I’m asleep, and dreaming that someone is sound-checking a snare drum nearby, rat-tat-tat-tat, until I slowly come to, in time to feel something jump writhing on my stomach, one orange eye staring up at me. I leap up in a panic, into the pitch dark.
It’s my phone. Set to vibrate, it has rattled off the table and onto my bed. Someone is calling me. Where am I?
“Jez?” says a voice on the other end.
“Er, yeh?”
“G’day mate! How the hell are ya?”
“Er... Good! Yes!”
“I didn’t wake you up did I?”
“No, no!” This is true, as I’m more or less still unconscious.
“Great! Bet you don’t remember me!”
He says his name. He’s right, I don’t.
Undaunted he continues, “”We had a chat at the Dingobollick Festival near Koala Bottom last month. You must remember. You had a stripey shirt on...”
Where the hell am I? I thought I’d been back home for months. Of course I have! I had a gig last night in London, and I checked into a hotel in Hertfordshire afterwards. The phone is cruelly telling me it’s 4.15 in the morning. The voice within is still talking, sounding like a cross between Rolf Harris and Dame Edna.
“So we wondered if you could give us the lyrics”, it says.
“No. Yes! Of course. Which song was it again?”
“Don’t know the title. It’s about an outlaw. A bandit or something.”
Bandit? A chocolate biscuit? No! Wake up!
“Is it ‘Will of the People?’” I ask.
“Could be. How’s it go?” I recite a bit of the chorus.
“Nah. That’s not it,” he says. “He’s a loner, a bit of a bad lot.”
“Oh, ‘The Big Fear’? All about dogs and badgers?”
Silence on the other end of the phone. “Strewth mate, I don’t think so. It’s definitely a bloke. Fairport Convention did it on their record.”
“Ah! ‘London Danny!’”
“Could be. He gets shot by Apaches at the end!”
“No he doesn’t.”
“He bloody does! And they find a ten-bob note stitched into his underpants ...”
Realisation dawns. “Ah!” I cry. “I know the one you mean. That’s by Steve Tilston! It’s not my song”
“Yes it is! We heard you do it at the Kangaroo Sandwich Festival near Wiggawogga! You had a stripey shirt on...”
“No, really. It was written by Steve Tilston. It’s not my song.”
I hear him turn and speak to someone nearby. “He says it’s by some bloke called Pete Wilson...”
“STEVE TILSTON!” I shriek.
“OK, mate, keep your hair on! It’s just the words we need. We have an arrangement sorted, lager-phone, didge, the full caboodle. You got a phone number for this bloke?”
It’s twenty-five past four in the morning. This is all Tilston’s fault! He shouldn’t write such good songs. I’m awake, and Tilston’s still asleep. It’s not fair. His number is in my Filofax, not three feet away. I just have to open it up...
No. I can’t do it. Not to Steve. He’s too nice a bloke. I direct them to his website, and bid them goodbye. But hey, Steve. Expect my call. I’m not saying when, but it will be early.