The next week it’s business as usual as we completely fail to come up with a hit single. At the end of the week Annette shows up at the studio and tells us she’s got us a gig for 50 quid opening the show for fellow-label mate losers, Chelsea at Notre Dame Hall in London.
 
“Opening?” Dik asks, incredulous.
 
“For Chelsea?” I add.
 
“50 quid?” Mulligan says.
 
“It’s a gig, guys.” Annette says, grinning with embarrassment, like a dog caught eating its own vomit.
 
“For them, yes. I’m sure it’s a big gig for sodding Chelsea!” I yell.
 
But then I’m too depressed to be angry any more, so I slump in the corner and play automatic rubbish on my unamplified Ibanez Iceman.
 
We go to London and play the show without swallowing, like the well-trained little whores we’ve become. The next week’s reviews, that mostly pan Chelsea, don’t even mention us. Apparently we don’t even warrant a bad review any more.
 
A week later, I’m slumped opposite Dik in a kaff in Moseley village.
 
“I’ve got us some free studio time.” Mulligan says.
 
We barely glance up from our fry ups.
 
“How long have we get to pay for it this time?” Dik asks. “Before someone comes round to break our legs.”
 
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Mulligan says, “It’s over at Pete King’s place. He’s built a studio under his house. They’re just fine-tuning the set-up so he’s letting us use it for free.”
 
“Okay. Pity we don’t have anything worth recording.” I say.
 
“Let’s have a bash at Fiction Factory.” Dik says, “And Bad Move.”
 
These are both songs that Dik sings. I’ve even switched to bass for Bad Move as the bass line is beyond Mulligan.
 
“I suppose.” I say, dragging an unwilling sack of unconscious enthusiasm up the cellar steps, banging its head as I go.
 
Next afternoon, we’re halfway through recording Fiction Factory and it’s going surprisingly well. Pete King, as manager of Steel Pulse, has built a tidy, compact, state-of-the-art studio in the basement of his house atop Moseley Road hill.
 
In between takes Dik is playing a dangerous, flirting game with one of Steel Pulse’s girlfriend, a sloe-eyed South American-looking beauty.
 
“Hello darlin’” he says. She looks away unimpressed. “Here, I wanted to ask you something. I was wondering where you got that beautiful arse. Only I’ve get to get a new one, ‘cos mine’s get a crack in it.”
 
She yawns and drifts away. I breathe a bit of a sigh of relief. Last thing we need is to get thrown out before we’ve mixed down and get our sweaty hands on the tapes.
 
“See you haven’t lost your touch then.” I tell him.
 
“Oh, she’ll be back.” he says, “Watch and learn big nose.”
 
“Yeah. Right.”
 
Annette ducks into the cellar studio. If she has to duck as you might imagine I’m spending most of my time either sitting or doing bad Groucho Marx impersonations.
 
“I’ve got you a tour.” She says.
 
“Funny.” Mulligan says, “My hearing must be playing up. For a second I can have sworn she says she’d get us a tour.”
 
“What’s that then?” Dik asks, “Only I’ve forgotten.”
 
“You know. It’s where we slog all over the place working our taters off for little or no money and then everyone thinks we’ve split up.” I say.
 
“Very funny. Do you want to hear this or not?” she asks.
 
“Okay boss. Spill the Heinz then.” Dik says.
 
“It’s with U2!” She declares.
 
“What, just the two of us?” I ask, “Which two?”
 
“No, no. U2.” She says.
 
“Well I’m glad it’s with us as well. Otherwise it wouldn’t really be much of a tour without us. For us, I mean.” Dik says.
 
“The band.” She says. “From Ireland. Letter U, number 2.”
 
“I’m sure they can’t be as bad as that. No need to describe them as number twos.” Mulligan says.
 
“Wait a minute.” I say, “I’ve heard of them. They’re good! I suppose that means we’re going to opening again. What is it, 50 quid a night and a bag of chips?”
 
“No, it’s a split bill.” She says.
 
“Sounds painful.” Mulligan adds.
 
“Means one night you open for them, the next night they open for you. We split the door 50/50.”
 
“Might be alright.” I concede, “What sort of gigs.”
 
“Only clubs.” She says, “But they’re definitely a band on the way up. Can’t do any harm, being on tour with them. I hear Island Records are interested in them.”
 
“On their way up, are they? Better than where we seem to be headed.” Dik says.
 
“Island Records eh? I doubt we can get Desert Island Discs interested in us.” I say.
 
“That’s the gratitude I’ve come to expect from you lot.” She says, “I’ve been on the bloody phone for two weeks getting you this.”
 
“Oh, we’re ecstatic. Don’t let the lack of jumping up and down fool you.” I say morosely.
 
(coming soon … on tour with U2, 1980)