Prologue: In Which The Scene is Set. Well, it’s not Glen Miller but I’m still “In The Mood”, My toes are a-tapping and I’m feeling good, I’m the family favourite; I’m The Housewives’ Choice, They rip off their pinnies when they hear my voice, With my shining hair and my sparkling teeth Ally Pally’s rolling and it’s rocking Lord Reith. So throw out your duster. Stop scrubbing that step. Tune in, turn on, drop out, GET HEP! (Wireless Waves: The Housewives’ Choice) This is the story of a rock group you’ve probably never heard of, from a town that’s hardly ever heard of, in a county that’s often made fun of. This is not a tale of great triumph nor is it one of glorious failure. It is just a story, replicated thousands of times over in the 1970s by thousands of similar groups of youths with a little talent and a lot of dreams. Some made it big. Some made it small. Most didn’t make it at all. It was exciting, it was exhausting, it was expensive. It was also, ultimately, fruitless. But viewed from this frightening distance, through a glass darkly or through a bottle of something slightly lighter, in tedious, tepid middle age, it seems the most vibrant and thrilling of times. CHAPTER ONE: In Which The Group Embark on a Disastrous Night of Music and Travel. Dispense will all affiliations, All faith and all religious creed. Dump all your idols in the dustbin. I’ll be the only hero that you need. (Only Want to be Your Hero: Bosch) The “Windsor Castle” gig started as auspiciously as had any other, with the band assembling beforehand in the usual ad- hoc and disparate fashion. On this day the putative mega-stars had decided to patronise a local working men’s café in the High Road, South Benfleet that stood, somewhat unfortunately perhaps for both diners and the bereaved, next to the local undertakers. Had we but known it this could have been considered an ill omen but we were young, carefree popsters on the upward curve. The Fates and omens held no fear for us. We were unduly well met on this afternoon and were full of boyish high spirits. Part of this was obviously due to our collective sense of a shared magnanimity. We all realised how grateful the café owner would be when, in not too many months time, he could proudly direct his customers’ attention to the brass plaque over his window table that announced, “Bosch Ate Here!” We had also derived great delight from a notice already in place over the grubby counter. On a discreet sheet of fluorescent card, written in black felt pen in a wavering childlike hand, was the grim warning: “Please do NOT ask for credit, as a smack in the mouth often offends!” Oh how we laughed. I made a mental note of this fine phrase and vowed to use it assiduously thereafter. Which I have. As was increasingly becoming the norm with “pre-gig meets” not all band members had been obliged to foregather at “The Caff”. Only five lucky epicures got the opportunity to enjoy a healthy pre-show plate of egg, chips, sausage, bacon, beans and fried bread garnished with a generous helping of molten lard, all washed down with chipped and slippery mugs of strong tea. Those in attendance that day, apart from me, were Ash, drummer and proud owner of the battleship grey van that was sitting outside in the car park, packed to the gunwales with all our precious equipment. Dot, our trusty roadie, Rick Taylor our new guitarist and John Atkins, who was to drive the van. The recent recruitment of a driver was seen as a definite advance in our fortunes, especially as we weren’t paying him anything. With John at the wheel there was no necessity for any of us to remain particularly sober during the gig and we could also have a relaxed ride home, albeit lying in the back of the van avoiding falling PA equipment. The other two members of the band were making their own way to north west London as befitted the ”upwardly-mobile” of the pop world. Stretch limos were still a little beyond us but it was a start. Rick Birmingham our keyboard player and “boy next door” Lothario, was driving himself in his yellow Escort van; packed, as usual, with his regular coterie of young women admirers. Julian, the bass player, was also going to drive himself once his shift at the plastics factory had ended. As we dined we basked in the warm early autumn sunshine that was streaming in through the south-facing window, but also in the knowledge that we were at last starting to resemble a real group. We had a proper van at last, with a driver. We were heading for our first London gig booked via a bona-fide London agency. The first of many we were sure. We were finally getting organised. Very soon the various members of Bosch and their attendant followers would be descending on London with a military precision previously unknown to them. It was three o’clock and planned departure time was fifteen-thirty hours. Had