I wept when I heard the news, late on Wednesday night. I wept as I sat down and thought back 35 years.There are four of us. All young men, still in our early twenties, playing in a band together and sharing a flat in east London; 1988 is just beginning as we settle down for what is now a near nightly ritual. We have a case of beer and a bottle of cheap whisky. We slip the battered, worn VHS into the machine, we hear the crack of pool balls, and a voice is saying, “What’s the game called, Rick?” “Cut-throat . . . “
Then some men, older than us, more dissolute, are playing a fast, hard game of pool, then the sound
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