A Page From Rock History.

March 1981. Rudi was walking with Giles back to his house. After school he’d popped into the Chelsea Coffee House as usual and Giles was there. Giles was a year older than Rudi, he was at the same school and they both attended the same youth club, which happened to be located a couple of doors down from Giles’ house. Giles was above average height with a round cherubic face. Rudi’s girlfriend, Ash, thought Giles was lovely, this made Rudi a little jealous but he didn’t let it show. Rudi had become great friends with Giles’ sister Harriet and it was Harriet that Rudi was on his way to see. Harriet was a no-nonsense; mature for her age, artistic type. She was petite and pretty but not in an obvious sort of way. Harriet had asked Rudi if she could borrow some of his clothes for a Japan gig she was going to be attending. Rudi had a black Adidas kit bag with him, which contained a few choice articles from his wardrobe he thought she’d like.

Japan were about to become huge. Their latest album Tin Drum, was incredibly their 5th, and to date they were a little known cult New Wave attraction but the times were about to catch up to Japan’s unique style, the age of the New Romantic was upon them. The well crafted and haunting song ‘Ghosts’ was a perfect vehicle to showcase the stunning voice of David Sylvian the band's vocalist, and was highly unusual in chart hit history in that, like Minnie Riperton's 'Lovin' You' several years previously, it featured absolutely no drums. It was the standout track of that album and it was about to propel ‘Japan’ to stardom…just in time for them to split up.

Giles and Rudi had just passed the hall above the church where they both attended the youth club and were nearing Giles’ house when Rupert, Giles’ brother, appeared looking excited. He had just left the house and was bounding towards them.

“Hey, you’ll never guess who’s in the house”, blurted Rupert.

“Who?” said Giles.

“Only…THE Jimmy Page!” Rupert exclaims.

Rudi looked at Giles in utter disbelief.

“No way!” Giles retorted cynically, shaking his long curly ginger locks. “What, right now?”

“Yeah, he’s in the kitchen with Mum, he came to see how she’s getting on with the paintings she’s restoring for him apparently”, Rupert assured him.

“Bloody hell!” Giles gushed excitably.

“Bloody hell!” Rudi concurred.

Jimmy Page was the renowned lead guitarist with rock legends Led Zeppelin. He lived locally and Rudi had seen him before buying petrol from the petrol station where Rudi worked at the weekends. To be fair he’d not known who Jimmy Page was on sight. It was only afterwards when a co-worker pointed it out, that it registered. Now perhaps Rudi would get the chance to meet him properly.

Life for Jimmy had been tough recently. Only about six months before John Bonham, the band’s drummer, had been found dead at Jimmy’s house after a day and night of heavy drinking whilst rehearsing the new album. He had asphyxiated on his own vomit. Because of the band’s reputation as rock ’n’ roll hell raisers, media speculation abounded at the time that drugs had played a large part. This proved to be unfounded. Speculation was also rife amongst media and fans alike that perhaps Jimmy’s dabbling in ‘the occult’ had something to do with John’s death that evening. Understandably as a result of all this Jimmy had been feeling the stress lately and was deliberately maintaining a low profile.

Giles and Rudi strode hurriedly toward the front door. Giles was barely capable of getting his keys in the lock fast enough, unable to contain his excitement at the possibility of meeting one of rock’s true legends. They both stepped inside and stopped as the door shut gently behind them. Giles was listening intently. There were audible voices coming from the kitchen along the hallway, one of them was unmistakably Jose - Giles’ mum. The other voice was male but otherwise indistinguishable from behind the closed door.

“What should I say to him?” Giles asked Rudi.

“I dunno” Rudi shrugged in that way only fifteen year olds can. “Why don’t you just ask him to sign an album?”

“Good idea!” The frown lines on Giles’ forehead relaxed. “Let’s go and get one first” Giles said as he started to mount the stairs.

Rudi followed. As they marched upwards Rudi quietly cursed the fact that he didn’t also have a Led Zeppelin or even a Yardbirds album handy for Jimmy to sign. He thought about running the mile home to pick one up or, running the half mile in the other direction towards the town centre, to pick up an L.P. from Revolution Records his favourite record shop. Then he realized he probably didn’t have time to do all this. As they reached the top of the stairs Harriet appeared from out of her bedroom.

