Alf sat at the bar sulking like a naughty school boy. In fact, he even looked like a naughty schoolboy: short grey pants, socks, cap, blazer, and a satchel draped over his shoulder.
Bert gave his friend a lopsided look and asked,
‘What’s this then, fancy dress party?’
‘No!’ Alf snapped.
‘Ooh, no need to bite my head off,’ Bert replied.’
‘Well, not right, is it? Bloody missus don’t know a thing about music.
‘Thought your wife loved music? You said she’s got a whole collection of records of Frank Ifield, Andy Williams, and Pat Boone?’
‘Yeah, well. Okay. But that’s not real music is it?’ Alf grudgingly admitted.
‘Not real music? So what is real music, Alf. Y’mean Ludwig van and his ilk?’
‘Who?’ Alf asked, a little perplexed.
‘Never mind,’ Bert sighed. ‘So what’s the mood for?’
‘Me grandson came round earlier. Had two tickets to a show and wanted me to come along. Seein’s as I’m the only one he knows who likes real music. So I’m off t’get washed and changed; got to get into the spirit of things, y’know. Anyhow, I reappears a bit later dressed in my old school togs; y’know, like the guitarist, Angus Young? Well, the missus demands where the hell I think I’m going dressed like that!’
‘Me being an old rocker, like, chirps; Me and the lad are off for a bit of AC/DC!’
‘S’not bloody funny, y’know. Silly woman threw me put the bloody house, she did. Wouldn’t even let me change me clothes. I just spent half an hour with Sargent Williams trying to assure him I ain’t a pervert!’
‘That’s what happens if you want to live on the Razors Edge, I suppose, Alf,’ said Bert.