“What?”
“Yeah, why not? I was thinking about it the other day. We never really do anything together except come to the pub and talk rubbish about football. We all loved it before, it was a great laugh. What’s changed?”
Bob put his pint glass down and shook his head.
“It’ll never work. We haven’t got a singer now Gareth’s moved back to Wales. No one will want us to play that nonsense we used to get away with at uni. We’re not good looking enough, not good enough at our instruments. It’s a stupid idea.”
“Well, speak for yourself on the not being good looking enough, Bob, but I think you’re wrong.”
“How so?”
“I’m not saying we’re going to have a top ten album, or get on Top of the Pops–”
“It doesn’t exist any more.”
“For one thing, yes. But one of us could sing. It’s not like we ever did Beach Boys harmonies, let’s face it. And we don’t have to sell out the O2 to have a laugh. There’s an open mic night once a month round the corner – we could practice up a bit and have a go there.”
Jimmy had been relatively silent. He stared away over Sundance’s shoulder, thinking back to his time behind the skins at university, sticks in hand, half a dozen spotty students waiting for the next song. That was a good time. And students still existed. And there were several hundred more tunes in existence that they’d never attempted to cover.
“He’s got a point, Bob. It was a hell of a lot of fun.”
“I dunno. Would anyone come to see it?”
“It’s an open mic night, Bob. Anyone who comes knows what they’re likely to get.”
Rosie was collecting glasses, and overheard. “Open mic?” she said, picking up the empties. “One of you lot a comedian?” The look on her face suggested that she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it.
“No, not comedy. We’re thinking about putting our band back together.”
“You never said you were in a band!” She hit Sundance with her free hand. “So what do you play?”
“We used to play covers, mostly.”
“No, instruments, stupid. I bet you was the drummer, Jimmy.”
“How did you know that?”
“You’re always banging things.”
“Not always,” Jimmy said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“Yuk. And I bet you were guitar,” she said to Sundance.
“Nope. Bob’s our guitarist. I played bass. Only four strings; less to go wrong.”
“You play guitar? I never knew!”
“I’m not any good,” Bob mumbled.
“Nonsense! Don’t let him tell you that. He could really shred, back in the day.”
“Well, I could play a bit,” Bob conceded.
“So which one of you is the singer?”
There was an embarrassing silence.
“You know, you might want to think about that, yeah?”
The queue at the bar was building up by now. There were two people waiting, looking around the pub, trying to figure out if anyone would notice if they helped themselves to beer.
“So if we had a gig, would you come along to watch?” Sundance asked.
“Of course. I’d love to see you play.”
“Excellent!”
“Let me know when, yeah? Listen, I’ve got to get back, but you will tell me, right?”
“Of course.”
Rosie trotted back behind the bar, apologising profusely for keeping the punters waiting. As a way of making it up, she got the pint glasses from the bottom shelf, meaning they both got a look down her top. Well, there was no use keeping the girls hidden away all the time…
“OK, so we’ve sold one ticket… come on, Bob, let’s do this!”
“I think she might expect to get in free, Sundance,” Bob said, but his resolve was weakening. He’d seen the look on Rosie’s face when she’d heard he played guitar. She normally saved that for Sundance himself.
“A round of drinks to celebrate!” Jimmy said.
“I didn’t say yes!”
“Oh come on, Bob. It’s written all over your face, you filthy bugger.”
“OK, OK. I’m not singing though.”
“Drinks first; we can sort that all out later.”
frogfather's twenty-first century literature 