Ours were really really meaningful. And I will give you a sample, shortly.

So, on this crisp December night, with the snow laying all around and about and little flakes of it drifting down towards the allotments, which looked particularly beautiful in what moonlight there was to be had, I stood in the doorway of The Divine Trinity, a hand-rolled cigarette travelling up to my mouth and then down again, and watched the arrival of Toby in our van.

Yes, that’s just what I said. A van! Toby had got us a van. And although strictly he wasn’t old enough to be driving it, he explained to anyone who demanded explanation that he was driving through necessity rather than choice and so they should leave it at that.

He had acquired the van from Leo Felix, the local used-car salesman (who, even then, referred to his cars as ‘previously-owned vehicles’) with a sum of money composed of our shared savings.

It was an old-time Bedford van with sliding doors, so you could ride along with the doors open and your leg hanging out, looking cool. And but for the fact that it drank petrol and oil in equal quantities due to some essential piece of engine being unincluded in the price, and the fact that the exhaust pipe was somewhat peppered with holes and dispensed a thick, black, foggy sort of a smoke cloud into the rear of the van to the great distress of anyone unlucky enough to be sitting therein, it was a cracking van!

The suspension was a little ‘stiff’ and the tyres, which lacked for any discernible tread, also lacked for inner tubes and had been filled with sand by Leo, who assured Toby that all tyres would be similarly filled in the years to come as pneumatic tyres were nothing but a passing fad.

So, it made for an interesting ride.

We didn’t have to load up the full monty of equipment. We couldn’t have anyway – it would not all have fitted into the Bedford. The Green Carnation owned to a house PA and Venus Envy were prepared to let us use their amps and speakers, which was jolly decent of them. They even sent one of their roadies to help us load up at the allotment. Jolly decent, I thought.

And they had let us be top of the bill, even though they were already quite famous. More than just jolly decent, I decided. Really, really decent pre-op trannies.

I was so looking forward to the gig.

I was nervous, of course, with the old butterflies in the stomach. But I wasn’t going to let on to the other guys. I would put a brave face on it and set an example. After all, I was the lead singer.

The snow was falling most heavily by the time we had loaded up. And frankly I wasn’t that impressed by Venus Envy’s roadie, who spent most of his time attending to his nails and brushing away imaginary smuts from his white satin trousers. He was very flattering about our stage clothes, though, so I suppose I shouldn’t be too harsh on him.

But, as I say, the snow was falling heavily and the moon was gone, so it was damnedly cold when we set out for that gig. But we were young, and eager and carefree and life was ours for the taking. So the fact that we had to push the van to get it started and Neil fell down and took the left knee out of his jumpsuit and Toby laughed at this and Neil hit him and there was some talk about abandoning the gig and indeed music as a career choice before we had even left the allotments did not bode particularly well for the coming gig.

But that was nothing, and I repeat nothing, in comparison to what was yet to come.

I am not going to waste the reader’s time, or patience, with any more of that ‘if I’d known then what I know now’ kind of toot – you’ve had quite enough of such stuff.

But if I had known, then I would at least have known who to kill and why.

But let me waste no more words at all here.

This is how it happened.

Mr Ishmael was awaiting us at the club.

He was in his limo, and as we arrived he signalled the chauffeur to wind down his window so that he could speak to us.

‘What are you doing here?’ were the words that he chose to employ.

‘We’re top of the bill,’ I said, with joy in my voice. ‘But you arranged this, surely.’

Mr Ishmael shook his head and I noticed for the first time that his aftershave smelled like violets. ‘I never booked you,’ he said, rather fiercely. ‘I’m only here because I received a special invite to the club’s opening.’

‘Oh,’ I said, as it seemed appropriate.

‘Well, as you are here, I trust that you will be putting on a memorable performance.’

‘You’re damn tootin’,’ I said, as I had recently heard this phrase and now seemed the golden opportunity to use it. ‘We’re top of the bill – surely you’ve noticed the posters.’

Mr Ishmael shook his head once more, wafting further violet fragrance at my person. ‘I haven’t seen any such posters,’ he said. ‘But go on in now – you’re beginning to look like a snowman.’

And I was, as now the snow was falling fast.

We struggled to hump our gear from the van to the club. And Venus Envy’s roadie didn’t help with this humping at all. He just took off for the bar and we never saw him again.

Now, there is something about humping gear out of a van. Something exciting, something almost mystical. You’re right there, if you know what I mean. And I knew what I meant. And I knew that the other guys in the band would know this, too. It was a camaraderie thing. We were all in this magical thing together.

‘You don’t mind doing this all by yourself, do you?’ said Toby to me. ‘Neil and I want to have a few words with Mr Ishmael.’

‘But-’ said I.

‘There’s something mystical about humping the gear, don’t you think?’ said Toby.

So I humped the gear by myself.

And I must have made a really good job of it, because once in a while I’d peer across at Mr Ishmael’s parked limo and see Toby and Neil and Mr Ishmael quaffing champagne and laughing together. And if one of them caught my eye, they’d grin very broadly and raise their glass and give me the old thumbs-up.

Nice chaps.

But I do have to say that I didn’t think much of The Green Carnation. It was a regular dump. It looked like a derelict building. The door was hanging off its hinges and the electricity appeared to be supplied by a mobile generator.

I cast a dubious eye over these insalubrious surroundings and one of the members of Venus Envy caught me at it.

‘Chic, isn’t it?’ said the he/she. A very thin one, scarcely taller than a dwarf. ‘Post-holocaust chic, it’s called. You wouldn’t believe how much it cost to make it look like this.’

I agreed that I probably wouldn’t, then asked where exactly the stage might be.

‘You’re standing on it,’ this Glen/Glenda said. ‘It’s an entirely new concept in concert staging. A “level-header”, it’s called, level with the audience. One day all stages will be like this.’

But I did not agree that they would.

I continued with my humping. And when done, and somewhat breathless, I asked the Venus Envy she-male where exactly the bar was, so I could avail myself of a beer.

‘We don’t have a bar, as such,’ the man-woman told me. ‘If you want a beer you’ll have to go to the pub next door. I think our roadie is in there already. You can buy him a pint for helping you to shift your gear.’

I settled for a glass of water. Or would have done, if there’d been any. So I sighed and shrugged and went off to the toilet. And then the obvious struck me and I went out to Mr Ishmael’s limo, to share in the champagne.

Only to find that Neil and Toby and Mr Ishmael were now entering the club. As they’d run right out of champagne.

‘This is rough,’ said Neil. ‘And when I say rough, I mean it. Let’s make like a ****** and get out of this ruddy hole.’

There was a moment of silence then.

Followed by a longer one, and then a longer one still.