The Grange had been a sturdy mid-century pile set back from the road; home to a man who made carriages for the Queen. Where local roughnecks now get high on nitrous oxide in the park, his weathered hands tended salmon pink Boscobels and yellow Gloire de Dijons in a walled rose garden. In the latter part of the last century, this had been a wild place. The owner and impresario was an Irish strongman who tore out the guts of the cinema that had replaced the house and filled it with rock and roll. When he wasn’t lifting truck axles loaded with weights or pulling a cart filled with ten men using a rope clenched between his teeth, the man threw his doors open to skinny boys and peroxide blondes who graced the stage of what became known as the National. For the clown, the queues outside provided a captive audience. One night, he juggled tangerines and the singer of the band walked past, pausing to watch his impromptu performance. As fans screamed in the presence of their idol, the man told the clown to meet him backstage afterwards. A fangirl with dark red lips and black eye make-up was so besotted with the singer she offered the clown a blowjob if he took her with him. While her friend saved her place in the queue, they snuck into an alcove in the alley that runs along the side of the club where the clown leant against a battered black door while she unbuttoned him. Nothing.

“You not into girls, sweetheart?”

The truth wouldn’t have helped. He was so bored. Worn down by the lack of anything new under the godforsaken stars. He’d like for once to jostle shoulder to shoulder with the sweating crowd inside the club, to feel elation and escape, not to be jerked off in a doorway or snort coke in a dressing room with a skinny Scottish rock star. He touched her head tenderly.

“I’m not going backstage afterwards.”

She looked up, confused, her hands still gripping his thighs.

“Why not? It’s the fucking JAMS?” like he was crazy. He shrugged, packing himself away then reached into his pocket and took out a tangerine.

“Would you like an orange?”

“No, I want to see fucking Jim and William and Bobby.”

“I’ll take you back.”

“I fucking need a wee now,” the girl pulling down her pants and squatting on the pavement.

“Sorry”, though he wasn’t.

“Fuck off.”

He turned back to the road leaving the girl to the pale, black-clad saints who would later grace the National stage. It feels like last week, but she’s forty five now. He still knows her.