable way of ingesting alcohol. (Lager made me gag after a few gulps, wine was considered far from appropriate and the only other drink I could tolerate was Southern Comfort and lemonade-although this was solely reserved for the purpose of getting pissed.) Still, I felt pretty pleased with myself as we occupied our table in the corner, and I almost forgot what we were really there for. After ten minutes or so, the novelty for Alan was clearly wearing a bit thin.
"Dunno, man ..."
He took a large swig of his drink and frowned around the room. Everyone seemed engaged in dull conversations about work or sport. The pair of men nearest us were discussing the trials and tribulations of being employed by the Royal Mail, which had a large sorting office across the road; it's likely this pub was the de facto company bar.
"I'm not convinced, y'know ..."
"They'll be along in a minute," I asserted.
"It's just that ... I can't think why they'd want to come and drink in a place like this."
"Maybe they like the prices?" I mused. "That was a bloody cheap round ..."
"Yeah, but ..."
"... and there's nothing wrong with it," I continued, lowering my voice. "It's not unpleasant. Just a bit ... you know, old."
"Yeah, but I've seen the sort of joints these people go for, man. Are you sure he said the Blue Posts?"
"Yes!"
"And you don't think he was winding you up?"
"No!" I exclaimed, starting to get a bit irritated. "I had a long conversation with him. He was totally genuine. He went on and on about fanzines being the backbone of the independent music industry, all that stuff. Carter are a bit different, you know. We're not dealing with Bon Jovi here."
"Hmm. Maybe it's something else, then."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe they've forgotten, or something better came up."
"Bollocks," I stated, quite enjoying bossing him around a bit. "It's only twenty past seven. The sound check might be overrunning. It could be anything. Just relax. Shall we have another pint?"
Of course the answer was yes, but as the bottom of that next glass came into view even I was beginning to have my doubts. Fifty minutes seemed pushing it. I stood up and fished around in my pocket for some change.
"What you doing?"
"Thought I'd give my folks a quick ring," I replied. "See if they've phoned to cancel or something. I dunno. Just an idea."
I didn't let on, but I'd also allowed myself to slip into the unfortunate habit of speaking to my parents halfway through an evening out to tell them I was okay, a policy I vowed to discontinue as soon as I hit seventeen. I ambled over to the pay phone at the end of the bar, recognising the still relatively uncommon feeling of booze kicking in, my legs feeling a bit light and my eyesight blurring a little around the edges. I dialled and pushed in a coin at the sound of the pips. Although the ensuing exchange with my mother was unremarkable, the ancient landlord started to eye me strangely towards the end.
"Yeah, I will ... No, I promise ... Well, I can't have much more anyway, I've only got two pounds left ... No, I've no idea ... We'll just wait a bit longer, I suppose, and then I dunno ... come home or something ... No, the Blue Posts ... as in signposts ... What was that? ... What did he ask? ... Of course there isn't another one. How could there be another one? ... Well, maybe, but not in the same area ... I know ... Well, they're not pop stars yet, but ... Yeah, okay, I will ... See you later ..."
I replaced the receiver and started back towards Alan when the landlord stopped me.
"Just a minute, my lad. I couldn't help overhearing your conversation."
"Uh ... yeah?"
He'd finally twigged my real age, I was certain.
"Your father's right."
"My what? ... Ah, yes. I was just, er ..."
"There is another Blue Posts around here."
I gaped at him.
"Is there?"
"Yes," he laughed. "We call it the Teenage Posts, although it's actually older than this pub, strange as it seems. But full of teenagers, y'see. Snotty little place, in my opinion, but I guess you'd prefer it."
"What? Oh, shit!"
This met with a stern frown.
"Sorry, sorry! I don't suppose you could tell us how to get there ... Alan!"
A minute later we were sprinting back the way we'd come, veering left and left again into the alleylike Hanway Street, where we slowed to a fast walk. There was a palpable shift in ambience as we hurried past a few unnamed drinking dens and characters of questionable occupation. A skinny woman lighting a cigarette in a doorway asked us if we wanted to come in and play with her Lego.
"Fucking patronising cow," Alan growled under his breath. "I've been going out round here for ages."
But not, as it turned out, long enough to be aware of the funny-looking pub at the Tottenham Court Road end of the street, with a wonky Courage brewery sign bearing its name. It didn't look like many London boozers I'd ever seen, the outside resembling a narrow shop or funeral parlour rather than a pub. But it did look suitably old and tatty, and the colourful movement we could detect through the frosted glass suggested a place considerably livelier than the one we'd just left. It was also infuriatingly close to the tube exit we'd surfaced from a little over an hour ago.
"Hang on, let's get our breath back," I commanded, leaning on a lamppost. Alan was frowning, looking up and down the street.
"Shit, you know ... I think I have been to this place."
"Yeah," I replied, unconvinced.
"D'you reckon they're still in there?"
"I guess we're about to find out."
"Fuck, man. What are we going to say?"
"The truth," I shrugged. "That you got the wrong pub."
Alan drew breath to protest but I was already heading through the door.
It was as obvious that Carter would frequent this Blue Posts as it was doubtful they'd ever darken the threshold of the other one. Crunchy indie music was merrily careering out of a copious-looking jukebox; young alternative-esque people of various shapes, sizes, hairdos and T-shirts were lounging around smoking and notching up empty pint glasses; and the bar staff looked tame. It was clearly a place we'd want to spend time in, Carter or no Carter. Which was just as well.
"Throwing Muses, man," commented Alan, nodding at the jukebox speakers.
"Never mind all that. Where the fuck are Carter?"
Not there. The pub was small enough to ascertain this within seconds. They might have both been in the loo, but this seemed unlikely. All the more galling was the distinct impression that they had had been there; I could see several Carter T-shirts in the room, most tables had more empty glasses than seemed possible for the amount of drinkers present, and the general atmosphere was laced with anticipation. This was indubitably the pre-gig drinking hole, and Carter weren't really big enough yet for there to be several of them. I locked onto an appropriate-looking group of folk and, fortified by the pair of pints inside me, stepped forward. been there; I could see several Carter T-shirts in the room, most tables had more empty glasses than seemed possible for the amount of drinkers present, and the general atmosphere was laced with anticipation. This was indubitably the pre-gig drinking hole, and Carter weren't really big enough yet for there to be several of them. I locked onto an appropriate-looking group of folk and, fortified by the pair of pints inside me, stepped forward.
"Er ... excuse me, this may seem like a silly question, but ..."
A girl with cropped bleached hair and slightly mad eyes looked up.
"Hahaha! How silly?"
"Er ... pretty silly," I admitted. "You know the band Carter?"
"Yes?"
"You just missed them actually, mate," volunteered a bespectacled bloke who sat next to her.
"They were here?"
"They were," confirmed the girl, pointing to a couple of empty chairs. "Right here. And now they've gone. Haha!"
"Fuck," I gasped, turning to Alan.
"Do you know them?" Alan asked the girl.
"Sort of," she smiled.
"Did they say anything about being interviewed?"
A long-haired guy in a Mega City Four T-shirt across the table suddenly wagged his finger.
"Oi! Are you the fanzine?"
Gingerly I raised my hand.
"I am the fanzine."
The whole table erupted with laughter and suddenly everyone seemed to be pointing at us. Alan and I stole a quick glance at each other for support.
"You knobs!" screeched the girl. "They've just been sitting here slagging you off for the last half an hour!"
"Really?"
"Yes! Hahahaa! 'These bloody fanzines,' they kept saying, 'they always stand you up.'"
"Are you serious?" frowned Alan.
"Yeah!"
"Shit. We were in the wrong pub," I explained. "It was his fault."