‘A suit like my mate’s, one of the perks of the job.’

A long, dizzy conversation focused on the merits of said suit and Roberts resolved to burn the bloody thing. When the women excused themselves to go to the ladies, Brant said:

‘You’re in for a ride there, sir.’

Roberts, determined to score some point in the evening, asked:

And what if I don’t want-as you so delicately term it-the “ride”?’

Brant was middrink, putting away double Jameson’s like a good ‘un, paused, seemed puzzled, then:

‘You’ll have to, just to prove a point.’

‘Point? What bloody point?’

‘To prove you’re not gay’

‘What the hell are you saying?’

Brant seemed genuinely confused, said:

‘I told them you were gay, and they said you’d have to be to get away with such an outrageous suit.’

Roberts was reeling. There were so many reasons to wallop Brant he didn’t know where to begin, so he weakly croaked:

‘Why on earth would you tell them I’m gay?’

‘Tactics, sir. See, women love a challenge, you owe me, pal.’

The women returned, more booze and then a late-night dancing club.

Dancing.

Yeah, Roberts attempting to revive the dying art of jiving, Brant at the edge of the dance floor, a sardonic smile in place and his hand up the woman’s dress, almost as an afterthought. Then Soho for dawn kebabs, which is the very worst idea on a feast of booze but seemed mandatory. Later, Roberts would recall hot, sweaty sex and veritable gymnastics from himself. When he surfaced the next day, around two, the very first thing he saw was his crumpled suit looking like elephants had stampeded it, and in the lapel a shining beacon, the bloody kookaburra, and he was definitely laughing. Roberts had bought a tiny maisonette on the Kennington Park Road, with a minute garden at the rear. Dying from his hangover, he’d dragged himself there and set fire to the suit, it burned fiercely as if it didn’t wish to go lightly into the good day. The pin, alas, refused to catch fire.