He wished he had a gabardine mac. Amid the noise of someone making effusive gestures he saw a bloke who'd done sculpture the year below him at college. Eric. He sauntered over and made small talk, as Eric looked hard at the pictures. Eric always had seemed peculiar. As his remarks died Jack moved away, casual like, before turning suddenly; "Do you know a man named Albert Swift, Eric?"

"Come off it, Jack we all know Albert Swift, he makes mucky flicks. He's in that show wiv that bird who does the divvy dancing."

Later, in the pub, the crowd were watching telly. The Late Review. The New British Art, Anke Butte was saying, was as British as Ford Cortinas and Alsatian dogs on a Sunday afternoon in Hoxton. That suited Jack, with his sideburns and paisley shirt. He pulled a wad from his back pocket and proffered a ten shilling note to a passing lovely, "Ere, " he said, "get yer hair done", smirking as she gobbed on him. He lit a Rothmans and hummed a classic Oasis riff. Up on the TV screen, Ted Accent was taking Butte to task. "...At the end of the day a cynical tackle, but as I was saying earlier is this a true assessment of the situation? After all it implies the yBa generation playing tightly as a team, and with some aplomb, bossing the park whilst making full use of the silky skill of individuals. But simply being on Charles Saatchi's books does not make a world beating outfit. Of course it's early doors, but, as I was saying, a rolling cook gathers no stitches..."