There’s me, still hale of hairline and able to crane over my demi-dextrous fret work with nary a care in the world regarding my soon-to-be encompassing male pattern baldness. Kilbey and Wendell haven’t yet graduated to the thick-rimmed hipster glasses they’re now rocking on a daily basis. There’s a set list discarded on the amplifier at the back, tinsel wraps the television which marks one edge of our territory, with the fruit machine delineating the other edge. Is it Christmas? Maybe – perhaps they just forgot to take the decorations down in the New Year. At least they remembered to turn it off for our appearance, which didn’t always happen. All that’s missing is an ashtray.