One of my friends is an absolutely world class drummer and at the weekend I will be hearing him play his band's album launch at The Borderline in Soho. I don't know if it still is, but playing at that venue used to be kind of a big deal. As a teenager he was in a band that was very popular locally. His mum, with wonderful bathos, said they were like the One Direction of Carshalton. He told me how he knew when their fame had waned. At the end of a show he would throw his sticks out into the dark auditorium where they would be caught and treasured by screaming juvenile fans. One time, instead of excited screams, he heard the sticks hit the hard empty floor. He went and picked them up and used them at the next show. It wasn't much longer until the band split up.
In a very similar way, my friend and co-author "Chunky Ginger" knew that my relationship with the bouncy trampolinist was doomed before I did. It was when I said of her "She's waging a one-woman war against silence – I guarantee you that wherever she is right now she's either talking or snoring – loudly"
Richard "shhh" B
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