So we’re down the Marlborough, right - main support to Tim’s touching, lovelorn and understated guitar craftmanship - and we’re kicking up a fine storm, halfway between improvisation and jamming. There’s me: glasses, songs about the last days of Kurt Cobain, ‘where is my beautiful son?’, chance numbers, streetlife, counting down destruction and the odd burst of melody. There’s Chris (Crayola Lecturn) blowing up a dissonant squall on sax, ably complimented by Alistair from Hamilton Yarns on crooner’s trumpet. There’s Andrew Clare, biting back the urge to let rip with a sudden frenzy of sound. There’s Noah Taylor, tattooed and lean, folding back into his array of strange effects pedals. No one’s watching, not really - Jack Sargeant and partner, chortling occasionally, wondering if I’m reading from notes (no) - tables dimly-lit, when suddenly there’s a hen party walks in.

Whoa! The Legend! live in front of a hen party (they were on their way to a ‘house’ club). Nice work.

……and later, I’m sat next to Nick Cave…..