No time for a proper rehearsal, but we go through a few moves in the hall, which is a mass of cutlery-laden tables. Fucking hell, it's a big hall. Worse, there's no stage. I sit on the edge of the table nearest to the front, pick a fork up, and swing it about at arms length, making a mental note not to get too close. Dean is being chatted up by two of the catering staff, who have gone all gooey-eyed.
Eyebrows rise like a cobra about to strike on the faces of everyone else.
Right, Nish, we'll meet back at my room in a bit and we'll get you kitted out. I go to the bar, and neck 5 rum and blacks. I stumble in, dazed and apprehensive, and every pair of eyes zone in on me. In London when they go into the Slaughtered Lamb. I'll be healing cripples later on in the night, it's a really good show.