I’m over the limit so I’m driving home down the back lanes to avoid the police. You have to drink-and-drive round here because we’re a bit isolated and the decent pubs are all in town, 20 minutes away. Wrong of me, I know. But if I go home the back way it’s single-track country lanes with grass growing up the middle all the way, and, more to the point, there are no police. Badgers yes. Foxes occasionally. Police no.
I’m barrelling down these narrow lanes with the car radio going full blast. My radio-cassette player was out of action last year. It’s one of those ‘key code’ radios that have to be reactivated if you disconnect them from the battery. This is supposed to deter opportunist car thieves, I suppose. But last year I had to change the battery, and afterwards, when I looked in the manual for the reactivating code, the previous owner either hadn’t written it down or had written it in invisible ink. I’ve managed to reactivate the damn thing only recently by taking it out and leaving it in the freezer overnight, believe it or not.
So after a whole year without in-car music, tonight I’m having a bit of a party and playing one of my all-time favourite tapes. I don’t know if any of you have heard of Hound Dog Taylor and the House Rockers? It’s raw Sixties Chicago rhythm and blues. I mean really raw. Hound Dog once stabbed lead guitarist Brewer Phillips with a knife onstage – for no apparent reason. The tape I have was recorded live at Joe’s Place – wherever that is – and you can hear glasses being smashed in the background.
So I’m driving along and dancing in my seat, thumping the steering wheel and so forth, when this ginger-haired youth appears in my headlights with his thumb out.
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