the rest of the band owned them we would surely have synchronised watches. We were right on schedule and we were feeling smug. Ash sat hunched over his empty tea mug contemplating the dregs. His trademark roll-up gripped purposefully between his lips. Occasionally he would look up to idly liberate various pieces of food from his companions’ plates. This was a regular and irritating trait of his that was nonetheless tolerated by those who knew him although occasional, usually fruitless, attempts were made to spear his invasive fingers with a fork. He was dressed, as was his habit at the time, in what can only be described as his “Totter Chic”. A long overcoat that almost reached the floor, even when he was standing and a suitably working class cloth cap. Both had been acquired at a very reasonable price from the Southend-on-Sea branch of “Help the Aged”. In times of extreme cold he would accessorise this stylish ensemble with a woollen muffler and finger-less mittens. He would then look every inch the Rag and Bone man that he wasn’t. He was not averse to a bit of “ducking and diving” though, which meant that he was often invited in for cosy chats at a variety of south east Essex police stations. His main weakness was for minor traffic offences that had resulted in a driving licence chock-a-block with divers endorsements and a few hundred pounds of unpaid fines hanging like albatrosses around his neck. It was these little peccadilloes that were to provide the backdrop to the midnight cabaret that was to unfold later in the day. Although, as we sat and plumped our egos that sunny afternoon, we were, thankfully, blissfully unaware of this. Possibly the most irritating aspect of Ash’s character though, at least to his fellow band members and I must confess to me in particular, was the profound and devastating effect that he had on women of all ages. When, sometime earlier, I had relinquished the Bosch drum stool to Ash’s tender care to take my rightful place upstage as singer and frontman I had anticipated that I would become the prime target for most of the knicker throwers and groupies that, I was confident, we would soon be attracting in droves. I should have known better. It had been my misfortune whilst growing up to have had as friends not one but two chaps who could quite accurately be described as “muffin magnets”. One of these was Rick Birmingham, my oldest friend, musical colleague and song-writing partner and the other was Mr. Ashley Gough. Of the two I think even Rick would concede that Ash was in a league of his own, which was saying something when you considered the myriad notches on Rick’s bedstead. What was worse was that none of us could see, or wanted to see, how Ash did it. True his halo of blond curly hair and ruddy seraphic features were quite striking but surely they could not explain his devastating effect on the ladies. No one, it seemed, was immune from his charms. Even our mums would regularly regale us with the mantra “Oh! Ashley is such a good looking boy!” a fact we did not need rubbing in. Nor did we relish the sight of each new goddess (intent in pursuit of her hero) that we had to endure on an almost daily basis. I could have also done without the looks of barely disguised contempt on said goddesses’ faces when I would casually suggest that they might (if Adonis was found to be unavailable at this time) like to make do with me instead. I finally admitted defeat of course and became quite adept at staring gloomily at my beer and glumly confessing, “I don’t fancy mine much!” when Ash and I were out “on the pull”. However, such humiliating thoughts and festering resentments could not have been further from my mind as the five of us eventually left the café, having first given the owner detailed instructions on the siting of the plaque, and trooped to the van at exactly fifteen thirty hours. This was a proud moment for all of us and especially Ash. This was possibly the first time that we had driven to a gig in a vehicle that was almost completely road legal. It had road tax, an MOT certificate AND third party insurance. We had even bought petrol for it. Such a welcome change from fumbling with a syphon tube at the dead of night. The only thing Ash had yet to do was register himself as the owner, but then old habits died very hard with him. The van had everything, with the exception of a front passenger seat, but this was a small price to pay for such a fine conveyance. It was most certainly a vast improvement on our last vehicle. This had been an ex Barton’s bread van that had belonged to Rick Birmingham. To say that it had seen better days would have been an understatement. But the real problem was that the better days it had seen were in the mid nineteen- fifties. Somewhere along the line a keen owner and DIY enthusiast had made the cab more