“Harriet, Jimmy Page is downstairs” Giles beamed expectantly.

“I know” said Harriet nonplussed.

Giles disappeared into his room to seek out a suitable Led Zeppelin LP.

“Hi Harriet” said Rudi “I’ve brought some clothes for you to look at”.

“Great!” smiled Harriet, “You’d better come in. Excuse the mess won’t you”.

The room looked immaculate compared to Rudi’s own bedroom that he grudgingly shared with his younger brother, and refreshingly feminine too. As the only girl amongst several brothers Harriet had the luxury of a whole room to herself.

…

A couple of minutes later Giles walked in holding a record.

“This jacket might work, with a hanky in the top pocket, but you’ll have to roll the sleeves up because they’ll be too long otherwise” Rudi was in the process of helping Harriet on with a 1950’s style second hand jacket he’s bought from a charity shop weeks earlier. It did look a bit odd over her convent school uniform though.

“Ha ha” Giles laughed “You look weird! That’s a men’s jacket”.

“Shut up Giles” snapped Harriet “What would you know about fashion?”

“I’ve got this album, Rudi” Giles showed Rudi the cover of Presence by Led Zeppelin “Will you come down with me and ask him to sign it?”

“Only if I get to keep it afterwards” smiled Rudi

“No bloody way!” Giles countered. “Harriet?” Giles looked at his younger sister entreatingly.

Harriet smiled “Are you too shy to ask him yourself Giles?” she teased.

“No, of course not” Giles answered unconvincingly.

“OK then we’ll come down with you for moral support” Rudi offered.

“Yes let’s” Harriet effused enthusiastically.

The three of them trundled down the stairs and into the kitchen. Giles’ mum was at the table and Jimmy Page sat opposite, they were drinking coffee from large brown mugs and chatting animatedly.

“Hi mummy” Harriet started “just going to make a coffee for Rudi.”

“Ok dear!" Harriet’s and Giles’ mum smiled at Rudi “Hello Rudi, how are you?”

“Hello Mrs. H., I’m very well thanks” Rudi smiled back and tried to sound as polite as possible.

“This is Jimmy” Mrs. H. gestured towards Jimmy Page “I’m doing some work restoring some of his Aleister Crowley paintings” She gestures with her other hand toward a painting on an easel in the corner featuring a demonic looking creature with what appears to be a giant red engorged penis.

“Hi Jimmy!” Rudi grinned inanely at the 'rock legend' and shook his hand.

It felt weird… Rudi didn’t have a clue what else to say, he was completely in awe of this man because of his colossal acclaim. The fingers of the hand he’d just shaken had plucked the solo on Stairway to Heaven possibly the most famous rock anthem since rock began. Hell for that matter this is the guy that practically invented 'Heavy Rock' single handedly, well dual handedly actually; he’d had to hold down the strings with his left hand too.

“This is Harriet, my lovely daughter and Giles one of my darling sons” Mrs. H. was continuing with the introductions.

“Hi” Harriet smiled sweetly at Jimmy and continued with making the coffee.

“Hello!” said Giles bounding over to shake the Rock legend’s hand, first sweeping his long curly ginger locks from hanging in his eyes. “Errrrm...I’m really pleased to meet you!”

“Giles has something he wants to ask you Jimmy” said Harriet with an impish grin, clearly enjoying herself by putting her older brother on the spot.

Giles started to blush slightly and produced Led Zeppelin’s Presence L.P. from behind his back. “Would you mind?” he asked hopefully.

“No of course not” laughed Jimmy “Presence eh! Good choice”.

Mrs. H. pushed a pen that was sitting on the table, towards Jimmy. “Thanks Jimmy” Mrs. H. laughed. “You’ve just made his year!”

“And mine” thought Rudi “and mine!...”

* Revolution Records, Windsor 1982 Copyright Mike Bennett's Photograph reproduced with gracious thanks.

Back to Earth With a Bump.

It was my idea. I’d been living in Rotterdam for just over a year and my brother-in-law was coming over for a visit. I’d done some research about things we could do together whilst he was over and, apart from the usual tourist stuff available, I’d found out that it was possible on alternate Saturday mornings to either abseil or death slide from the Euromast. It worked out that the Saturday Brian would be here was an abseiling day, so I booked us in. Now I should point out here that I regularly enjoy doing crazy, adrenalin-pumping things and felt I had an advantage because at the tender age of twelve I’d actually done some abseiling.

