"Bolox to this" said Adrian smashing down his pint glass, "I can't stand you bunch of losers anymore".

"Fine" said horseboy, "you're the world's worst bassist anyway".

Adrian stumbled outside, where he got wet, because of the rain, not because he was upset about leaving the band. He took his anger to the bus stop, where he smoked until the bus arrived. On the way home to his studio flat above the chip shop, he fulminated about how the others had refused to play any of his songs.

 Outside the shop he found his pockets did not contain the makings of fish and chips, money was there none. He stomped upstairs, he unlocked the door and shoved it open to survey the warzone of his flat.

Stumbling to the fridge and breaking a couple of empty cd cases on the way. He wrenched open the fridge and found there was life saving lager inside amongst the mould and stains and left over fast food.

Staggering around, he managed to connect up the equipment to make what he thought was the world's best music.