The morning after, my manager phones me. “What the fuck did you say to Ed Harcourt?”

“Nothing? I don’t think we spoke, maybe he said hello? Why?”

“Chris, you’re an idiot, he was sat in the hotel lounge explaining to everyone what a rude cunt you are. You’ve done yourself no favours. For God’s sake.”

Hotel lounge. I’m remembering the last train home heaving with Croydon drunks and someone kicking my guitar.

“Sarge, I honestly don’t remember a conversation. You had me there from midday til midnight to play two songs with no food or money while everyone else swanned in and out, I was pretty fucking tired and pissed off at the end, maybe I was a dick but not in a proper personal dick sort of way, just in a me-being-a-dick sort of way and you know it was a fucking rubbish night, for that lineup it should’ve been rammed, Hitchcock and Stewart Lee and a half full room and some Plum Promotions arse and no atmosphere and you pretending to spin discs on your laptop, not even a real CD player and we turned down supporting fucking Decemberists at the Water Rats for that? Fucking Decemberists, they’re going to be huge!”

(Calmly) “No they’re not, Chris. You did the right gig. And you’ve got to be nicer next time.”