NUC: Truly Scrumptious, Camden

To Camden we travelled, plectrum in hand, for band practice. New drummer in our cohort, enthusiasm was high, prospects were good, weather was bad, and the rain was trickling in where Chris' guitar case's zip has broken. Well, Chris, if you will buy your guitar accessories from Argos... Once, I now recall, I bought a MP3 player from Argos which turned out to be a dud, a fake MP3 player maybe used in the display cabinet, with buttons that didn't click. I returned it and they would only give me vouchers to be spent there within twelve days. These twelve days passed by without me returning. I'm sick n tired of this type of shit - who's with me?? It must be riot season soon...

In the lobby at the Roundhouse, we waited for Chris who had the necessary clearance codes for the studio. We've been here before and the rules always seem to change. Whatever logic they have to decide their rehearsal room policy confounds us. The situation presents itself now as follows: Chris is a member and can have three guest passes over the year. Two, according to the computer, have already been used, meaning one is left. With one pass but three other band members present, we can't go in. However, only a few weeks ago we had six people in there in one go and before that we had five. (And Chris comes here on other occasions to use the space with his theatre company.) The price also changes. Previously it was £5 overall, for five people in there for five hours. When Jacob turned up on a previous occasion, he was asked to pay £5 himself but then, upon enquiring why this should be, was told not to worry about it. Now we are told that we each individually have to pay the same amount for the number of hours spent, even though we can't go in because of the aforementioned clause relating to guest passes, which prevents us getting through the second door anyway.

Dumfounded, dejected and dismissed, we decamped and disembarked to some other destination. This became Truly Scrumptious, which is a greasy spoon in smart clothes. Turnover is quick, hurried all-day breakfasts for busy north London people dining alone. Sausages supply the local fragrance. Peckish is a word that comes to mind but I stick with an Americano. It's £1.50. It has quaint seaside paintings on the wall, in total contrast with the damp Camden outside. You wouldn't come here to read fine literature and ponder philosophical questions, and you wouldn't bring your parents here to show them what Camden was all about, but the place serves a purpose, and seems to satisfy those in need of that, and without descending into greasy spoon decadence.

The four of us sit on cold aluminium chairs. We apologise to Jane the drummer for buggering up the first session with her. Jacob, on the other hand, has undergone some kind of psychic mutation, for which we hold the English breakfast tea responsible, and has convinced himself to walk to Primrose Hill in the rain. Chris and I will go to my house, get drunk and record ourselves singing in keys which are not very flattering to our limited vocal ranges.