Sweet, Certain Surprise.

The recent sad demise of John Martyn made my eyes mist with nostalgia for the many times he’s seduced my sensibilities through both recorded and live mediums. His skilful mastery of the amplified acoustic guitar and gravel soaked, free flowing vocal style, hooked me from the first moment I heard him. Although, I came very late to appreciate his skill; he’d already enjoyed a career of almost 20 years before he was inserted, quite readily, amongst my sphere of musical influences.

He'd arisen in the London Folk scene of the mid-sixties, impressing the cognoscenti right through to the height of his popularity with the release of 1973’s ‘Solid Air’; continuing on this glorious plateau until 1977’s ‘One World’ whereupon, like his marriage to wife Beverly, his career trajectory and popularity went into a declining arc. So it wasn’t until the difficult mid-eighties period, where there appeared to be no place left for his brand of elegant meandering and wistful folk-rock styling, when he would finally become indelibly installed into my consciousness.

It was late July 1984 and I can still recall hitchhiking with friends Marc and Nicola to ‘The Elephant Fayre’. A weekend rock festival held in the grounds of a stately home on the outskirts of Plymouth at Port Eliot, St. Germans in the stunning county of Cornwall.

Leaving on the Thursday evening it had taken us 24 hours to reach the festival campsite. Nicola had realised her mammoth mistake about halfway down, having struggled to get lifts all night long and most of the next morning accompanied, as she was, by us two big strapping geezers. She rather gleefully abandoned us at a service station near Bath when she was offered a ride the rest of the way to the ‘Fayre’ on the back of a rather forbidding Hells Angel’s Harley-Davidson. Nicola was at that stage in no mood to compromise whilst Marc and I, still within earshot of the aforementioned Hells Angel, were in no position to argue the wisdom of accepting lifts from large greasy, lank haired strangers.

Consequently, Marc and I having finally reached our destination on the Friday evening were relieved to find a thankfully unmolested but remorseless Nicola waiting patiently, with other mutual friends, for us to arrive with the tent and sleeping bags.

With darkness fast approaching, we hurriedly erected the tent on the only clear spot remaining for us: on the side of a hill with an alarmingly angled slope! This proved later to produce the hilarious result that we’d wake up each morning in our respective sleeping bags all scrunched together at the lower end of the tent.

Now that camp was precariously but expediently established we finally went off to explore the festival grounds. I was particularly keen to see a new and promising band called Prefab Sprout who’s album ‘Swoon’ I’d been playing non-stop since seeing them earlier in the year at a local gig in Brunel University’s Union Bar.

The Sprout’s set was very impressive and I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest by my second exposure to their quirky and loose live sound, even making allowances for Paddy McAloon's and Wendy Smith’s shaky vocals in this less than intimate of environments. Frequent listening to their recent album had already proven to me that they were more of a force to be reckoned with in the studio anyhow, and that the real gems in their repertoire lay in the sublime eloquence and outstanding poetry of McAloon’s lyrics. With lines like “Words are only trains, for moving past what really has no name” and “Man made the neon and he learned how to fly, but God made the stars when he fashioned the sky” he’d caught my imagination in a way very few other songwriters could.

Having seen the Sprouts I feared the rest of the weekend would be a musical anti-climax, however (unbeknownst to me at that point), by far the most outstanding and memorable performance of that weekend was still yet to come.

Sunday morning arrived yawningly sleepy and severely hung-over. We were all still a little groggy from the copious amounts of very cheap ‘scrumpy’ cider, we’d drunk directly and continuously from brown plastic demi-johns the previous evening. Our burps still tasting resolutely of alcoholic apples we’d found a quiet spot on a hillside, high above the main stage to while away the rest of the day. Later, having drunk a strong brew of ‘magic mushroom tea’ for lunch we continued to laze around in the brilliant sunshine, laughing, joking and horsing around but not really paying attention to the artists or what was actually happening on-stage.

