Stairway To Nowhere by Luke James

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And so it becomes a grind of banging up and down the motorways, back to Brum after every gig for a few hours exhausted kip on the settee at my parents flat of an afternoon before catching the train into town to join the van.

We play Sheffield University where we get fed and open the show for U2. There’s a good size, half-drunken crowd of future middle managers in attendance and the lads from Dublin go down a fucking storm.

The next night we trek all the way south to Brighton to play the New Regent. It’s a pleasant enough little theater but a long way down the ladder from the last time we were in Brighton opening for The Police at The Dome.

By now I’m actually feeling a little embarrassed every time U2 open for us, I mean they are basically so much better than us. And who ever though the future king of new wave would admit that anyone was better than him?

The next night back in London at The Rock Garden where we’ve played a tepid warm-up and U2 are waiting to go on, I’m discussing the band’s future with Annette.

“But I’m telling you the bastard came straight out and told me that Silver Blades won’t be a hit. He even said it was a great record but that old money bags isn’t willing to spend any money promoting it so what is the fucking point of me living on chips and spending my life in a sodding transit van if all it’s going to lead to is more of the same?”

Bono leans over.

“I know what you mean. We’ve the devil’s own game getting CBS to do anything with our single over here. And the bugger of it is, every time there’s record execs at the show we play like puddings. So how are we supposed to get a better deal?”

“Well, I know what you mean Bono but I’ve never heard you play like puddings. You lot are great, night after night.”

He looks at his feet. I swear he’s embarrassed by praise.