It was at a Butlins holiday camp on a school excursion and I think the idea was that we took part in various activities as character and team building exercises. You know the sort of thing: swimming; canoeing; rafting; assault courses and also, of course, abseiling. At the time I remember we were abseiling down a wall especially built for the purpose which must have been about 10 meters high, which doesn’t sound like much, but to a twelve year old is extremely scary. I recall that at the first attempt I was totally petrified. The instructor had helped me get into position and all I had to do was lower myself gently over the edge so that my legs were perpendicular to the wall. Then it was just a case of walking down the wall whilst letting out the rope, it sounded simple. I stood on the edge of the wall with my back facing out clinging for dear life to the rope with ice white knuckles at a 45% angle to the ground which seemed to be so very, very far below. The instructor was encouraging me to let out some more rope so that I would then naturally adopt the correct position for abseiling down the wall. I kept looking down and was unable to function because of the fear pulsing through my veins. I remained hanging there, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The instructor continued gently trying to persuade me that everything would be OK. After a while my fears lessened to the point where I gingerly let out a little rope and my bottom lowered so that I was finally in the correct position to walk very slowly down the wall. It still took me several minutes to reach the base. However, upon reaching the safety of solid ground I found that my anxiety had evaporated, not only that but I was eager to do it again with a new found enthusiasm. I continued to do it many times that day each time my confidence growing to the point where eventually I was positively bouncing down the wall in three bounds like an SAS commando at the Iranian Embassy siege.

So actually I was relishing the prospect of abseiling the Euromast knowing that the secret was just to overcome your initial fears of actually leaning out perpendicular to the building. What I hadn’t thought over was that it had been twenty two years previously that I’d had my ONLY experience of abseiling and that it had been less than one tenth the height I was about to attempt.

My brother-in-law Brian arrived on the Friday evening, I picked him up from the airport and as usual we proceeded to get completely mashed showing little regard for what we were about to attempt the following morning. After very little sleep I awoke Brian early and following a hearty breakfast we drove to the Euromast for our appointment with destiny.

Arriving at the top of the Euromast we quickly signed the disclaimer forms stating that if one should die during this foolhardy attempt the only person that was to blame whatsoever would be oneself. The view from the observation platform was awesome and I was pleased to note that although there was some wind it was fairly light. We were given and quickly kitted up in a helmet and thick gloves. Now, keen to show absolutely no fear in front of Brian and remembering that the toughest part was the initial going over the edge, I started to clamber over the railing (the only thing between me and a sheer 110 meter drop) right next to the ropes which were already in place and firmly secured (I hoped) somewhere above us. I looked back at Brian and the instructor who both looked extremely startled by my actions.

“Wait!” shouted the instructor “First you need to put on a harness and then to be attached to the rope!”

“Oh yes of course” I replied trying desperately NOT to look down as I struggled back over the railing and attempting to sound nonchalant as if I did this every day.

Brian just laughed and shot me a look that said “Easy tiger!”

We got into our harnesses and were attached to the ropes via karabiners. Only then were we told by the instructor to go over the railing, which I did even more confidently than the first time and this time feeling slightly safer. Remembering once again that the difficult bit was getting in a perpendicular position I quickly lowered myself into the appropriate stance and looked over to see how Brian was getting on, making sure that I wasn’t tempted to look down at the 110 meter drop below us.

Brian seemed to be getting along fine; I was impressed considering that it was his first time. He was being encouraged by the instructor who was positioned on a rope between us. I turned back to concentrate on my own actions and started to walk down the first part of the mast from the observation deck. The technique certainly did seem to be coming back to me from when I was a frightened twelve year old and I confidently fed the rope through the karabiner as I eased myself slowly down. I was standing on plate glass and suddenly realized that I could see people staring back at me from the restaurant. How weird, I thought, to be eating breakfast whilst someone walks down the windows outside. This however proved to be the easy bit!

When you imagine the Euromast you must think of a large syringe and needle standing upright, 185 meters tall, with a marshmallow pushed over the needle (radio mast) and resting, a little over half way up, at the point where the needle meets the body of the syringe. The topside of that marshmallow is the observation platform that I had just left, and the body is the restaurant I was now staring into, watching diners gawping back at me whilst they masticated their ‘broodje ham kaas’s ‘ and slurped their coffee. Having easily and confidently worked my way down these huge windows I suddenly realized that what I now faced was a drop into effectively nothingness. There would no longer be anything solid to rest against. The last 100 meters I would be just suspended in an abyss, hanging free with nothing but the rope for support.