I must’ve drifted into some sort of reverie whilst soaking up the warm rays of the mid-summer sun, lying back enjoying the smell of the fresh green grass of a typical English meadow. I hardly noticed the new act that appeared on the stage to entertain us, lost in delightful psilocybin induced hallucinations as I half closed my eyes squinting through my shades at the bizarre shapes formed by small fluffy cumulus clouds gently moving high above in an azure sky. The sound of guitars drifted from the main stage, it sounded like about three different, distinctly separate guitars actually, and then those gruff, yet somehow smoothly slurred, warm and honeyed vocal tones came drifting through the microphone along the wires to be equalised by the sound desk, through the amplifier and then out of the immense speakers to arrive promptly at my ear-holes and pervade deeply into my senses.

“Wow. This band is amazing!” was my first thought. I kept my eyes closed and continued to thoroughly enjoy the excellent sounds that seemingly washed over, through and all around me. I think it was two or even three songs into the set when I finally opened my eyes to further investigate exactly who it was that was enthralling me so much.

When I did I was shocked. There was John Martyn with acoustic guitar, completely alone and seated at the front of the stage, plugged into an array of effects pedals and electronic gadgetry by his feet. In my minds eye I’d envisioned a whole band of at least five people, such was the intensity of the polyrhythmic tunes that had engulfed my ears, but no just this one guy on guitar and vocals making all of that noise. I sat open-mouthed and amazed as John continued to entrance me and the rest of the festival audience with a set consisting of one incredible melodic song after another. He managed to somehow throw syncopation into the mix that sounded like a full percussion section playing along simultaneously, but was in fact just the odd slap from his hand or thumb against the guitar body or the click of his plectrum against the hard steel strings echoing continually via these effects boxes.

I later discovered that the secret of John’s particularly complex yet fluid ambient style was ‘Echoplex delay’, an effect he’d pioneered in electric folk music and was still using with devastating results.

That was why I thought I’d heard three distinctly different guitar sounds emanating from his single solo amplified acoustic guitar. That effect plus his skilful, super fast and lithe fretboard fingering produced a sound the like of which I’d never heard before, and boy was I hooked!

After that I collected every recording of his that I could lay my hands upon. The album ‘Solid Air’ is, in my humble opinion, a singular piece of recording perfection without even one duff track. Forty five minutes of mellow loveliness in which one can immerse oneself as if bathing in a vat of warm translucent caramel. I have particularly delightful memories of listening to this album on my first trip to Thailand, chilling with a ‘Sony Discman’ and a ‘thai-stick’ spliff in a hammock on a (virtually empty) tropical beach paradise. Life simply doesn’t get much better than that!

Many years later I found myself invited to a gig at ‘The Mean Fiddler’ in Harlesden. One of the resident soundmen there was a guy called Dave Florence, an Australian fellow affectionately and latterly known as ‘Aussie Dave’. I was, around that time, the manager of a rock band that regularly played there and ‘Aussie Dave’ had been so impressed by them that he’d offered to become the band’s resident soundman too. Thereafter he’d come with us to every gig venue at which we played, ensuring that our sound was the best imaginable despite the ambient, architectural or acoustic limitations he would be challenged with. Subsequently Dave and I developed a strong and lasting friendship and it was through this friendship that I received a phone message from him one day informing me that he’d put me on the guestlist for a forthcoming John Martyn gig at the ‘Fiddler’. I was naturally completely thrilled.

On the night of the gig it was rammed-full to the rafters, and I was grateful to Dave that he allowed me the privilege of watching everything next to him from behind the sound desk. The whole evening was absolutely amazing and John Martyn was on fine form, playing for at least 90 minutes, and even then being called back for a couple of encores. I’d taken the liberty of bringing my prized original ‘gatefold-sleeve’ copy of the ‘Solid Air’ LP with me, in the hope that Dave would be able to get it signed for me. Once all the commotion had died down after the gig Dave disappeared backstage with my album and a black marker pen to see if he could get John to sign it for me. I was absolutely bowled over when 10 minutes later Dave reappeared with the sleeve of this magnificent vinyl recording duly signed ‘To Rudi, One World! John Martyn’. It was a wondrous and breathtaking moment and I thanked Dave profoundly offering to buy him several beers later in gratitude.

“That’s not all”, he announced “He wants to meet you!”

