Inns Of Court is a wonderful bustling mess of music lovers, overflowing with the sights and sounds and stories of the day. You push your way through the crowd and buy anyone in sight a drink.
YOU HAVE SPENT ALL YOUR MONEY.
Familiar faces from the day are spread across the small but perfectly formed boozer. You spy members of The Michael Ainsley Band, a lot more worse for wear than they were nearly twelve hours ago. Toasts are raised, laughs echo around the persistent murmur of good times shared. It’s a great end to the day.
You head outside with new friends whilst some of the them smoke. You notice the tall, shadowing figure of Mr Rob Dee, head of the music label Philophobia Music. He is talking to a girl intently whilst patting the pockets of his coat, looking for either cigarette or lighter.
You hear him discussing some kind of after-after party; A private gathering back at Philophobia HQ for only the most hardcore of Wakefieldian musicians. It’s hard to tell whether this is in fact true, or some ruse to attract the lady back to his flat but, hearing the bell for last orders ringing at the bar, you decide to pin your hopes on it being the former.
You approach the pair of them and enquire of this party.
“Ah well, it’s kinda just for the people at the label and the bands and that y’know” he says.
“I’m not in a band or at the label” the young lady says.
“Ah yeah, but you were kind enough to buy a record weren’t you, so that’s ok” Rob purrs, with a smile. “That’s the deal I’m afraid’ he says, turning back to you. ‘Either that or you’ve got some fags, coz I’ve bloody lost mine.’