Harry unzipped his pocket and felt around - lozenges, plectrum..

Here we go.

He unfolded it. Plugger got to his feet and pulled open the fridge.

Kale. .... Kale. What is that. I need some breakfast! J.J. Kale, that is. Eh?

Nell gets it. I don't know about it man.

He's a shithead.

It's about Con. Three times a week for thirty years

Forty years.

Forty years, are you sure? Anyway, banging out Say Good Mama three four times a week. It's all he knows.

So if it weren't for Con.

Don't get me wrong, but one hit.

And Mississippi

Like I said, one fucking hit. I'd as soon drop the connection and tour as a fucking tribute band.

Yeah right, but it's not so easy you know. No fuck-ups there, it's gotta be right spot on. I like to see us doing the 4-part harmonies in Mr fucking Blue Skies. Hey mate. I like to see you ripping out the solo in Bohemian fucking Twatsode. Note-perfect, you know?

Fuck.

Like fuck.

Help me. I can't read this shit. Here, take it.

Plugger closed the fridge.

What's it saying?

Crikey. How many points have you got man?

What's this shit about court?

Who's gonna drive the van? Harry. I mean, you play real good. Loose. You know, we're the Axe. Don't matter if we come apart. It's the Axe. That's what they pay for. Something real. Fucking tribute shite. Fucking theatres. Musicals man! I mean - we . are . Rock . and . Roll .

The floor upstairs creaked.

My little girl. Maureen. Hello sweetheart.

She came sleepily into the lounge and Harry opened his arms to her.

I'm not the Axe. You're not the Axe. I never even heard of the Axe that much when I was a nipper. Generational thing. Funny thing, cos Con, when he knew I grew up in Horley Mead, Con said that's why you're the Axe man. But the truth is not one of them was from off of an estate. Cotterall, God rest his soul. His folks were fucking loaded.

Yeah. His old man paid for the bike... That's what I heard.

You won't get nothing out of Con. He never went...

to the funerals.

Right. There's times I think he was no more there than you or I.

Mitty was saying about taking him to Nuneaton to see his boy.

Mitty should keep his fucking nose out. Why can't his boy come over here if he's so mad about - Jesus, you wouldn't wish it on him.

Plugger slumped in the chair and began rolling. You got eggs, right.

I don't know man.

I just seen them. Fried bread. That's the kind of food I like. Do you ever go back?

Never. It must be fifteen years. None of the people I grew up with would be there. If they didn't move on they died. My mum and dad, we weren't really Horley folk. Being Micks and all. I don't fucking miss it. I'll tell you another thing. You know at the end of the main set it's der-ner-der-DOM-DOM...

Been on the run all my life...

Yeah. I hate that song. Shift over a bit, sweetheart. Mitty made us do it. He "exhumed" it, he said - it came off of their live album, which was a fucking catastrophe, sold about fifty units, the sound engineer was - you know, all he'd ever done was Dutch boompah - Eurobeat shite - he had no fucking clue. That's by the by. Mitty dug up this fucking tune, "anthemic" he said it was. Anyway, so Con had to learn it cos of fucking Mitty carrying on. He hates it more than I do. He's never remembered it.

But he played on it...

Not only that, he wrote the fucking song! I'd never even seen the album before but, that knobhead in Chepstow last month, he brought it with him and I read it on the sleeve. C. Lynch. It's him! Even Mitty didn't know that.