Sunday

'Come on Jiving — let's go to a gig!' It seemed such a novel idea. Actually going out to see the kind of performance I do nightly, for pleasure. It would be an instructive experience just to see somebody else at work. 'Great — what group are we going to see?' It seemed my girl friend Melissa wanted to see Wretched Noize, the famous old heavy metal group who started out in 1970. They are hated by the critics, but have remained popular with fans over the years. I must admit — I groaned. 'You'll love them. It's really "in" to dig awful old groups at the moment.'

Monday

It was hell last night. The racket had been so fierce that I could feel the air in my clothing vibrating, and my chest and lungs threatened to collapse under the pounding. 'You call this music?' I screamed in Melissa's ear. 'No,' she said. 'But it is jolly good fun, eh what?'

I stormed out to the bar. I hoped to God my band were never this loud. But what if they were? Suddenly the pop business began to seem like an alien, mug's game of distorted values and failed ambition. Was this the legacy of Beatlemania and the aspirations of the Sixties? Was I doomed to be forever moping about on the fringes of this ghastly business, cheerfully attempting to cope with an unending stream of folly and debasement? It seemed like it, until Melissa came up with another of her 'jolly good ideas.'

Tuesday

I awoke, head still throbbing from the gig, but able to ponder the flash of inspiration that had been Melissa's scheme. 'Why don't you give up the rock business. Get into the night club game. That's where the money is to be made.' Can you imagine it? The Pink Boots Club. Where the elite meet to eat.

Where the gossip columnists prowl and the rich and famous flirt, dally and dance until the small hours. It seemed an alluring concept, and I dreamt of Jiving K.Boots, the ever smiling, gracious and popular host, at ease with the highest and lowest in the land. 'The Shah of Beluchistan has arrived, with Tina Pilchard, the canned fish heiress. Show them to the best occasional table in the house. And tell the band to play the Beluchistan national anthem, or we cut their champagne allowance.' But how to put this dream into practice? I leapt from my bed with a shout. 'There's just one problem Melissa. Two problems. I don't have a night club and I don't have any money.' She gently explained that these were the last of our worries. What was needed apparently was 'contacts'. I looked at her in some confusion. 'Contacts?' She nodded, and added firmly 'Contacts.'

Wednesday

Somehow we had to find a backer, so we toured the city, West End and night clubs of St. James. All we got was a parking ticket, forcible ejection by two uniformed commissionaires and a proposition from a short sighted woman of easy virtue in the Haymarket. This is hopeless!' I stormed. 'How can we find a millionaire to back us in our night club venture like this?' A window wound down in a parked Rolls-Royce and an old gentleman in a top hat smiled at us from the back seat. 'Did I hear you mention night clubs? Allow me to introduce myself. I'm a millionaire and my great passion is opening new night clubs. It's my way of relaxing you understand. Would you care to take over these premises? Perkins, hand me my cheque book.' It transpired we were standing outside the remains of the old Gargoyle Club and our benefactor had been considering re-opening it as a new jive cellar. Eagerly we explained that discos were all the rage and it was no longer necessary to employ girls in short skirts and trays to call out 'Cigarettes, choc ices.'

Thursday

A day of great excitement. After suprisingly few alterations the new club was made ready. An electric sign proclaiming 'Pink Boots' flashed outside and down below in the basement, water was being added to the lager and scotch and the frozen TV dinners prepared as haute cuisine. 'Perfect' said Melissa, decked up in her finest Chelsea punk underwear. 'You like it? I thought it might encourage a new trend. Give character to the old place. Now I must telephone Nigel at the Mail.'

'Is Dempster coming?' I asked curiously 'No Nigel Brewster at the Surrey Mail. He writes a widely read column, mainly about the perils of buying second-hand freezers, but with a certain society flair.' It was all beyond me. When it comes to top people, I leave it all to Melissa, who was expelled from some of the best private schools in the country. 'That lamp's faulty, mate,' said a man tugging at my elbow. It was the club electrician. 'You want to get that replaced,' he said thoughtfully stroking his chin. 'Can you do that?' 'No, not my job mate. That's maintenance. I'm bulk installation. Mind you, if you want anything installed, there's a six months waiting list.'

Friday

Midnight and the first customers stream in. All three of them. 'So much for your publicity drivel' I stormed at Melissa. One of the customers was the Hon. Percy Ledhampton. 'Oh what a frightful bore this place is,' he said looking around with obvious disapproval. 'It reminds me of that dreadful old Gargoyle place. Is it too late for Paris?' He looked at his watch and seemed about to hail an Imperial Airways biplane to cross the channel. 'Do stay,' implored Melissa. 'This is our first night. I think we can promise some surprises.' Percy looked peeved. 'Oh, very well. That is Melissa Teethbrace, isn't it? Well if this is one of your schemes, we'll give it a go. And if I'm still bored after five minutes — we're off.'

The customers haughtily stepped into the club, sat at a table and ordered a Haitian Head Banger. Our bar tender, not surprisingly had never heard of the cocktail. 'What do I do boss?' he hissed. 'Give 'em some watered down lager and Scotch in a green glass,' I suggested. Percy sipped the brew, decked out with cherries as a hasty afterthought. We held our breath. 'Excellent!' he proclaimed. 'And now we'd like to see the menu, wouldn't we Loo Loo.' He turned to his companion, a simpering girl in a plain frock who I later discovered owned half of Yorkshire. 'Eow,' she said with a piercing accent that set the remains of my teeth on edge. 'One would like to try THIS.' I looked at the entry above her nicotine stained finger. 'Compo a la Paras.' A triumphant chef later brought on the dish to loud acclaim. Percy meanwhile began to get noisily drunk, despite the quantities of water being pumped into all the alcholic refreshment. 'Come on Bootsy old thing, how about some entertainment? I want you to climb up on the bar and SING damn you. You're supposed to be a bloody singer. Washed up if you ask me. Now SING, you oik.' And he proceeded to pelt me with bread rolls whilst laughing like a hyena.

Saturday

Melissa had restrained me from biffing the Hon. Percy Ledhampton on the nose, which was just as well. Instead of singing, I waved the band into a selection of their hottest numbers, and at that moment, our mysterious benefactor tottered into the club, wearing a cape, top hat and white silk scarf. 'Wonderful, wonderful,' he beamed. 'You have done a superb job. Now is young Percy behaving himself?' he looked around into the gloom. Word had spread on the society grapevine with lightning speed. Once it was known the Hon. Percy had approved of a place, we were besieged within minutes by the madly gay and glamorous youth of the higher echelons, all intent on making themselves foolish and sick. 'Young Percy nearly got a punch on the nose,' I fumed. 'Did he by Jove,' clucked the millionaire. 'I should have done that years ago. He's my son you know. I have to keep opening these night clubs so I know what he's up to. You mustn't let him see me. Any trouble, here's my card.' So that was it. We were running a juvenile detention centre for the rich. My hackles rose. Melissa came up 'Would you believe it. The old boy just gave me a cheque for £10,000 to keep us going.' My hackles lowered.