bloody kids

It was the second or third time we’d played The Nags in Corby. It was packed, and apart from a couple of ice cubes that landed on stage during the first song, the gig had been really good. The promoter was away and we had no offers of a place to stay so the drummer left soon after we’d finished and the guitarist and I were just having a pint while deciding whether to stay the night in the back of the van or make our way back on the M1.

“Alright guys? You were fucking brilliant, best fucking band I’ve seen down here for fucking ages. Fucking great sound for a fucking three piece; fucking amazing!”

The young guy in front of us had blood coming from his mouth, and a big, round, red, bloody patch in the middle of his white t-shirt. The gap in the top front of his teeth seemed fresh!

“ Er, thanks.” I said. “ Are you okay?”

“ What do you mean man?” he looked accusingly at me.

I pointed to the stain.

“Oh no, s’nothing. Saturday night innit? That’s what always happens round here.”

We decided to drive home.