“No way!” I said

“Fair dinkum mate.” Aussie Dave responded.

He gestured for me to follow him and, somewhat dazed, I did. We made our way backstage and Dave negotiated with security to let me have a backstage pass. As we approached the all too familiar dressing room door I turned to Dave.

“Hang on, I don’t know what to say to him”, I was confused and my brain just wasn’t functioning the way it should have been, addled at the prospect of meeting one of my all time favourite folk rock heroes.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something”, said Dave .

He opened the door with one hand and with the other planted firmly between my shoulder blades forcibly pushed me reluctantly into the dressing room.

I half stepped half stumbled blindly into the smoke filled room and was confronted with several seated people all of whom had stopped mid-conversation to stare at this sudden bumbling intrusion. In their midst sat the unmistakable figure of John Martyn.

“Er, Hi John…thanks for this” I vaguely waved the album at him.

“Oh that’s yours is it? My pleasure son, always nice to meet a true fan”, he answered in warm rounded-vowel tones of a pure London, almost ‘Cockney’ accent. “Take a seat”.

I looked around and saw a particularly moth eaten armchair, reeking with the sweat of thousands of spent musicians, and proceeded to sit down. My brain was stuck for ideas on what to say. I was desperately struggling to think of how I could adequately show my appreciation for this man and his music, whilst internally I was feeling like a befuddled and tongue tied 14 year old confronted with asking the girl of his dreams out on a first date.

“Excellent gig” I blurted out.

“Thanks” said John “Glad you enjoyed it!”

I could smell the heady aroma of marijuana in the air, several of John’s entourage were smoking joints and I could see that John himself had a roach between his fingers smouldering away. This gave me an idea of how better to proceed.

“Do you mind if I skin one up?” I asked.

“Course not” John nodded “The more the merrier!”

That’d made me feel slightly more comfortable. Rolling joints was one of my specialties and I just so happened to have three distinct types of cannabis with me. Moroccan; Soft Afghani Black and some Jamaican Sensimilia grass. I got out my large blue Rizla rolling papers and started to make a complex lattice work using John’s, freshly signed LP as a handy rolling surface. I was going to roll John one of my special around the world ‘Camberwell Carrots’.

Whilst I busied myself I listened to the conversation that John was now having with one of the entourage sitting in the room. It quickly became obvious that the four other people in the room were all Scottish. They were evidently friends of John’s from Glasgow. I knew from reading the liner notes on his albums that although John was born in Surrey, he’d spent his formative years, after his parents had divorced, living with his grandma in Glasgow. Subsequently he’d come back to London in his late-teens to become involved in the burgeoning London folk scene of the mid-sixties.

As I listened I realised that something a little strange was going on. When John spoke to his Glasgow friends he’d do so in a broad Glaswegian accent, using vernacular such as ‘blether’ and ‘scunnered'. Then in the same moment he’d turn to one of the backstage crew who’d just entered the room with a logistics question and answer him with a ‘Mockney’ London accent much like my own. I listened intently for a while bemused by this spectacle, when John had spoken to me he’d used the London accent and then switched back seamlessly to a Glaswegian accent to address his friends.

In a way I could relate to this, I have a talent for mimicking accents and often unconsciously do so when speaking to someone with an accent vastly different from my own. In fact I shared a flat for a while with a Scottish guy and rarely spoke to him in my true accent. So although John’s accent switching trick was familiar to me, it was nonetheless amusing to hear someone else doing it for a change.

I quickly finished rolling the vastly oversized joint, which I duly lit and then passed to John once it was well stoked. The rush hit my brain immediately after just a couple of short tokes, so I knew it was worthy of this legendary toker’s approval.

John accepted the oversized spliff from me eagerly and winked conspiratorially as he joked to his friends “Thanks man, but could you not have made it a wee bit bigger?”

His friends chuckled as John drew a deep lungful and then exhaled long and hard sending a billowing cloud of pungent thick grey smoke across the room.

“Woooooooooo” rasped John breathlessly “That’s nice and strong too, excellent work son!” He grinned at me and nodded his approval.

That felt good. As tongued tied and socially inadequate as I was in this great man’s company at least I was able to get him well and truly stoned.

