The Quilt

I had arranged to meet Lawyer Pete at the Rose and Crown in Stoke Newington. It was an open mic night, and The Quilt was performing some of his songs. But the sofa had claimed me, and going to a gig on my night off was a busman’s holiday. Plus, a new episode of Midsomer Murders was on the TV. Pete rang me in a state of some distress.

“Where are you, Pointy?”

I made my excuses.

“Oh, my God, you need to hear this.”

I held the receiver away from my ear as piercing feedback screeched down the phone line. It sounded like some satanic ritual involving the torture of several cats. And not in a good way.

“What the hell is that?” I asked once the cacophony had subsided.

“It’s The Quilt! He’s on stage.”
Pete had gone outside the pub to relay the dark arts inside.

“It’s quite incredible. He’s out of tune, can’t sing or play, and the songs are terrible – no rhythm or melody. People are leaving in droves. You must come down and bear witness. I think there may be some genius going on here.”

“Ok, cool, see you in a bit,” I lied, stretching out like a sleepy cat and enjoying the comfort of my sofa even more.

For the rest of the evening, I ignored Pete’s repeated calls. When I finally picked up the next morning, Pete was still in shock.

“I have never seen anything like it. The open-mic audiences are usually quite forgiving, but he cleared the entire pub. The landlord was not happy.”

“And how was The Quilt?”

“Oblivious! He has a total blind spot to the negative effect his music has on others.”

“Remind me when he’s next playing so I can avoid.”

“Will do, old boy. I better go. He is coming around for some post-gig analysis. I don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“Don’t encourage him!”

“Will try not to, but he has done so much work for me around the house. He is putting this conservatory in for a pittance.”

Fearing Pete was about to ask me if I could offer The Quilt a gig, I pretended there was phone interference and hung up.