I waited at the bottom of the last glass window and looked to my left to see how Brian and the instructor were getting along, deciding sensibly that it was better to listen to the professional tell me how to do this tricky manoeuvre. Brian was coming down very well and had got the hang of it immediately. Soon they were both at the same level as me and I watched as the instructor showed us how to elegantly launch ourselves into the void from a rail which was conveniently placed, and went entirely around, the bottom of the aforementioned marshmallow.

I followed his example and took a leap of faith, to find myself suspended and spinning in mid-air. As I gently turned on the rope a breathtaking panoramic view of Rotterdam’s skyline, river and 'havens' (harbours) moved from left to right before my eyes, 360 degrees of awe inspiring vista...and there it is again...and again. I felt the breeze blowing in my face and heard the roar of the traffic below entering the Maas Tunnel. My arms started to ache as I realized how tightly I was holding onto the rope, every sinew of every muscle in my whole body was tensed. I conciously suppressed the urge to vomit as I spun around yet again and concentrated on controlling my racing heartbeats. I looked down at the spiralling 100 meter drop below, which was a really bad move. I tried NOT to imagine myself splatted on the pavement beneath like a stray glob of raspberry jam, falling from some giant piece of buttery toast. I tried to relax, and remember that if I let go nothing would happen. I would remain suspended and sitting cradled safely by my harness and would not move earthwards until I started to feed more rope through my karabiner. I was in control. However, my brain knowing that and my body knowing that were two different things. My hands continued to grip the rope steadfastly as if my very survival depended upon it, I flashed back to being a twelve year old with ice white knuckles petrified of the drop below. I dared to glance over to Brian and was pleased to note that he looked as terrified as I felt. He was also spinning gently in the breeze.

Once we'd stopped revolving the instructor started to speak bringing us both back to focus on the job in hand - i.e. getting down from here. He told us both to relax and remember that if we let go nothing would happen. He demonstrated the fact by completely relinquishing hold of his rope and leaning back in his harness until his body was almost completely prostrate and revolving slowly in the wind.

“Like this!” he showed us, smiling broadly.

I took every ounce of courage I possessed and gradually let go of my rope one hand at a time. My muscles relaxed a little and I started to enjoy the sensation of being suspended like a puppet high above the streets of Rotterdam. I let out an audible sigh of relief and heard something similar from Brian who had also started letting go of his rope. My muscles started to relax, and my breathing slowed as my body finally came to the realisation that I was actually not in any imminent danger of becoming a pavement pizza, squished, warm and sticky like fresh roadkill.

After this of course we got cocky.

The adrenalin was accompanied by testosterone and macho competitiveness kicked in. As we continued the innevitable descent, we carried on feeding more and more rope through our karabiners at a faster and faster pace. A race developed between us. We started to come down at a very rapid rate and finally the last twenty meters I was literally in freefall and touched the ground a fraction of a second before Brian, landing with both feet once again reassuringly on terra firma. We were both laughing uncontrollably, visibly high from the adrenalin rush and also, I think, very relieved to be down in one piece, with all our body parts still intact.

We spent the next couple of hours sitting in the sunshine on the grass in the nearby park watching others abseiling down the Euromast as the morning's events began to sink in to our hung over brains. We both agreed that it was an amazing feat and mutually congratulated ourselves for the achievement. I remember feeling that having done that, then nothing else would ever seem like quite such a challenge again. As the excess of hormones, adrenalin and other bodily chemicals subsided from our overworked bloodstreams and the muscle aches disappeared, a gentle peace descended and engulfed our very being, a calmness and oneness that only placing yourself in mortal danger can elicit. Nothing however could remove the stupid self satisfied grins that remained on our faces for the rest of that weekend!

Three Cheers for John Metcalfe.

