Time ticks on as the rock years roll by

Yes, simple pleasures, you can't beat them. This time of year, I seize any excuse to be in the open air - not for a tan, as I burn dreadfully - but just to have the sky as my ceiling instead of the chipboard variety as provided by home or office.

However, while solitude is a fine companion, on balance, I prefer to have someone around. Especially when the prospect of a good old chinwag presents itself.

Anyway, such an opportunity presented itself when an old friend dropped by the other day. I hadn't seen him in ages, so as you might imagine, there was quite a lot of catching-up to do.

Dave's a bit younger than me, not quite 50, but still fairly trim and fit, with a good head of hair - unlike me who can only score six out of 10 in all three categories.

"So. What have you been doing, Dave?" I inquired, three sips into a steaming cup of best Dun Subbin char. Dave stared back with one eyebrow slightly raised. After a few seconds' thought, he said: "I'm playing guitar in a band again. We're getting gigs nearly every weekend, and to tell you the truth, I'm finding it a bit tiring."

I swallowed another furnace-hot draught of the boiling nectar, thinking on what he'd said. Hmmm, playing in a band again...

Perched astride the wings of a dragonfly, I was travelling that dark tunnel called the past and, in a flash, found myself in a brightly-lit, over-heated hall with a stage at one end and a bar at the other. Da-dan... it was a working men's club!

This must be astral projection. For the person standing in a group of five individuals appears to me, a disturbing apparition in loon pants, tailored cheesecloth shirt and stack-heel boots. Incredibly, I'm sporting a full head of hair, parted in the middle and framed by sideboards that reach down to my chin.

For some reason, I'm talking into a microphone muttering one...two...three.

On my left, similarly clad, is a youth who is a cross between an afghan hound and a King Charles Spaniel. He's clutching a guitar with the legend "Hofner" emblazoned in gold on the headstock. He's tuning this beautiful instrument, taking the pitch from a small harmonica that's stuck to his top lip.

By jove. This must be a beat group preparing to play.

The bass player stands with his back to a small crowd that has gathered in front of the stage. A couple of youths are trying to catch the eye of the man with the Hofner. "Can you play Sylvia by Jan Akkerman, mate?" asks the one with terminal acne.

Hofner man leans foward and indicates he is willing to compromise. It's no to Sylvia, but yes, we might do Wipeout by the Surfaris. But, unfortunately, the band didn't do Jan Akkerman numbers as a matter of policy.

"Why not?" queries moonscape chops. "Because he doesn't do any of our numbers" hisses guitar maestro.

The hall is now filling with Saturday night humanity, talking, smoking and jostling at the bar. It's a sea of suits, boots, short skirts, coal scuttle coiffures, kipper ties... the Abba look for a factory week's wages. The men are drinking mild or bitter, the women rum and black, gin and tonic, port and lemon.

The sound of raised voices and laughter echoes down the hall. Good job we've tuned up. Can't hear ourselves think now.

"One, two - bomph! - can you hear me - bomph! - laydees and gennelmen - bomph! - yes, that's fine - weeee-ooooo-weeeee - we've got a great band for you here tonight, they're all the way from Rugby, let's hear it for the Retrospects!"

The opening chord of Proud Mary crashes out of the Marshall speakers. Almost simultaneously, three girls totter over from the tables, drop their handbags on to the floor and start dancing like crazed wildebeests.

Yet this is a false dawn. Encouraged, the Retrospects launch straight into Bad Moon Rising, followed by Pretty Woman and Too Much Monkey Business - but the dancers fail to increase in numbers. The lead singer holding the Vox Lynx confers with Hofner man. "We'd better do a slow one. Edelweiss?"

Enter man in creased tuxedo and equally badly-fitting toupee. He's the club secretary and wants to announce a break for bingo. It's necessary to use sign language as the last tune, a frenzied interpretation of Knock Three Times, is in its death throes and approaching the coup de grace that is traditionally the final chord.

"Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, you've been a great audience. We'd like to take you all home with us, but that's not possible. See you after the break. Yeah."

I jerk forward in my chair, the hot tea scalding as it runs down my shirt front. Dave seems to have given up all hope of a conversation and is looking around the garden, desperately looking for intelligent life forms. The situation is salvaged in the nick of time.

"Tell me, Dave, what does it feel like strutting about on stage at nearly 50? I suppose you have to wear the shirt outside the trousers these days for, erm, obvious reasons."

Dave looks back, pity oozing from every pore. "It's changed since your day, you know. We just dress casually, no identical outfits, suits or velvet bell-bottoms these days. Things have moved on since Chuck Berry and Brotherhood Of Man."

I reach for another chunk of carrot cake. "So what gear do you use," I enquire helpfully. "AC 30s, Selmers or state-of-the-art Fender combos? Tell me, do the tapes on the Kopykat still keep on breaking - remember all those bits of sellotape?"

Dave stares back, pathos written all over his face. It might be a stifled laugh, of course, but there again, the sun is bright today and he just could be squinting. I notice some twitching around the jaw line. The swine is laughing.

He leans forward. "Well, John, I may be nearly 50, but playing does keep me out of the house.

"And yes, they still do the bingo at half time. I tell you what, come down to Essex and bring the old Gibbo and..."

I pour another cup of tea. Dave says he must go. I see him out of the garden gate, and say farewell, advising him not to give up the day job just yet. He smiles, climbs into the car and switches on the radio.

The sound explodes out of the speakers. It's the Last Waltz by Engelbert Humperdinck. We both burst out laughing.