£1 off with this flyer!!!!!!!!!!

All workplaces have one. Like a health and safety requirement. Someone in a band you can't avoid. They tell you flyers have been left on reception and promise to see you there. Usually finishing the message with a line of exclamation marks intended to show how out-there they are even though they work in telesales. Which, of course, is just a temporary thing till the world realises it can't live without their musical talents. You should be able to spot this by the crazy overuse of exclamation marks. Usually like this: £1 off with flyer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The band changed its line up regularly. Musical differences and all that. In translation this was just blame shifting. And no one was allowed to blame him. He'd been at it for years, since he was bought a guitar all those years ago. Still wetting the bed at eight his parents reckoned buying him a guitar might help. Actually they were desperate for it to help. So desperate they went overboard and got the most expensive guitar in the shop. Loading the washing machine with more damp sheets they realised it hadn't. And now they had the constant racket of someone failing to learn the instrument to endure all day. Too soft, or as they claimed hopeful, to take the guitar off him, he took this as confirmation and encouragement of his talents. His God given right to pass Go on the way to the glamorous world of Top of the Pops.

The ads always said seeking like-minded people, followed by that weeks list of ever more pretension influences. Where he lived there was enough money to overcome obstacles like buying instruments, but not enough talent to learn them. Whenever he met someone like himself - and there were plenty in the leafy, comfy place he grew up - he hated them. There was a challenge to him being the leader, the talent. So he picked the ones most likely to let him bully them.

His insular group of friends came along to gigs in church halls, offering him more confirmation. He thought smoking weed was part of the job description, further fuel for his delusions of ganja. No one was really listening, there was just nothing else to do.

Losing mates was an occupational hazard, one he put down to his determination and drive. His singular vision. He was off to play a bigger stage. Those who couldn't keep up were to be left behind. And off he set on a Bohemian adventure, without a penny in his pocket. The money all in the bank account his parents had set up. But that didn't count. He was an artist. Look at his dirty jeans. He had to stop wearing them when he'd bled his parents dry and been forced to take the horrible job Telesales, as he called it down the phone in desperation as he failed to receive any more funds. A temporary move. At least the offices were near Camden, the birthplace of cool. He kept the jeans in a bag under the desk he shared with all the other telephone headpiece wearers. Along with his lip and talk of where his real future lay. The office was good for one thing though. A captive audience to force along to gigs. He ignored the building groans when he sent the latest invites round. Along with the diminished returns he got in actual attendance.

It was easy to see why. In front of them, onstage, was an indulgence that even the most forgiving couldn't stomach. Lovely instruments, ugly sounds. Unlistenable and unavoidably loud. Pretensions cranked to 11 with songs in French. Je ne suis pas pourquoi. And neither did anyone else who wasn't on the stage.

After what he thought was a stunning performance, there was none of the longed-for praise heaped on him. The few trapped by a lack of excuses featuring last trains were avoiding him and his hard worked on enthusiasm. How could they fail to see his obvious talent? They were just like the rest, failing to understand. See the future.

That night he returned to being the eight year old. Except he had to wash his own sheets.