cosy by erecting a plywood and sellotape partition behind the front seats. This was fine for the driver and the front seat passengers, usually Rick and his simpering coterie. But it meant that the poor sods travelling in the rear with the equipment were not only denied even the smallest benefit from the van’s meagre heating system but also had the unwelcome opportunity to take part in a mass carbon monoxide breathing experiment. The new van, rescued from a rusty grave in The Queen’s Hotel car park by Ash, even had interior lights in the rear and what was more they sometimes worked. Such was the solemnity of this historic maiden trip that Ash had elected to drive us up to town himself. Even hard drinking, hotel-trashing wannabes like we were, drew the line at getting pissed this far ahead of a gig. That pleasure would have to wait; as would John for his first chance to do the chauffeuring. So Dot, Rick and he were secured in the back and I sat proudly up front next to Ash. The lack of a passenger seat meant that I had to balance somewhat precariously on the unsecured battery that was located under where the seat should have been. Nonetheless not even this undignified perch, which would have necessitated the use of a periscope had I wished to look out of the window, could spoil this magic moment. The Bosch boys were on the road again. In style. Not for long however. As Ash reversed cavalierly, and at speed, into the High Road (he invariably parked on the pavement, hence some of the fines) the familiar sound of the screeching brakes and querulous hooting of fellow road users was suddenly drowned by a louder and more mysterious noise. At first we did not recognise its seriousness, laughing as we still were at the memory of the fluorescent notice we had enjoyed so much in the café. However the sudden increase in engine noise alerted Ash to possible trouble. He slammed on the brakes. More screeching and hooting. He edged the van forward, acknowledging the frantic signals and indecipherable mouthings of the overtaking drivers. A nasty metallic scraping could be heard from beneath the vehicle. Something was definitely amiss. Not wishing to exacerbate any damage Ash reversed the van back onto the pavement, scattering unwary shoppers in his path. As he did so he also contrived to run over something rather large that was lying in the road. We all piled out and fell to the ground to inspect the damage. “Oh! It’s not TOO bad!” I chirruped, unconvincingly, as we lay prone, gazing in disbelief at the steel reef-knot that seconds before had been the van’s exhaust system. “Fuck it!” spat Ash, past gritted teeth and quivering roll-up. It was Departure Hour plus five minutes! On retrieving what was left of the exhaust system we set off to “The Jot” where it was hoped that the damaged exhaust could be somehow coaxed back into shape. This was quite a head turning affair as the unmuffled engine was now kicking out more decibels than were usually produced during a Bosch rehearsal. The passers-by who had previously been dispersed by Ash’s vigorous parking and had spent the interim enjoying our misfortune (rather too readily I thought) raised an ironic cheer as we sputtered and roared off down the road. The handkerchiefs that some dabbed to their eyes as we left removed tears of mirth rather than sorrow. During our slow and obvious progress we were continually on the look out for the unwanted appearance of Ash’s pals from the Essex Constabulary. Luckily, and unusually, they were all off harassing other motorists and we remained unmolested. Within five ear splitting, humiliating minutes the welcome sight of Jotman’s Lane hove into view and we bounced along its unmade length until we reached “The Jot”; Jotman’s Farm. This farm, or at least one of the two bungalows that constituted its living accommodation, was home to Ash, Rick Birmingham and another friend Jeremy Clarke or Jel as he had been known since we were all five years old. It was also the spiritual home of Bosch and all its friends, followers and hangers-on. The bungalow was rented from the farm’s owners, father and son double act Fred and Ted Swift. To have graced them with the name farmers would have been pushing it, however. Two East End sons of the soil, it seemed their purchase of the farm was part of a complicated car ringing operation. Consequently, apart from the perfunctory herd of milkers, the only other livestock kept in the many barns was a selection of rather expensive motors. These would appear at the farm only during the hours of darkness and depart, a few nights later, sporting brand new paint jobs and new sets of number plates. Despite their lack of agrarian credentials the Swifts were on hand as we roared into the farmyard and were more than ready to offer advice on the best way to unravel tangled metal tubing. In spite of