Chapter 9

You wander downstairs and out into the courtyard of The Hop. There’s a healthy crowd stood around, some enjoying the sun, others listening intently to Mark Wynn, who is performing on the downstairs stage. His short-sharp speak / sing urbane poetry to ramshackle guitar is turning heads.

You are getting into it, tapping your toe away as you sit on a stone wall. You feel it might be time to get a drink and stand, inadvertently bumping into a bearded character passing by. In one hand he has a Jack Daniels and Coke, which survived intact, but in the other he had a large cardboard box, which wasn’t so lucky. It falls to the floor.

You apologise and help him with his dilemma.

Y’alright, I wasn’t watching where I were goin anyway’ he says kneeling down.

You seen the cardboard box is full of CDs and Records and you recognise some of the band names as being ones playing the festival. You pick up a 7” and look at the cover.

Good one that’ says the man and you turn to face him for the first time. He is tall and despite the heat, wearing a large, long coat, a style slightly confused by his large, reflective sun glasses. His beard is thick and ginger and he speaks quietly, almost too quiet to hear.

Y’best buy it now you’ve damaged it’ he says, jokingly and gives you a big smile, whilst picking up the last of his records. He is clearly some kind of record label man; either that or a collector that can’t bare to be apart from his treasured things.

You regard the man and consider buying a record. You suspect he might be the head of a local label called Philophobia Music, who you know have done some good things. In the very least it would lighten this poor chaps load for the rest of his day.

You ask how much the 7” is. “For you, four pounds” he says.

Do you: