‘Don’t get all worried,’ says Froggatt, pouring us a pair of malts from the back-seat bar, ‘this isn’t gonna cost yer. It’s just a little favour I need off you tonight. Dinner, black tie, all that.’

No excuses come to mind. My nights on Tawside are mostly free, ever since I learned to avoid amateur musical evenings, where the playing is almost as excruciating as the semi-defrosted canapés. I tend to spend my evenings alone in the Royal’s saloon bar, unwinding with the intake of roughly twice the Health Department’s recommended alcohol consumption. The bar is oak-panelled, uninvaded by satellite TV and one-armed bandits and therefore half deserted – leaving me to do the Daily Telegraph crossword in peace. If I crave conversation, there is a barman who is knowledgeable about football and numismatics, and a spot of passing trade, nothing too taxing. One distant night, before my first heart murmur, a breezy blonde who popped in for a pack of fags tipped my double Laphroaig all over the Telegraph and my trousers. This led to a round of drinks each and a soggy stagger upstairs, ostensibly to clean up, culminating in spontaneous carnal combustion. It was an event of no consequence – the sort of thing that happens to a travelling salesman when his luck is in. An occupational digression, occasioned by ennui and opportunity. Like the deal that got away, you put it out of mind and hope there is no comeback. Hardly worth mentioning, really.

Froggatt’s sand-dry accent drags me back to tonight’s obstacle, the Mayor’s black-tie dinner. Sitting in a stiff collar surrounded by small-town tradesmen is not my idea of a good night out, and I cannot cope with a late night if I’m to do any business tomorrow. Worse, what if he expects me to make a speech? Public speaking gives me the stutters, a regression to boyhood reticence.

‘Fret not,’ says Froggatt, anticipating my objections, ‘we’ll have you tucked up in bed by eleven and you won’t have to get up and perform. Just be chairman of our jury and present the prize for the telly cameras in time for the nightly news.’

‘What jury?’ I demand.

‘Tawside Young Musicians’ Competition,’ sighs the Mayor. ‘Not heard of it? I’m not surprised. We’ve hardly any prize money and I can’t afford PR. Couldn’t get local telly to cover the semis and the best we can hope for tonight is ten seconds at the end of the regional news. But at least it’ll show we care about music up here, and that we’ve bred some of the finest musicians in the world. There are some good youngsters coming up. They’re about the only export commodity we’ve got left.’

‘And I’m the best chairman you can get?’