"Sorry mate, sold out."

"That's OK - I'm on the guest list."  I puffed my chest out in a display of utterly false bravado.  The shaven-headed security monkey motioned me inside, disappointed he hadn't had a chance to use that can of mace lurking beneath his bomber jacket.

"Name?"  Boy, was the girl on the counter polite. She didn't even smile; I have no problem with that because she looked like the sort that would have had remnants of yesterday's breakfast wedged between her front teeth. (Along with some of her boyfriend's "curlier" hairs, if you get my drift, but that's a whole other story.)

"Michael Hulme."

"What magazine?"  The bass from the support band throbbed around the reception area, stamping all over our attempted conversation.

I couldn't hear a damn thing.  "Michael Hulme."

She rolled her eyes.  "What magazine?"

"Fusion."

"Confusion?"

"No, Fusion. UK-Fusion."

It took her an age to read the guest list names, scrawled in illiterate biro on orange paper.

"No, you're not here." 

Right.  Well it deems appropriate to draw a veil over Athlete at this point.  Let me tell you instead about the Ten Bells public house, situated opposite from the Arts Centre.  It's a darkly lit, snug corner of Norwich which boasts an excellent pint of Guinness, eight different single malt whiskies, and the kind of jukebox you'd die for.  Last night alone, the Michael Hulme play-list included Carole King, the Rolling Stones, The Kinks, Stereolab, the Byrds, Teenage Fanclub, Bob Dylan… and on and on it goes.

The only people that wouldn't enjoy that jukebox are the teeny-bopping hordes who, frankly, should be under house arrest in the first place.  (In fact, here's an idea. Liberate the Sengatte refugee camp and fill it with our country's indigenous teenage population. Think of it! How wonderful it would be… you'd never have to hear the blood-curdling scrape of skateboard on concrete ever again. Avril Lavigne. Does she need a good bath, or what?)

So any way, I talked to Affie, our honey of an editor-in-chief, about why she wouldn't be getting the review first thing this morning and why Athlete and their record label had consequently missed out on a live report. And, happily, I left the pub some thirty pounds lighter (money), eight pounds heavier (weight), and in the company of a pretty girl.  As I don't 'kiss and tell' (and as this is Norfolk, meaning we might be related and so I might face prosecution), I am unable to reveal any of the evening's subsequent events. Sorry.  Athlete? They'll never make it big.

1/5 (gig), 5/5 (pub), ?/5 (everything else)

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