He held the auditions in the flat above the restaurant in Tooting Broadway, where he had once lived as a child. His dad rented the flat to one of the cooks and two of the waiters. Sharif was a charmer, and often cadged fags off them in the alley behind the kitchen door, making them feel at home with his modified, expedient accent. They were fond enough of him to let him use the flat - it was Monday night, anyway; they would all be downstairs at work, and there wouldn’t be anyone eating in, at least not until the pubs closed.

Sharif, armed with Pringles and a mixed nut collection stolen from his mum’s larder, and Kingfisher beers filched from the restaurant fridge, set up the living room with his guitar artlessly draped across the ancient sofa, and some sheet music for decorative effect. After a couple of unpromising turns from a couple of lads in his class, one of whom inexpertly played the fiddle, and the other who had uselessly demonstrated his proficiency with the clarinet, Sharif broke into one of the beers himself. He was surprised that the third person who turned up was Micky O’Shea, a stocky Irish lad from the year below him, who was known for being a bit of a scrapper and had the broken nose to prove it.

‘It’s a fourth-year band, Micky. Sorry, mate,’ Sharif said with the unquestionable superiority that the automatic hierarchy of school bestowed.

‘Fock off, man,’ said Micky respectfully. ‘Y’ve not even heard me play yet.’

Sharif considered this and nodded magnanimously. No one further had turned up. He might as well get some entertainment from the carrot-topped runt.

Micky pulled his guitar strap over his head and played a stunning riff. Sharif was annoyed and impressed; he was no mean guitarist himself, and could recognize talent in others. He maintained a stoical face and, giving nothing away, passed a sheet of paper to Micky. ‘Can you read music, too?’ he asked.

Micky nodded. He squinted at the hand-written squig-gles for a few moments, humming in his head, and began to play. After a few bars he stopped and, shaking his head at the shaky writing, began again. Sharif listened, enraptured, trying hard not to let his pleasure show at the fluid harmony of the chords. ‘This is good,’ said Micky, when he reached the end of the page, ‘but your notation’s crap -did you just copy it down by ear? Y’know y’can buy sheet music for lots of bands - I’ve got Oasis and The Smiths.’