Behind her stood the drummer. A brassy, busty blond, her face shone as she thrashed her instruments. Tattoos flexed and a thonged lace top strove to contain her as her arms fell in king hits.
To her left stood the bass player, tall and thin with angular face. Sheathed in a cat suit, her only adornments were a gold link belt and a spider ring that flashed and scuttled over her fretboard. She stood with one leg forward, regarding the audience with faint disdain, occasionally favouring the drummer with an undertaker's smile.
The singer pranced and posed like a demented bride; prowling the stage in taffeta rags, hair reaching for the rafters. She taunted the crowd, raged against them, lifted them and lay them on her lion skins. On her feet were silken points. In moments of utter incongruity, she interspersed her base gyrations with perfect pirouettes. Spellbound, Yvonne and her girlfriends barely registered the men's retreat.

**********

Snooker balls clacked over burn-pitted baize, the music blunted by connecting doors. Neil set three glistening beers on the tiny table and took a stool.
Liam drank deeply. 'Thanks, man.'
'Enjoy it, friend. You'll not get another till you explain the Kombi-van Rail Cannon.'
Liam smiled. 'That old chestnut. Surely you don't want to hear about that?'
'I certainly do want to hear about it,' said Ulrik.
'Shoot,' ordered Neil.
Liam massaged his eyes, triggering a head spin. 'Under democracy, issues can be debated ad nauseum, increasing the time it takes for government to act.'
'What is "norseum"?' asked Ulrik, thoroughly discouraged.
'Bear with me man, I'll recap. This delay frustrates all players and infuriates the public.'
Neil took out his cigarettes. 'I'm with you.'
'Good. Now, a perennial threat to democracy is that discontent over inaction can lead to such disaffection that the system is rejected in favour of anarchy.'
'Of course,' mumbled Ulrik, staring at the filthy carpet.

To be continued...