Always read the Label Chapter 11 Would you like flies with that?

He did have some. As Paul slips Lynn the creased wrap under the table and she heads off to powder her nose, I start to make my way to the door. Spooked by Dee's story, being less than half a mile from Somers Town, with the same stuff that had given Dee a lifetime reflection not to get involved, now coming out to play: it was time to call it a day. As I get up to leave I'm almost tempted to stay when Lynn's friend walks in. She's enough to stop anyone in their tracks: an impossible vision of lipstick and blond hair who I hear greeted as Jill by someone at the table.

At the station I'm alone on the platform willing the train to crawl into view. The doors open and spill out noisy revellers off to join the party, leaving a pretty much empty carriage whose silence is ambushed with a shout of 'tickets please' as the doors close. The inspector pauses at the other two occupants and gives a brief nod as they hold up their tickets. Then he starts to make his way to the only person who doesn't have a ticket. Me. Both of us seem to realise what's coming and know we can't avoid it. As he finishes his question I already have my replies in order. The ticket office was closed (probably true), I don't have any money (not quite true) and my name and address are Mike Hunt, 69 Lets be Avenue (definitely not true). He plays his part by writing all this info onto a piece of paper before moving swiftly on through the swaying doors to the next carriage.

Walking down the path from the platform to the estate I throw the penalty fare notice into the bushes where it joins the other screwed up penalties, never to be paid. Looking up to our floor, there's no lights on in the flat which seems odd as Simon has almost certainly headed home. I get a jolt remembering what had gone on earlier and there might not be a flat to go back to.

The entrance hall was its usual empty flickering self, as was the lift. As the doors open in front of me an explosion of red paint that had run down our door to form a small puddle was drying on the floor. Reaching over I put the key into the lock, expecting the worst as I fumble into the darkness. Simon's door starts to open and I realise I'm all on my own to deal with whatever comes from behind it. In the shifting glow of a lighter held at arms length I see Simon come into view. As relief pounds through my ears, I hardly hear him whisper that someone kept banging at the door so he'd turned off all the lights and hid. That was about two hours ago and his lighter is about to run out now. I tell him about the paint on the door and he goes to have a look, daring to turn a light on now he's not alone. It'll clean up, but means it's not over as far as our wet friend is concerned.

He's so relieved at having company that he splashes out by opening a pack of super noodles, which until now he was too scared to cook in case someone saw the light from the electric hob. I tell him what happened during the day and retold the story of Dee's face which he refused to believe had been the result of such a small amount of money. He seemed to like the other people he met though, so I don't tell him about the comments he got for leaving without buying a round. He's been busy reading the NME by lighter in his bedroom, and has found out that Chris's band are playing at ULU on Tuesday so we decide to go and see them. So only 3 days to fill before we have something worth doing. I've had worse.

I'm greeted at work like an old friend, accepted as part of the gang now that we've met up socially. I keep trying to slip in a few questions about Lynn's friend Jill which I think are going unnoticed until someone writes 'I love Jill' on one of the dust covered windows. I rub it away when I walk past but get seen by Baby Mark who grasses to the others, ensuring a lunchtime ribbing. The next day Scottish Paul tells me he saw Jill last night and she was asking who I was. 'I told her you were a cunt' had been his reply. He tells me this when there's no one else about but I'm not sure I'm not being set up so play it cool, letting the shiny hope carry me above the rest of the day and right through to when we get down to Warren Street on the way to see Chris's band. I'd had time for a quick bath and a change of clothes but no food, so we head to a nearby Wimpy.

'Quarter pounder with cheese and a diet coke, please. No, I don't want fries'. I like these cos you can kid yourself they're above all the other junk food as they come in a brown bun. Simon has the vegeburger which I don't tell him is cooked in animal fat. We sit downstairs in the headache lights and unwrap the food. I take a bite and it's good; but you know just by looking, not enough after a day of grafting. As I'm taking the second bite I notice a tiny money spider running along the edge of the table, probably trying to get back to its home in the plastic plants. I let it crawl over my fingers and plonk it in on the tray where it wanders about while I continue eating. I get to what would be the last bite and then pick up the tiny spider and stick it on the remaining burger. Simon's too busy scoffing to really notice as I head past him and up the stairs to the food counter. I can tell immediately that the person with the only ironed shirt and no baseball cap is the Manager, who turns round when I address his back.

'Excuse me. I've just bought this burger and while I was eating it spotted that there's a spider on the meat. I don't want to cause a fuss, but could I get one without a spider as it's making me feel sick.'
His look says it all. A mix of 'you've only spotted this on the last bite?' and 'we get this all the time'. I hope the last bit isn't true or I wouldn't want to eat here. He has no choice but to offer a polite reply.
'I do apologise sir. That's way below our usual standards. Can I offer you another burger Sir? Where are you sitting? I'll have it brought over.' It arrives in record time, blisteringly fresh and without the taste of spit, as I was expecting. When I finish eating we head to the gig, with me stuffed and Simon hungry to give the spider-on-my-burger-trick a try.

There's a small queue at the ticket office and a handful of people hanging out in the foyer. After buying tickets we get them torn up by the inefficient looking bouncers on the door and head through to get a drink in the much busier bar. The noise from a band is spilling in from the main hall, so I'm surprised to see Chris stood with a few other blokes to the left of the room. I thought he'd be doing a rock star yoga thing or something. I nod and wander over, where I'm greeted by one of his mates with a sort of quiff who quickly introduces himself as Moose, which gets him some stick from Chris about his name being Kevin, which he reluctantly owns up to. There's also a shifty looking bloke ('Russell, not Russ') who reminds me of a much older version of someone from home called Danny Differ. I get a slight sneer from both as I say hello to Kevin then Russ (who isn't drinking Breaker lager like Danny used to). It passes though as Chris does his ordinary bloke routine before heading off to 'get my stuff set up'. I'm left with Moose and Russell (it's easier and stops the sneers) who ask me about what sort of music I like. When I mention Motown and Soul I can see Russell almost yawn but Moose seems pretty on the ball about this stuff and becomes really animated when I mention Nick Drake and Husker Du. Not quiet as enthusiastic about Led Zeppelin but, hey, you can't have everything.

