Candlestick

It was a big, brass candlestick, the type you might find in a church, with pictures of saints etched onto the side, as if the saints were holding the candle upright.

Next to it a replica pistol, an unusual pistol, German, circa World War 2.

Next to these, a selection of figs and honey.

“Fuck me, Damage, that’s the weirdest rider I’ve ever seen,” said Skins.

“Yeah, BD, why exactly did you ask for a candlestick and revolver, were you confusing our gig with a game of fucking Cluedo?”

“It’s not my fault TB,” I said, “I asked for the usual: ciggies, drugs and booze – I’ve no idea what this is all about.”

Despite our concerns about the peculiar rider, with all venue staff mysteriously unavailable we had no choice but to tuck into the only sustenance available, loafing on bean-bags and scoffing figs and honey, like a troop of Roman punks from yesteryear.

Then Strop held up a piece of paper, hidden under a honey jar. “Er Damage, did you write this?”

I peered over. “Yes, that’s it, that’s the rider we should have had. I don’t know how they got it wrong, I wrote it all down for them.”

“You wrote it down all right: ‘candlestick, Luger, figs and honey’. They’ve given use everything you asked for. ”

“That says: ‘cannabis, lager, fags and money’, it’s not my fault they misread it.

The Boy snatched the paper from Strop. “You stupid fucker Damage, that does not say cannabis. You fucking handwriting is terrible. They must’ve thought we were testing them.

“Shit, that means we’re not going to get any booze,” Eric observed.

“We’re not going to get any drugs either,” said The Boy.

“And we’re not going to get paid,” said Skins.

“Er, would anyone like a fig dipped in honey,” I said, trying to distract them, “they’re really nice.”