I sat there for a while listening to the stories and memories from his Glaswegian friends, commenting politely now and then when I felt it was appropriate. My ‘mega-joint’ and several others were passed around sequentially in a circle and I finally started to feel comfortable amongst them as we all became more and more stoned together, chatting, laughing and joking.

After a while the harshness of all those doobies, made my mouth feel dry and I realised that I was the only one in the room without a drink. Not wishing to plunder John’s fast diminishing ‘rider’ I made my excuses, shook John’s and everybody else’s hand and left for the front-of-house bar in search of a thirst quenching pint of Guinness, pausing briefly to collect my newly signed copy of ‘Solid Air’ from beside the raggedy armchair.

I found Dave a little later, still behind the mixing desk and presented him with several bottles of beer that I’d just acquired from the bar. The grin on my face was akin to what our American cousins would call ‘shit eating’.

“Thanks Dave” I said "What an incredible evening. I can’t think of any way in which it could be improved upon.”

“I can”, smiled Dave as he reached over to the large silver TEAC machine next to the mixing desk and ejected a shiny new cassette which he then handed to me with a wink and a smile “Here's something nice to listen to on the way home.”

"That'd do it Dave", I sighed "That'd do it..."

Career Opportunities.

(or how the course of your life can hinge on a single unexpected phone call.)

Trrrrllll Trrrrlll.

The telephone was ringing.

“Hello!” I answered as I lifted the receiver to my ear.

A confident and businesslike yet mellifluous voice oozed from the earpiece.

“Is that Rudi Somerlove.”

“Yes” I responded affirmatively ‘Yes it is. Who is this?”

“Oh Hi, my name’s Charlotte Menzies. I work for an employment agency called Woodley Park Associates.”

“Hello Charlotte!”

“I was wondering how you are fixed for work at the moment?”

“Actually pretty good”, I replied “I’ve just recently started a new contract with British Gas."

“Oh that’s a shame”, Charlotte sounded disappointed “I have the perfect job here for you, their requirements match your C.V. like hand in glove…and it’s in Holland, well Rotterdam to be more precise.”

“Tell me some more”, I said. My curiosity aroused by the word ‘Holland’.

“Well it’s a long term contract working for a large Dutch bank, very attractive daily rate, thirty seven and a half hour week and like I said your qualifications and experience are absolutely perfect for this position. Are you interested?”

“Mmmm sounds really good but as I said I’ve just started a new contract with British Gas, the first day was last Monday actually.”

“Shame, because you are sooooo perfect for this.”

I silently cursed my luck. This is typical; I’d waited for ages for the British Gas contract and now that I’ve already started it something better comes along. Honestly they’re like buses, these contracts, you wait ages and then two turn up at once. Bugger!

“Yes it is a shame” I said “If only you’d rung a month ago; I’d have jumped at the chance to work in Holland. Oh well, never mind, that’s just my luck I suppose!”

“Ok then if I can’t persuade you I’ll just have to find someone else, but I doubt I’ll get someone as perfect a fit as you.”

“I’m sorry. Thanks for letting me know though, hopefully you’ll find something just as good for me once this British Gas contract finishes. Keep in touch, you never know.”

“Yes I will. OK, thanks anyway Rudi. Bye!”

The click of her replacing her receiver seemed to echo around my head, followed quickly by the dial tone buzzing noisily in my ear. I was still holding the receiver, clamped to the side of my face, in a trance. Did that just happen? Did I just turn down the chance to work in Holland? I must be mad! I started hitting the side of my head with the receiver repeatedly before putting it back firmly in the cradle where it belonged. Am I crazy? What did I just do? I stumbled out into the garden for a cigarette and tried to think through exactly what had just happened.

Holland, or more correctly The Netherlands had been my favourite European country for a long time now. Ever since my first visit on a family holiday when I was 10 years old and we visited family friends in Den Haag (The Hague) and camped briefly at Duinrell. Subsequently I’d revisited it several times since.

