The bus is already at St Clements as I emerge from the side street. Early or late, never on time. “Shit,” I say out loud, eyeing a gap in the traffic. I don’t want to wait for the next one. The door is closed but someone is still buying a ticket. I run in front of the bus, waving at the driver. He, maybe somewhat reluctantly, opens the door for me. The bus is soon climbing the Chiltern escarpment. I watch the red kites all the way to London. Forked tails, big wings, floating over farm fields. The M40 corridor seeming to provide them with a connection across the countryside. I’m tired from drinking and not sleeping. This is night three of a three night run. I am getting too old for this. There are more beers on the agenda with David and Charlie at Tapping the Admiral before another Hell Is For Heroes gig. I’m reminded of last time, which was actually to see Funeral for a Friend, and then the time before, which was another one of these shows. It is cost efficient to be out of the mainstream. The price of tickets I’ve paid over the years must still be lower than a single Taylor Swift show, and I’ve probably always been closer to the action. Balding, bearded, bespectacled men make up the crowd. I wonder how many times we’ve been in the same room together. Is anyone else I know here? Tristan, maybe Simon. Later, I’ll be told Tom was. I clearly wasn’t looking that hard.

These things always start the same way. Men picking up instruments on the stage, playing out a chord, whispering in to a microphone. A torch light flashes. The room goes dark. The music begins, but not as you’d expect. Enrique Iglesias plays over the sound system. The acoustic version of Hero. Of course, what else? It isn’t like we haven’t been here before. David and I completed all three nights of the London leg of the 10 year album anniversary tour for the Neon Handshake. We’re over 20 years on now. The band cross the stage of the Electric Ballroom. The pop tune bleeds into the post, or actual, hardcore opening riff of Five Kids Go, and it’s surprising that they’re the same five. Hiatuses, yes, line-up changes? Never. No shock that we’re all men now. Half my life disappears. 500 people move as one. I move with them. Around me, adult men sing along to the sound of guitars. Come join the circle now. We’re fitting in. I stay well away from the pit. Happily throwing my head back and forwards where I am. There is no doubt, people my age going hard at the front.

Some of the people around us start their own pit. Others push through towards the stage. Out of Sight starts up. And I’ll be out of mind. I remember all those years ago. Tristan, he introduced me. Defined my music taste. I wanted to be cool, like him. He was there at the reunion shows. I’ve seen him at a festival since. Our orbits only occasionally crossing paths. Maybe he is here. More likely not. Hell Is For Heroes play a new one. There are people singing out all the words, more dedicated than me. David questioned at the beginning “do you think they’ll still have ‘it’, whatever ‘it’ is?” The new song cracks into old. Scholsberg defies the years to surf the crowd. Yes, I think, yes they do. The crowd are pumped. They explode for You Drove Me To It. We leap from here. The crowd rises like an ocean wave, rippling back to front.
Give me something sacred.
So deep.
So high.
So long.
So far.
So good.
I’m smiling as I’m singing. This one time favourite song rips through the crowd and I’m not alone. Again, we’re singing out guitar riffs from when we were boys. The chant for three more songs comes too soon, and three isn’t enough. There are still plenty of hits to parade. The first of the final three, To Die For comes on and again I’m everywhere. Four lines of words. This shaped me too. The shift from songs about feelings to instrumentals you could attach feelings to. From post hardcore to post rock. They don’t mess around and finish big. Du du doo, du du doo. The crowd surges and we go again, one more time. It’s easy now, I’m easy now. I painted views of peaks to this in my mind. Interlacing the past with the present that’s now the past and I’m in the present. I can climb mountains. I have.

The exit is swift, Camden Town around the corner. I leave David at Euston and bounce to Victoria and jump on the bus. When I get back to Rachael’s flat I find I’m too tired to unlock the door. I try again before the outside light goes off. I can hear the scratching on the other side as a dazed Rachael lets me in. Turns out she’d locked me out. In the morning, I’m in for a treat on my birthday, Turkish Eggs, which has to he one of my favourite breakfasts that Rachael has made for me. Garlic yoghurt topped with poached eggs and a ras el hanout dressing. She always does a side of oven roasted cherry tomatoes to go with it. This time she’s even picked up a fluffy, crusty loaf of white bread for dipping. Along with a coffee and clementine juice I almost feel human again, but it doesn’t last. Three late nights, two on the beers and one on the rum hasn’t done me any favours. Rachael heads to the gym while I lounge in bed. When she gets back, I have barely moved. She reveals the cake she’s decorated for me. The likeness is uncanny, she’s got my beard, my blue rain coat, and beige boots. I don’t currently own a pair of red shorts. Those mountains are there in the background too. For a change, she drags me out for a walk along the river to Ifley Lock. We both agree it feels good to be outside. I head off to catch the train home for the last time. Next time I go to Oxford it will be to stay.