But in the end it’s Mulligan and Dik that get to shag America, or at least a couple of long-legged, dusky stripper groupies. I half-heartedly toy with a couple of dodgy-looking punkette boilers who, in spite of how much I drink stoutly (sic) continue to look like something from one of Hogarth’s nightmares.

Miki and I glower envy at the rhythm section as it snogs its way out of the dressing room. In the end we settle for going back to the motel. Unfortunately, so does half the club, who trail us and are determined to jam themselves into the tiny room we’re forced to share.

It’s bad enough sharing it with each other’s road feet, let alone twenty seven stripes of whatever Chicago currently considers to be New Wave chic. About 3AM with the booze and drugs gone and not even a dog in sight either of us would poke with someone else’s stick, Miki herds everyone out of the room, using his most imperious tour manager voice.

“Alright you lot. We’re knackered. It’s late. We have another show tomorrow night. We need sleep. Everyone out. Party’s over.”