On Tour with AK: Part 5

“How much longer?”

“Not much further now. Hang in there.”

“Mate, I don’t think I can.”

“Come on boys, it’s just up ahead.”

“But we’re not getting any closer. We’ve been walking for hours and it’s not getting any nearer. I can’t help but wonder: could we have died? Maybe on the train yesterday? What if it crashed, and this is purgatory – just us here, with Budgens on the horizon, forever and ever and ever.”

“No dingus, we haven’t died.”

“But it’s getting further away with each step we take. I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out.

“Look, it’s fine, we’ll be there in about ten sec-”


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On Tour with AK: Part 2

“Okay okay okay. Let’s try again. You sing the high notes, and I’ll sing the low.”

“Wait I thought you were the high notes.”

“That’s what I just said dude. I sing the high ones, and you take Mark’s part.”

“Oh right. Yeah that makes sense.”

“Okay. Here we go.”

“Fate fell short this time, your smile fades in the summer.”

“Place your hand in mine, I’ll leave when I wanna.”

“No wait, you just sang the same notes I did. We’re meant to be harmonising.”

“Okay. Yes. Got it. So who does the high notes again?”


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London | St. Reatham

I’m growing fond of Streatham Hill. It’s a buzzword for ‘shit’ around much of London, which I quite like. I ask somebody at a party where they live and they say ‘Pimlico’ or ‘Balham’ or whatever, and I say ‘nice’, and then they ask me where I live and I say Streatham and they say ‘oo’—the same sort of ‘oo’ noise people make when a footballer on the telly trips up and his shin bones burst through his calves.

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