A shithole Irish pub in west London. Our second Friday night in a row and there was a chance of a regular gig if it went well. The money wasn’t good, but it was money. I was there ahead of the rest of the band to set up the P.A. The place was deserted except for one little old man sitting on a barstool nursing a pint of Guinness. It was a long narrow place, and the stage, for lack of a better word, was at the opposite end of the room.
I was testing one of the mics when he stood up, reached for a walking stick and began to approach. He had a bad leg and a stoop. Progress was slow. I presumed he was heading for the bathrooms and tried not to stare. Eventually he reached the stage and stood there looking at me, struggling to catch his breath.
‘You played here last week,’ he finally said. Not sure if it was a question or a statement.
I smiled, ‘Yes we did.’
He nodded. ‘I thought you were shite,’ he declared. Then he made his long and painful way back to his stool and his pint.
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