I’m about 14 years old, sitting in the library at school. It’s well past 4’o’clock and I should be well on my way home but I’m not. I’d like to be able to tell you that I’m busy studying in my spare time, but that wouldn’t be true. Although extremely bright I’m not one of nature’s swots. I’d like to think I’m ‘too cool for school’ but that’s most likely not true either. I’m probably holding a book in my hand for the sake of appearances but I’m unlikely to actually be reading it at this particular moment as there is too much going on in my head to concentrate. The stark truth is I’m hiding here. Adrian Farley has decided that he wants to fight with me and I’m here busy evading him. I know he’ll be looking for me and I really don’t want to fight him, so I’m avoiding him. It’s not that I’m scared. Well maybe I am a little scared…scared of pain certainly. It’s just that I’m really not into all that macho posturing to ‘prove’ myself. It all seems like too much hassle to me and someone always gets hurt…usually me! I’ve never been very competitive and I hate confrontation. I really just don’t want to fight him. I mean really what’s the point. I certainly don’t have anything to 'prove' and I don’t understand it.

At my last school I was bullied…for two reasons. Reason No.1 was that I was the brightest boy in the class and always came third in exams. Generally there were always the same two girls ahead of me…but I was always the brightest boy. Reason No.2 was that I was tall for my age, broad shouldered with blond hair, very easy to spot and single out, and although I was bigger than average I was definitely not aggressive, retiring rather than forceful, introverted rather than extroverted. This was obviously seen as challenge by some of the smaller but more aggressive lads who seemed to pick on me as a way of making them look bigger and more powerful.
So I was used to being set upon, often by several boys at once and usually after a class where the exam results were announced. They would corner me and knock me down, goading me for being too clever, all of them kicking me simultaneously as I curled up in a protective foetal position. I’d often come home covered in bruises, but I never told my parents why. My father would probably have urged me to fight back but I just didn’t want to risk it. It seemed to be easier to take the beating than to try to make a stand and possibly make it worse for myself.

Now, this school is a ‘boys only’ school and I’m unfortunately no longer able to say that I’m the brightest boy in the class. But still it seems any excuse is often good enough for the emergence of hostility from my peers. There is a tangible reek of testosterone in the air and if anything the absence of a female contingent means it’s even more brutal here. Pubescence provides an abundance of the aforementioned hormone and it seems boys will seek out many ways to express this sudden excess of masculinity. Sometimes rugby and football are just not enough to dampen the energy and enthusiasm of an overbearing adolescence.

So here I am again, cowering in the school library rather than going out to make a stand for myself. An older boy walks in. I know him only vaguely, he’s in the year above me, but he has a reputation that is legendary. His name is John Metcalfe. He’s a bit of a rogue, a ‘hard nut’, a larger than life character and he’s known for being tough. He is also notorious as a ‘bullshitter and teller of tall tales’, not just at my school but throughout the entire locality. I have no idea how he gained this status, but everyone around my age seems to know about it. It is commonplace for example if you think someone is telling a barefaced lie to rub your chin in a wistful manner as if stroking a long invisible goatee beard and counter them with ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ in a sarcastic tone.

Now the boy to whom this mega reputation pertains is standing in front of me having approached the table at which I’m sitting and I must confess to being a little in awe of him, if not trembling slightly from fear.

‘Wotcher doin’ ‘ere Somerlove?’ He enquires .

‘Er, reading!’ I tentatively supply an answer I hope won’t antagonise him.

‘Bollocks! You’re hiding from Farley aren’t you?’ His perspicacity is obviously as sharp as his reputation.

‘Ok, yes I am’ I look down at the desk shamefaced.

He pulls up a chair and sits opposite me.

‘You don’t want to be scared of Farley, he’s all front!’ he declares.

‘Do you think so?’ I look up at Metcalfe again.

We talk for a while about the whole sad, sorry situation, about me cowering in the library whilst Farley stalks the corridors and playgrounds searching for me. About how I really am quite a big lad and shouldn’t be scared of the likes of Farley. Metcalfe tells me I should stand up for myself.

'Sometimes in life you find you have to fight back and assert yourself' he explains, and then the one piece of information which has resonated throughout the rest of my life.

‘If you don’t make a stand now, the likes of Farley will dog you your whole life. You’ll be a doormat! Everyone will take advantage of you simply because they can.’ Metcalfe outlines the cold hard truth with a maturity and worldliness that belies his tender fifteen years on the planet.

