Rory was afeared of the gigs. They would make him paranoid and irritable. To calm himself down he would croon Anais Nis over the music, then settle into his rhythm. He would smash and twack metal off metal, bits and pieces he found in skips, under the sink, holding up walls. There was a precision there, a crazy goosestep of arrogant noise. In Whelans, when the band were far to drunk, having been paid in advance with beer, Rory pushed his emotional and creative boundries by miking his pint glass and hitting it with a stick. It was obvious something must break. Simon saw his life flas by as tiny shards of glass flew about his head. There wasn’t much to report. Dee wanted to fight with The Kids who stole the bands beer. They fell flapping into the night again, wondering why all of this had such a familiar twang.