Autobiography of an Imaginary Band

The 15th of December 1979 and The Clash have just released London Calling.

So, you can forgive my lateness. An album of superb quality and strong political messages. Strummer's voice like burnt toffee- sweet sticky and rough. This album alone justifies my lateness the same way a delayed train might be.

I'm standing on this street corner new songs in hand, pages crumpled. To the keenest eye they come across purposely scrunched up. I suppose, at the time, I hated these lyrics were not what you'd call a masterpiece. Alas I'm now a product of staying up too late listening to a band that is more poetic and more famous than I am, and now we're stuck with them, aren't we?

Streets seem black and white when it's early morning and there this harshness to the sky without the blue. Pale reflections flicker on the cobbled pavements. The red bus thunders by, and I'm suddenly aware of my band on the other side of the road. Their faces are frowning, hair plastered against their face from the microscopic drizzle. I told them I'd be early, but by the state of them. Simply I am lying or at very least heavily optimistic.

'Hi guys,' I wave wiping the drizzled curtains from my eyes.
 'What time do you call this?' Tim exclaims. 'We're fucking soaked!'
'I was listening to The Clash's new record. Cut me some slack, will you?' I laugh shakily.
Paul bites at his thumbnail, scratching away the varnish with his tooth, 'She was at that wanker Derek's house.'
'Who's Derek?'
'You know, ooh la-di-da I'm a model and wear expensive clothes but wait no actually I spent my wages from the supermarket and now I'm bankrupt again, that wanker.' Paul shrugs. I blink in shock a couple of times and then retort defensively, 'How do you know that? And  anyway, I MAY have been there but I was still listening to the album.'
'We're neighbours you ditz, I knocked for like five minutes before giving up.' He flicked my forehead.

'Yeah, you're right Paul... Derek is a wanker.' Tim agrees, flipping a drumstick in the air,catching it effortlessly in his hand. 'Are we going in then? I'm itching to play.'
Paul narrows his eyes, 'I s'pose so. Do you actually have any lyrics this time?' staring intently with distrustI shuffle nervously, 'Of course, trust me they'll be great.'

We walk up the steps and stand below a sign of neon orange which displays the words It's like the off-brand value version of the sun. The kind you can only get on a rainy day in London. A flock ofumbrellas pass us by as we go in through the door. Obscuring the view outside as we cut tothe next scene.