At the age of 19 a weekend trip to Amsterdam organised by the Students' Union at college had rekindled my love affair with the land of tulips and windmills, of course I found the Van Gogh Museum interesting but not half as interesting as the gorgeously painted ladies in the windows at De Wallen. Getting ripped-off buying liquorice instead of hashish from one of the copious and persistent street dealers hadn’t soured the experience either; it just made me much more wary for the next time (and somehow I knew there’d soon be a next time). After that there were in fact many trips over the years. Usually just weekends away here and there, but once to Utrecht.; an interesting detour (and a little bit of business) whilst ultimately hitchhiking to the South of France (again). Then there was a weekend with a band to see if we could get any gigs in Amsterdam, and also New Year’s Eve 1989 with my best buddy Paul and our respective girlfriends. Plus a ‘secret dirty weekend’ away with my company receptionist during a very brief love affair. All these varied occasions and also several soft drug and booze fuelled ‘Stag Weekends’ with family, friends and friends of friends. During these I’d use my considerable experience of navigating the city of Amsterdam to guide those that were less experienced around ‘Sin City’. So, by the time I was in my thirties, I felt I knew Amsterdam and the Netherlands pretty well and could even speak a couple of sentences of Dutch.

My experiences were always positive. I loved the people and the culture and the liberal attitude in Amsterdam. So different from the oppressive class-based restrictions I felt back in the U.K. I used to relish the walk towards Dam Square along the Damrak from Centraal Station; I’d always ask the rhetorical question to whosoever was with me at the time “Can’t you just taste the freedom in the air?” It was regularly the precursor to a few wonderful and fun-packed days. So, why all of a sudden was I quite readily declining the chance to live and work for a short time in my most favourite place in the entire world?

I’d been ‘resting’ for a while in-between contracts and I was so grateful that I now, at last, had well paid work with a large corporation again that I really felt like I shouldn’t push my luck. I stood there smoking a second cigarette whilst I mulled over my current situation. Cogitating intensely as I watched the wispy white smoke curling gently away from the burning tip.

There was no getting away from the fact that I’d already started a contract at British Gas although I’d actually only been there a week. I already felt a strong sense of loyalty to continue along the path I’d chosen, almost certainly misplaced, but professionally I felt that it was the right thing to do. I’m really not a flaky sort of person. Once I’m committed to something that’s it, for better or worse I’ll see it through. Then suddenly it struck me, I’d not yet actually signed the contract. Oh my goodness, there may be a way I can actually do this and keep my integrity intact.

My current agent had got me the position on the basis that there was an urgent requirement and I could start almost immediately. The paperwork still hadn’t been finalised and was sitting in the bureaucracy of British Gas’s administration system. Most likely awaiting authorisation, rubber stamping or whatever they had to do before I finally put my signature to it. So actually I didn’t have any legal obligation to continue at all. I pondered the ethics of the situation thoroughly, I didn’t owe the agent anything and he’d at least get a commission on the week I’d already been in the job. I certainly didn’t owe British Gas anything, except gratitude for taking me on. I’m sure it happens all the time, people start at a company and then realise that they actually don’t like the ambience; their prospective colleagues; the state of the offices; the demands of the boss; or indeed find that they have actually been presented with a better offer elsewhere.

A wide grin spread across my face as slowly I began to realise that indeed what I’d previously thought impossible, might actually be possible after all. I made a beeline for the phone; entered the code to find the last received call details and hurriedly pushed the send button. A ringing tone came from the receiver then a click as it was picked up on the other end.

“Woodley Park Associates, foreign contracts, Charlotte speaking!”

“Hello Charlotte, it’s Rudi Somerlove, we spoke a short while ago about the contract in Rotterdam. Have you found anyone else yet!?"

I tried not to sound too desperate.

“Hello Rudi! No not yet. Actually I’m just trawling through some of the other C.V’s. now.”

“Charlotte. Stop right there. I might just be interested after all….”

Eleven years later and I'm still here! Proving that the course of your life can hinge on a single unexpected phone call.

London's Calling.

