‘It’s wicked, man, that’s focking inspirational,’ agreed Micky, stepping across the room to shake Sharif’s hand.

Flattered by the sudden effusiveness that had suddenly materialized out of so much bad humour, Sharif decided that the name he had unintentionally come up with wasn’t half bad - it was definitely more subversive and rock than Balti Boys.

‘Omar?’ he asked, unnecessarily, as he already had a majority vote, but didn’t want his brother to feel left out.

Omar shrugged. ‘I don’t mind it. I still don’t think we’ve got a lot to do with Balti, but whatever, man, I’m easy. D’you think they’ll let us put “Bloody” on the posters, though?’

Sharif smiled indulgently. Sometimes his brother didn’t have a clue. ‘Don’t worry about the bloody posters, man. We’ve got to become a bloody band first.’ He stood up authoritatively. ‘Now that we’ve got our name, let’s work out when we’re going to rehearse. We’ve already got our first gig - Mr Crowe is giving us a slot at the end of term concert if we can get our act together.’

Of course, Omar was right. Mr Crowe, their music teacher, was fond of both Sharif and Omar for their musical ability, but he wasn’t having ‘Bloody Balti Ballads’ emblazoned on his posters across the school hall or on his concert programme. He curtailed the name to ‘Balti Ballads’ and, just to prove a point to the local governors about his ability to nurture local talent in the community, added ‘of Tooting Broadway’ in brackets.

After the first concert, everyone was talking about Sharif’s band, and his unembarrassed, bravura performance during which he lurched across the school stage and abused his guitar like a latter-day Hendrix. The girls, who had been curious about Sharif before, now looked longingly at him as he passed by them in the school corridors, with his floppy, straight hair and his noose of a tie. Overnight he became the sort of boy who literally had heads turning. And somehow, the band’s new name stuck.

Tell me about it,’ Omar asked urgently, sitting on Sharif’s bed in his checked M&S pyjamas. Now seventeen, going on eighteen, he had grown a lot taller, but had barely filled out. Despite taking up some martial arts classes, he was still scrawny and lanky, and his emerging fluff only accentuated his weak chin.

He had been waiting for Sharif ever since he sneaked out of the back window at I I p.m., keeping himself awake by reading his revision notes for the end of term exams. It was the early hours of the morning before Sharif had climbed back up the drainpipe. He was now stripping off his clothes, his body much more developed and photogenic than Omar’s, and wearing only his boxers, climbed into bed, nudging Omar off to the end.