It turns out that both of them work part time at Record Swap in Camden and spend their days robbing 'critically acclaimed but unheard of' stuff. It sounds ideal to me – being paid to listen to new music all day. Then stealing it. I get lost in the well practised list of names that gets reeled off and manage to recognise just one – Love: thanks for educating me back home, Kenny the stoner. Laura Nyro, Tim Buckley, Sly and the Family Stone, Traffic and some sort of submarine band mean nothing to me - which Moose insists he'll rectify by making me a tape the minute he gets home. He's so enthusiastic that I half expect him to leave now, but he stays ans its time to head through into the main hall where I spot Simon chatting away to a couple of girls. It's my round so I pop over, gratefully noticing that both girls have a fairly full drink. I get introduced to Polly, who looks like she could be Scottish Paul's sister and Emma who looks pretty through her shyness and turns out to be really posh when she speaks. I head off to the bar only having to buy two drinks and return just as the lights go down for Chris's band to take the stage. It kind of kills the conversation beyond an abrupt 'that was good' in between each song.

I'm really envious of Chris being able to play a proper gig with people who are not his family paying to get in, a real light show and and enthusiastic clapping. Plus there's no Vicar with a club-foot, who always used to beat me at badminton at the youth club, lurking in the corner like when the teenage bands I was in used to play at the church hall. Chris's girlfriend Miki looks amazing on the stage, a fact which the crowd, especially the blokes, make very clear with their heckling. How does he cope with that? It doesn't seem to be affecting him for the remaining songs which all get lapped up by the crowd. As I'm watching the band finish I spot the little pissed guy from the last gig repeating the same drunken bumping act on various people in the crowd. It's as big a hit with the punters as last time and I have to keep watching to see who will finally snap.

'How long have you been in London?'
The question forces me to take my eyes off the human bumper car and actually think to remember the answer.
'About...five weeks. What about you – are you from London?'
'Yes, I was born here. My family's based in Kew. Do you like it here?
'I do but its a little bit lonely cos I know hardly anybody and nobody seems in a rush to fix that'.
'Oh, I'm sure you can make friends really quickly. You seem friendly enough. Its working with me. I'll help you fix it'.
And with the suggestions in that sentence, I was off and running to make sure the first girl I'd met in London wasn't allowed to slip through the net. The invite to chase had turned on my charm taps to gushing. I involved Simon, her mate Polly, asked for advice, became genuinely interested in where to go and even found myself claiming a (manly) love for Romantic novels. When bang – Simon was nudged forward and his drink sloshed onto Polly and Emma.
'I'm dreadfully sorry. Could I buy anyone a drink as an apology?'
This was the second posh voice of the evening. And it belonged to the drunken bumper car driver.
'I'm happy to go to the bar if you just tell me what you'd like'.
I wondered how many drinks he'd had to buy already this evening, then multiplied it by how pissed he was. Then gave up and asked for another pint. There was no way to be angry with him as he was by now almost pleading with us to have a drink. So off he went to the bar, bumping into at least three groups and then shouting 'sorry' over his shoulder as he returned laden with drinks. Chris had joined us by then and without missing a beat, off he went again to make sure he had a drink as well.

'Beeb. Pleased to meet you. Yes I know, it comes from a shortening of Brown Bottle, who apparently used to be a character in Viz magazine who was rather partial to Newcastle Brown Ale. Which I must admit I was before I got a taste for the lager. Much easier to get hold of in bars around here anyway. I enjoyed the band, did you?'
He's totally oblivious to Chris being the drummer in the band he's talking about, but I also suspect he's oblivious to everything else around him as he screws up his eyes as he talks, looking like a mole popping his head into the light. Or an alcoholic Yoda.

'I've seen them a few times now. Still like them, which is rare for me. Particularly like the look of that singer lady. Very dishy. Do you go to many gigs? I've been going to quite a few recently.'
Chris seems to be amused by Beeb. 'I go to quite a few. I like this band tonight, but think, they're let down by a poxy drummer. He can't really play.'
'Lovely looking singer though, eh?' gets him out of the frying pan and into the fire. Before he can start to throw any petrol on the flames, Simon jumps in and extinguishes his answer by asking him which bands he's been to see.

This keeps him nattering for ages and lets me turn my attention back to Emma who seems politely amused by the little intruder. I ask her if she's going to to any other gigs and listen to her answer till I pluck up the courage to ask her what she's doing later. When she says she has no plans I ask if she wants to come to our flat, quickly adding that Polly's invited as well. There's a pause which has me holding my breath, then she says, 'Why not. Sounds fun'. Which it might do until she finds out where we live and the lack of facilities on offer. I realise if I invite the generous Beeb, that'll probably be the drinks sorted, even if he drinks most of them.

So I ask the rest of our little circle and all seem keen, the girls after exchanging quick looks, to head off. Chris has been dragged off by a serious looking older bloke who seems to be talking at him rapidly. Stood next to them are Moose and Russell who go over to I say goodbye to and get another assurance that I'll get a tape at the next gig of stuff that I'll wonder how I lived without after I hear it. Moose also tells me the guy with Chris is his manager so best to leave them to it, which I do after a quick wave to Chris. Before any hints are even dropped, Beeb announces that he needs to find an off-licence. So all five of us shuffle out the door towards Polly's car, with Simon complaining he bought a return ticket for the train.