I was the sanguine age of 23 when I moved the twenty three or so miles eastwards into Central London. The main reason for this was that I was working for a company at Mile End in East London which meant that every single working day I’d drive down the motorway and into London through the rush-hour traffic to get to my office for 8.30am, a journey of twenty five miles or so which took around 90 mins. Returning westwards at five 'o' clock each evening back to the far outer reaches of suburbia just beyond the M25 perimeter took 2 hours. So every weekday for the privilege of working in the big city I was spending roughly 3.5 hours in the car doing a fifty mile round trip.

At first the excitement of working in London offset the drag of the daily commute, after all I had a company jeep, company paid petrol, a great (self installed custom) car stereo and I enjoyed driving. However, pretty soon the novelty wore off and I found that those journeys began to become a great physical drain. Still living with my parents and enjoying the sizeable disposable income that the peppercorn rent I paid for my bed and board allowed me, I was loathe to make any dramatic changes, but fate and fortune were about to play their inevitable hand.

At the time my weekends consisted of drinking locally, until the pubs shut and then taking a car full of inebriated friends back into London where we’d dance all night at clubs such as the WAG club (Wardour Street, W1), which played mainly cool Soul and R&B or the Limelight (Located in an old Welsh Presbyterian Church on Shaftesbury Avenue just off Cambridge Circus) pumping out more contemporary 80’s dance and pop tunes. At around 4am we’d go for breakfast at the 24 hour Beigel Bake shop in Brick Lane or to one of the all-night cafés in and around Soho, Harry’s (19 Kingly St. W1) was a favourite, as was Rocky’s* (3 New Burlington St.) before I would drive everyone back home completely shattered and slip gratefully into a welcoming bed...quite often my own.

I had come to accept that both my working and social life seemed to revolve around Central London, so moving into the smoke finally became a priority. I calculated that what I lost in disposable income would be compensated for by the fact that my journey to the office would be much more pleasant and socially I'd be able to drink more from no longer having to drive everywhere. Helen, a friend with whom I would regularly find myself out clubbing, had already made the move up to town and she had a friend Gaynor who was also looking for permanent city central based accommodation. A colleague of Helen's knew of a place that had recently become available in Camden. Pretty soon the arrangements were made and I found myself moving in together with Gaynor to a two-bed council flat just off of the Euston Road in a quite lovely but unprepossessing little area called Somers Town.

Our tenure of this property was, however, not entirely above board; it was actually a council sub-let and the legitimate tenant from what we understood was serving some considerable time at her majesty’s pleasure. Now, not being ones to look a gift horse in the mouth and hugely impressed by the extremely cheap rent we decided that these trivial details would not deter us from enjoying our tenancy. Indeed neither would the generally run-down state of the property which would take more than just a lick of paint to put right nor the fact that the number on the door was ‘unlucky’ thirteen.

Over several weeks we started to settle in to our new abode and I found that Gaynor, a very pretty petite doe-eyed brunette around my age and from my home town, was a pleasure to live with. We started doing a few bits and pieces to make the place a little more comfortable and generally everything was going rather well. Until…one night at 3am I was awoken by someone pounding rather heavily on the door and shouting the name of the previous occupant through the letterbox. He was becoming more and more insistent despite my attempts to ignore him by putting a pillow over my head and trying to block out the sounds. Eventually, worried about him awakening the neighbours and Gaynor whose bedroom was on the other side of the living room, I dragged myself out of bed and toward the front door.

"Hello" I whispered through the front door glass "He doesn’t live here any more. Go away! Don’t you know what time it is?".

"Sorry" came the reply through the letterbox "I didn’t know that. Listen man I’m desperate! Can YOU hook me up maybe?".

"Hook you up?" I answered quizzically "With what?".

"You know... some 'aitch' " came the equally perplexing response.

"'H' what?" I said still half asleep.

“Some smack, skag, horse... 'H' ".

Suddenly my brain kicked into gear "Heroin" I said.

"Yeah dude of course. I’m hanging out here. I really need it, now! I’ll take whatever you’ve got, I’ve got the cash".

It all started to make sense; the guy that used to live at this flat was a heroin dealer. That’s why he was in prison…and that’s why we got the place so cheap.

"Sorry" I said "I haven’t got any 'H', that’s not what I do".

