This heralded another volley of mirth. ("Oh noo, it was his his fault!") Alan looked like he was ready to punch someone, probably me. fault!") Alan looked like he was ready to punch someone, probably me.
"It's all right," laughed Mega City Four bloke. "They weren't proper narked off, just taking the piss, y'know."
"You can apologise to them at the gig if you like," suggested the girl.
"Ah ..." I began. "The problem is, we're not actually going, um, to the gig ..."
"Why not? Come on, it's only three quid."
I turned to Alan again. If I'd spent much of the evening feeling relatively grown-up, I now felt about twelve.
"I haven't enough cash ... have you?"
"Um, yeah ... but ..."
"We're on the guest list," the girl continued. "We could try sneaking you in too if you like?"
Once again, all faces seemed to be on us. Alan was clearly finding the situation very tricky to deal with.
"Um ... I think we need a private meeting for a moment, man."
"Okay," I nodded, and followed him to the door.
"I can't go," he hissed into my ear.
"Why not?"
"I promised my mum I'd be back by ten. I've got a mock tomorrow."
"A mock?"
"Mock A-level, dumbo."
Blimey. First the wrong pub, and now this. The famous Alan Potter was seriously starting to ruin my week. I suddenly caught a mental image of Billy Flushing, grinning stupidly as he always did-but also leading me to the correct pub and then on to the gig, chuckling like a lunatic, arm in arm with the mad blonde girl. I shook my head and he vanished.
"Sorry," Alan murmured. "I'll make it up to you. We don't have to leave just yet anyway. I'll buy you another pint."
The Carter guest list crowd had finished their drinks and were now gathering by the door to leave.
"What's the verdict, then?" beamed the girl. "Are you there, or are you square? Hahahaha!"
The final nail in Alan's coffin of credibility was still to come. After we'd made our excuses to the group I sat back in one of the pub's well-worn seats, contemplating this impressive start to my career as a music journalist while Alan went to buy another round. A minute later he was back.
"Cunts wouldn't serve me," he announced, flopping down on the seat opposite.
We stared at each other for a moment, swirling the incalculable futility of the evening around our heads like a vintage cider. But I had a plan.
"Shall I have a go?"
"No," Alan stated firmly.
"No, really. It might be all right for me. You're taller, but I've got an older face."
"That's utter bollocks."
"Just give me the money. What have we got to lose?"
I didn't tell him I'd suddenly remembered I had a dog-eared photocopy of Billy Flushing's brother's driving licence lurking in one of the pockets of my bag. Billy had made one for each of us (with little thought for what would happen if we presented both at the same time). He used his regularly to buy certain extreme items of literature; I had never tried using mine. It put me, if memory served, just a few days shy of nineteen, but was worth a go.
"Two pints of cider and black, please."
This particular girl behind the bar had a permanent frown, a fierce-looking nose ring and a GBH T-shirt, none of which assisted my acting skills.
"Got any ID?"
"Yeah," I replied, scrabbling around in my bag and hoping the thing was in one piece. Just about. I presented it to the barmaid.
"You're almost nineteen," she noted, scrutinising the threadbare document.
"Yup."
She shrugged and handed it back.
"Okay, whatever."
The thrill of having trounced Alan Potter at the booze-buying game sent a flood of confidence through me. I looked over at him (he was flicking through the jukebox selection) and winked. He mouthed "Fuck off" and turned away.
"Did you put something on?" I asked, as I returned with the drinks and a packet of Quavers.
"Yeah."
"What?"
"You'll see," he grumbled, taking a gulp, as the intro to something I didn't recognise started up. We sat and listened in silence. "Did I get any change?"
"Yeah," I replied, handing him a few coppers.
"Fuck's sake."
More silence.
"Fucking hate not getting served, man."
"That's okay, I did!"
"That's not the point," he glared.
I was starting to get the distinct impression Alan was slipping back into school mode. The guy on the record seemed to be singing "Why can't I get just one fuck," but "Why can't I get just one fuck," but I was sure I'd misheard. I was sure I'd misheard.
"So who is this, then?"
