Part 22 (2/2)

'When I said that thing about not letting you in, I didn't mean you look young. You don't.' Jesus. 'You don't look old, either. You just look as old as you are.' f.u.c.king h.e.l.l. What if she's forty-five? 'Well, you do. A bit younger, maybe, but not a lot. Not too much. Just right. I'd forgotten about mature students, you see.' I'd rather be a smoothy slimeball than a blundering, semi-coherent, gus.h.i.+ng twit any day of the week.

Within minutes, however, I'm looking back fondly on those gus.h.i.+ng twit days; they seem infinitely preferable to my next incarnation, Sleaze Man.

'You must have an enormous record collection,' Caroline says.

'Yeah,' I say. 'Do you want to come round and see it?'

I meant it! I meant it! I thought maybe they'd want a picture of me standing by it or something! But when Caroline looks at me over the top of her sungla.s.ses, I rewind and listen to what I said, and let out an audible groan of despair. At least that makes her laugh.

'I'm not usually like this, honest.'

'Don't worry. I don't think he'll let me do one of those Guardian Guardian-type profiles, anyway.' profiles, anyway.'

'That wasn't why I was worried.'

'It's OK, really.'

It's all forgotten, though, with her next question. All my life I have been waiting for this moment, and when it comes I can hardly believe it: I feel unprepared, caught short.

'What are your five favorite records of all time?' she says.

'Pardon?'

'What are your all-time top five records? Your desert island discs, minus - how many? Three?'

'Minus three what?'

'It's eight on Desert Island Discs, Desert Island Discs, isn't it? So eight minus five is three, right?' isn't it? So eight minus five is three, right?'

'Yeah. Plus three, though. Not minus three.'

'No, I just said . . . anyway. Your all-time top five records.'

'What, in the club, or at home?'

'Is there a difference?'

'OF COURSE . . . ' Too shrill. I pretend I've got something in my throat, clear it, and start again. 'Well, yeah, a bit. There's my top five dance records of all time, and then there's my top five records of all time. See, one of my favorite-ever records is 'Sin City' by the Flying Burrito Brothers, but I wouldn't play that at the club. It's a country-rock ballad. Everyone would go home.'

'Never mind. Any five. So four more.'

'What d'you mean, four more?'

'Well, if one of them is this 'Sin City' thing, that leaves four more.'

'NO!' This time I make no attempt to disguise the panic. 'I didn't say it was in my top five! I just said it was one of my favorites! It might turn out to be number six or seven!'

I'm making a bit of a fool of myself, but I can't help it: this is too important, and I've waited for it too long. But where have they gone, all these records I've had in my head for years, just in case Roy Plomley or Michael Parkinson or Sue Lawley or whoever used to do My Top Twelve My Top Twelve on Radio One contacted me and asked me in as a late and admittedly unknown replacement for someone famous? For some reason I can think of hardly any record at all apart from 'Respect,' and that's definitely not my favorite Aretha song. on Radio One contacted me and asked me in as a late and admittedly unknown replacement for someone famous? For some reason I can think of hardly any record at all apart from 'Respect,' and that's definitely not my favorite Aretha song.

'Can I go home and work it out and let you know? In a week or so?'

'Look, if you can't think of anything, it doesn't matter. I'll do one. My five favorites from the old Groucho Club or something.'

She'll do one! She'll rob me of my one and only chance to make a list for publication in a magazine! I don't think so!

'Oh, I'm sure I can manage something.'

'A Horse with No Name.' 'Beep Beep.' 'Ma Baker.' 'My Boomerang Won't Come Back.' My head is suddenly flooded with the t.i.tles of terrible records, and I'm almost hyperventilating.

'OK, put 'Sin City' down.' There must be one other good record in the entire history of pop.

' 'Baby Let's Play House'!'

'Who's that by?'

'Elvis Presley.'

'Oh. Of course.'

'And . . . ' Aretha. Think Aretha.

' 'Think' by Aretha. Franklin.'

Boring, but it'll do. Three down. Two left. Come on, on, Rob. Rob.

' 'Louie, Louie' by the Kingsmen. 'Little Red Corvette' by Prince.'

'Fine. That's great.'

'Is that it?'

'Well, I wouldn't mind a quick chat, if you've got time.'

'Sure. But is that it for the list?'

'That's five. Do you want to change anything?'

'Did I say 'Stir It Up'? Bob Marley?'

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