Eventually after some considerable effort I managed to persuade the junkie on the other side of the door that there really was no heroin inside the flat; that the previous occupant wouldn’t be back for a good length of time and that he should go elsewhere for his fix. I slunk back into bed and told Gaynor about it the next day. She’d fortunately slept through the whole episode.

I didn’t really think anymore about it until a couple of weeks later when it happened again, this time at a more reasonable hour. Having heard a knock I opened the door to what could only be described as a prostitute with pock marked ashen skin caked with make-up and a blackened tooth, in a very short skirt and halter top showing just a little too much cleavage. We went through exactly the same scenario as with the guy a couple of weeks before. She was disbelieving at first and even offered me sex if I could help her out. I of course declined her offer and had to be quite insistent before she also left the doorstep and went elsewhere.

The third time it happened it was in the early hours again and I’m not sure if it was the same guy as before or a different one because I didn’t answer the door. Again I covered my head with the pillow, trying to ignore his insistent pounding and waited until he’d gone. This was starting to become a nuisance…

A while later and Gaynor and I decided to have a ‘flat warming’ party the following weekend. We both invited several guests and were looking forward to entertaining for the first time in our new cool London pad. Around 2pm on Saturday, the day of the party, I went out to fetch some booze from the local supermarket leaving Gaynor to finish preparing party snacks and generally just getting the place ready for a party.

I got into my jeep and headed for the exit archway in the courtyard (which served as a car park for the block of flats). The courtyard was bounded by two archways either side of the square shaped block. These arches incorporated into the block were like medieval castle gatehouses, without the portcullises, through which one had to drive or walk to gain access to the street beyond. As I approached I was confronted by a man hopping up and down smack bang in the middle of the archway and clutching at his ankle as if he’d just injured it. This meant that I had to stop the jeep and wait for him to get out of my way. I duly stopped at the narrow exit and waited. At that precise moment the driver’s side door to my jeep was abrupty opened and an arm came in and removed the keys from the ignition before I even knew what was happening. The guy who, moments before, was hopping in agony and clutching his ankle had made a miraculous recovery and was also coming around towards the drivers door walking at a fair pace now. My adrenalin started pumping as the 'fight or flight' instincts took over and my initial impression was that I was being mugged for the jeep. The guy who’d faked an ankle injury was now standing at the open driver’s door with the guy who had my keys and he shoved an official looking badge, encased in embossed leather, into my face.

"Metropolitan Police Drugs Squad. Get out of the car, NOW!" he shouted.

I glanced at the badge which was no more than a millimeter from my nose. It looked authentic, but how would I know, I’d never seen one before. In the passenger door mirror, I now noticed another two guys approaching the jeep from behind. They looked like they meant business too. Well if they were mugging me then they’d certainly come mob handed! I stepped down out of the jeep and was immediately pushed against the side of the archway my hands forced aloft and my legs kicked apart, so that they could frisk me. "Ah hah" I thought "Muggers don’t frisk people".

I was told that they suspected me of being a dealer of ‘Class A’ drugs and that they had a warrant to search my premises, which they then showed me. It was in triplicate, a pink topsheet with green and blue carbon copies. They ripped off the blue copy and gave it to me to read. I was completely gob-smacked! I naturally protested my innocence and they looked at me with the skeptical eyes of men that had heard it all a million times before.

One of the ‘nice policemen’ got into the jeep, reversed it back to my parking space and started searching the interior. Meanwhile I was led back towards the flat on foot by the others. As we passed an unobtrusive dirty white transit van with mirrored back windows several more ‘nice policemen’ jumped out of the back and joined us. I now realized that the transit van had been parked there for several days and as the back windows faced our flat they must have had us under surveillance.

We reached the door to the flat, which I duly opened once my keys were returned to me. I was surrounded by eight or nine ‘nice policemen’ at this point whom I realised would be helping with the search. As we entered I was frog marched through to the lounge. Gaynor stuck her head out from the kitchen and started to greet the ‘nice policemen’ with a cheery "Hello, I’m Gaynor, how nice to meet you all!". She obviously thought that these were my party guests who had arrived early. One of the ‘nice policemen’ joined her in the kitchen and must have explained what was going on, because she emerged white faced and looking very concerned. She was ushered into her bedroom where they started to question her. All around us ‘nice policemen’ were starting to search the flat; opening cupboards and looking up the chimney all with the professional efficiency and resigned air of people who do this sort of thing every day. The ‘nice policeman’ that had stuck his badge in my face earlier took me into my bedroom to start interrogating me; it was becoming plain that he was the boss of this operation.

