HALFWAY THROUGH THE set I headed for the bar. The band were playing one of their few slow songs, and I was dying for a drink. There cannot possibly be a more strenuous exercise routine than a couple of solid hours spent headbanging in a club like the Irish. Sweat was pouring from every pore in the room. Some, with less experienced neck muscles, had already given up, and you could see these fallen soldiers hanging their heads at the bar, trying to stop the world from spinning. My left leg was shaking as I crossed the room, the thigh muscles stiff from the strain of holding back half a dozen drunken hooligans who had been trying to climb over me to reach the stage. That was one advantage of having Damien next to me – when the crowd got too rough, a few well-placed elbows normally cleared a s