"Violent Femmes."
"Ah."
I pulled open the bag of Quavers and grabbed a handful.
"So I was wondering," I began, between crunches, "whether I should just go ahead and pretend we actually met them, for the purposes of the fanzine."
"Could do."
"I could make up a few answers, y'know ... what I think they would say, study a few of their interviews, that sort of thing. It wouldn't be too naughty really. This first edition's gonna be too small to really get noticed anyway."
Silence.
"Are you all right?"
"Sorry, man. I'm just in a wig. Hate not getting served. Hate the fact that we fucked it up this evening [I decided not to suggest he change the "we" to "I" at this juncture]. Hate being at school. Hate the fact that people in my year are all wankers. Hate having to work at bloody Sainsbury's. Hate looking seventeen. Hate being seventeen. No one ever told you it was this shit. They say going through puberty and stuff is bad, but that was a fucking breeze. I didn't even notice it happening."
I kept quiet for a moment, considering his points.
"Right," I finally said encouragingly. "Anything else?"
He looked up.
"Failed my fucking driving test yesterday."
"Sorry. That's a pain."
"Yep."
("Don't shoot, shoot, shoot that thing at me, you know you've got my sympathy, but don't shoot, shoot, shoot that thing at me ...") "I thought a few people in your year were all right, though? Simon Goodfellow? Eric Bastow? He's a good bloke, isn't he?"
Alan looked at me like I'd just suggested he eat the contents of the ashtray.
"What gave you that impression, man?"
"What about some of the girls? They seem human. Claire Batey?"
"Slapper."
"Joanna Clerk?"
"Rich bitch."
"Gemma Holdingford? I see you hanging out with her a bit."
"Only so I can copy her biology."
("... oh my my, my my mother, I would love to love you lover...") "Nicola Cartwright?"
Alan said nothing and sipped his drink. I let the Violent Femmes complete their strange rant and waited for the next song to kick in. Another unfamiliar introduction, but different this time, less quirky, a one-note guitar riff backed by some jangling, midtempo pop. Then the words started and I almost spat out my drink with mirth.
"I don't know why I love you..."
"Ah, I see," I chuckled. "Nicola Cartwright."
"Fuck off, man."
"No, that's fine ... I mean, she's nice! I would."
"Don't fucking tell anyone."
"I promise," I smiled.
("How can I get close to you, when you got no mercy, no you got no mercy...") "Has anything happened so far, then?"
Alan frowned and took a Quaver.
"Almost, Sunday night before last. We were at the Three Crowns with some others."
"And?"
"I chickened out."
He looked so genuinely heartbroken that I decided to stop taking the piss.
"How long have you liked her?"
"Fucking ages, man. I mean, you know, she's always been pretty and stuff, but there was this nice warm day in September, I bumped into her in the park ... she was sitting by herself, wearing ... Fuck, man, you'd better promise not to tell anyone this shit!"
"Honestly, I won't."
"She was wearing this summer dress and she had her hair in pigtails, totally different to how she looks in school, and some eye makeup, almost ... gothic, you could say. But she hadn't overdone it. So I said hello and she took off her headphones, asked me to join her ... She showed me this compilation tape she was listening to, and man ... I just had no idea. You know what I mean? Some of the stuff on there ..."
He sipped his drink, overcome with the romance of it all. He nodded up to the speakers.
"There was these guys ..."
"Sorry, who are these guys?"
"House of Love, man ... and The Cure ... and I'm not talking about the pop shit, she had 'Fascination Street' and 'A Night Like This' on there ... 'Birthday' by The Sugarcubes ... 'Shelter from the Rain' by All About Eve ... some Pixies and that Violent Femmes one ... some Smiths, I think ... April Skies' by the Mary Chain ... even that Primal Scream one, 'Please Stop Crying,' or whatever it's called ..."
The House of Love finished their ditty and another, more abrasive track started up.
"This one wasn't on there. I just stuck it on 'cos I like it."
I shook my head ignorantly Shit. Third song in a row I didn't know. I may have won the getting-served match, but Alan had won the music game hands down. That was probably the idea.