The first thing he asked me was if I had anything in the flat that I shouldn’t have. I replied that I did and that I would fetch it for him. I went into the lounge and reached into the basket sitting on the shelves, full of ‘extra long’ cigarette papers and an interesting little wooden container with a nice imprint of a familiar five leafed plant on it. I returned to my bedroom and opened the container in front of the ‘nice policeman’. My hands were shaking slightly, after all what I was about to hand over was still an illegal substance. I stuck my fingers into the small wooden container and pulled out a plastic bank bag of the type used for sorting coins. Inside the bag was a tiny piece of hashish the size of a pea. I handed this over to the ‘nice boss policeman’.

"I’m sorry I haven’t got more otherwise I’d skin one up!" I announced cheekily.

Inwardly I thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t have a more significant amount of marijuana in the flat at that moment because I'd actually arranged for one of my party guests to bring a quantity from my hometown to the party later. Surreptitiously I breathed a huge sigh of relief at the fortuitousness of the timing.

The ‘nice boss policeman’ was not amused. It was becoming very obvious that there were no ‘Class A’ drugs in the flat and that whatever intelligence or observation they were working on was flawed. I remained overwhelmingly polite and good tempered explaining how I came to live there; who Gaynor was and answering all the other questions I was asked honestly and openly. Gaynor’s story obviously matched mine too, as I discovered when ‘nice boss policeman’ stepped out to confer with his colleague who had been interviewing her. It was becoming increasingly certain that this young pair of middle-class ‘kids’ were not and never had been part of a major hard drugs network. The other ‘nice policemen’ started joking around and visibly relaxed as the idea that I was not the suspect they were looking for became apparent. I asked them please not to make too much of a mess because I was having a big party later. One of the ‘nice policemen’ suggested maybe he and a couple of colleagues should pop back later that night. I really hoped they were joking, knowing that within a few hours the place would be heavy with the smell of marijuana and a few of my guests might be on somewhat stronger stimulants; plus the fact that my own ‘gear’ would be delivered later too.

It felt weird to have people going through all my personal stuff with a fine-toothed comb. Personal letters were read; the stash of porn at the bottom my underwear drawer eagerly perused and even the cornflakes in the kitchen emptied into a separate bowl, sifted through, and then replaced in the packet. I felt slightly violated. It must have felt much worse for poor Gaynor.

After little more than an hour the ordeal was over. The ‘nice boss policeman’ apologised for any inconvenience caused and the rest of the ‘nice policemen’ left cheerfully still making jokes about how I might just see them later. I wasn’t going to be charged for the pathetically small amount of dope in my possession and nearly everything in the flat was back in its normal place with no damage done. Gaynor and I were left standing looking at each other in a state of shock and incredulity.

Finally, having had the chance to go and fetch the booze unmolested, the party that evening went amazingly well. Although I felt a little disconcerted that the ‘nice policemen’ might make good on their promise to return later that evening, everything proceeded without a hitch. Gaynor and I neglegted to mention to the partygoers that ‘we’d been busted’ earlier in the day for fear of spreading the unease we already so tangibly felt. There were certainly enough soft drugs on the premises now to make it worth the ‘nice policemen’s’ while returning but we were thankful that the ‘half hinted at’ raid failed to materialise.

The next day once the party was over, whilst we were cleaning up the mess and through the haze of a hangover, I had my first chance to reflect on the significant events of the previous 24 hours.

"You know what really disappoints me the most" I said to Gaynor as we filled a couple of black bin liners with empty beer cans and the contents of several ashtrays.

"No" she said "What?".

I raised an ironic eyebrow.

"They forgot to give me my 'I’ve been busted' button badge!".

* sadly no longer open