I agree. At least, I have the foresightedness to see what he means. In my head I picture years and years of me running scared every time a confrontation raises its ugly head to greet me. I envisage a lifetime of cowering and trembling every time someone tries to assert themselves over me, with me backing down at the slightest opportunity. It's not an appetising prospect. I look up at Metcalfe entreatingly.

‘Look, if you go and fight Farley I’ll referee. OK?’ Metcalfe obligingly suggests. ‘The moment it looks like you’re going to get hurt I’ll stop the fight’

Hesitantly I agree, motivated by the images of a life spent fleeing from bullies still buzzing around my head.

Metcalfe and I leave the school library and go off in search of Farley. We find him and several of his cronies a little later waiting just outside the school entrance and Metcalfe explains to them that I agree to fight as long as he referees the contest. A location away from the school underneath a motorway bridge is deemed to be the best setting for the fight and we all nervously make our way there, Farley and his cronies are leading the way with Metcalfe and I bringing up the rear.

Metcalfe is covertly giving me fighting tips as we walk.

‘Go in really hard, don’t pussyfoot about. Let him know you mean business. That’ll scare him. He thinks you’ll be a walkover. Remember: maximum violence immediately. He won’t be expecting that. It’ll give you the element of surprise.’ He whispers nonchalantly so as not to arouse the suspicions of those ahead of us.

Once in place, Farley and I remove our ties and blazers. We then roll up our shirt sleeves and square up to one another whilst Metcalfe outlines the rules of engagement.

'No scratching; no biting; no gouging; no kicking and no hitting below the belt. Now shake hands and lets have a clean, fair fight.'

We grudgingly shake hands and then Metcalf stands between us, arms outstretched, holding us apart. He then takes a step back and motions for us to begin. I immediately lunge forward toward Farley and swing my fist as hard as I can in the direction of Farley’s face. Thud! It connects with Farley’s jaw and he collapses like a sack of potatoes, crumpling in a heap. I feel the sting of pain on my knuckles, and wince as they start to redden. Ouch! Farley stays down. Metcalfe starts counting. ‘1, 2, 3’ Farley groans in pain and clutches his jaw. ‘4, 5, 6,’ Farley looks back at me from the floor in utter disbelief…and with…what exactly is it I detect…perhaps the unmistakable glare of…wide eyed FEAR. Farley is suddenly afraid of ME? ‘7, 8, 9.’ Now I finally understand…in the monochrome world that Farley inhabits THIS is how you earn respect. Metcalfe reaches the end of his count and declares Farley ‘OUT!’. Metcalfe grabs my left wrist and raises my arm aloft declaring me to be the winner. Farley’s cronies gather around him on the floor and try to rouse him. He's bleeding from a cut lip and is slightly groggy. I step back completely amazed, hardly believing that the fight is over so quickly. Metcalfe just stands there grinning at me with a look of pride on his face.

That evening I walk home with a spring in my step. I feel completely different. I feel confident for the first time in my life and it feels good.

Farley doesn’t ever dare bother me again after that and once word has got around the school neither does anyone else. John Metcalfe nods to me everytime we pass in the corridor; I've earned his respect too.

Of course now I appreciate what an important moment that was in my life and what a debt I owe to the infamous John Metcalfe. For several years after that kids around the town would still stroke their imaginary goatees and utter the magical words ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ when feigning disbelief. I doubt most of them even knew who John Metcalfe was. It had become learned behaviour, just something you did when you thought someone was bullshitting. I never did discover how he actually earned that particular reputation. I remember, a couple of years after the events of that evening, reading in the local newspaper how he’d saved a young woman from getting assaulted and raped in a dark alley one evening, chasing off the girl’s assailant, and was being hailed as a local hero even getting a mention in our school assembly.

John Metcalfe will of course always have my eternal respect. If I met him today I would shake his hand heartily and thank him for the profound effect he has had on my life. He would almost certainly be completely unaware and I wonder whether he would even recollect that incident so long ago. I find it strange that this single moment should have so much significance for me, yet probably so little for him.

Naturally, nowadays I am nobody’s bitch. I have consistently asserted myself throughout my life thus far and have always taken the former option when the ‘fight or flight’ instinct has arisen. But I’d like to think that should I ever again feel the need to cower, hide or run away whilst vacillating tremulously I’d summon a degree of defiance by philosophically stroking an imaginary goatee beard and mumbling sarcastically under my breath ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’