their help it only took us seventy minutes to reassemble the exhaust into some semblance of order and with judicious use of silencer paste and wires attach it back onto the underside of its grey host. This done and with a whole lexicon’s worth of profanities expended we all climbed back aboard and chastened but unbowed were soon hammering along the Southend Arterial Road, finally leaving Benfleet in our wake, at breakneck speed. Or 57 miles per hour as it was in this van’s case. From my resumed position atop the battery I was unaware of the state of the road. However Ash, from his seat, was afforded a reasonable view ahead, which was just as well as he was again driving, and was pleased to announce no major traffic build up and that we may not arrive too late after all. The banter in the van eventually reached its usual pre show intensity and the problems of the day faded into the past. The in jokes, funny stories and personal abuse that were the lingua franca of Boschdom sustained us all the way to the Woodford Green flyover where we were to get onto the North Circular Road from where it was “Next stop the Windsor Castle and metropolitan fame!” It was just as we rounded the roundabout that I noticed something. Without my periscope I had had to amuse myself by looking around the cab for suitable diversions. It was then I saw it. “How long’s that been on?” I asked our driver as he negotiated the roundabout at high speed, contriving not to collide with the other uniformly terrified road users. Without loosening his vice like, knuckle whitening grip on the steering wheel nor relaxing the firm set of his jaw he glanced down at the ignition light, glowing red. “It’s all right, it’s charging! The light’s just shorting out somewhere!” he snapped. I shut up, but not for long. It wasn’t long before my insecure seat began to give me the distinct impression that it was on fire. I raised myself up and looked down aghast at the erupting battery. Almost simultaneously I clasped my backside as the battery acid finally ate its way through jeans and pants and began corroding the delicate flesh of my still youthful buttocks. Alerted by my cries of “Fire!” and the attendant screams, Dot scrambled over from the back and doused my trousers with a bottle of drink that he just happened to have to hand. At the same time Ash pulled off the road. Whilst I contemplated my ruined trousers the bonnet was up and my companions discussing the problem. It didn’t take long to deduce that the alternator had stopped working and the engine was firing on the battery alone. “Whoopee!” I whooped, ironically. The problem was not insurmountable though. It was still light and a fine evening. If driven gingerly the van should get us the ten or so miles to the pub. We could then charge the battery up whilst we played. Fortuitously, Rick Taylor’s parents lived nearby and they had a charger. Not surprisingly the final miles to the gig were tense ones especially as we did not know the exact location of the pub. We soon wearied of the witty response “That’s WEST London not North!” to our “Is the Windsor Castle round here, mate?” but eventually, with the help of a couple of cab drivers we reached our destination. As we rolled to a halt the battery finally gave up the ghost. Rick Birmingham and his fawning sycophants were already waiting. Needless to say, when he peevishly demanded why we were so late he got very short shrift. And, instead of getting to stand at the bar impressing ladies he was given the job of driving Rick Taylor and battery to get it recharged. By the time the gear was finally set up and we were ready to rock we were all heartily pissed off. Unfortunately our potential audience seemed to be displaying similar emotions. To call the shambling gaggle of humanity that occupied the bar area that night an audience was a slight misnomer. There were hardly enough of them to even constitute an “audient” and it was clear that none of them had come to the pub specifically to enjoy the beautiful music of Bosch. A state of affairs which was probably compounded by the fact that the only advertising on display (courtesy of the booking agency) was about the size of a boring holiday postcard, although not half as eye-catching. Most of the foregathered were fat, middle aged men who seemed intent on enjoying an evening of darts, if such a thing were possible. As we set up our equipment we were met with glances of deep suspicion. Once we began our sound check these glances took on a much more virulent and hostile aspect. It was clear we were set for a bumpy night. It is not really surprising then that when we finally took to the stage we were all rather the worse for wear. All, that is, except John, who glumly nursed an orange juice and did his best, with his body language at least, to disown the lot of us. Courtesy of our imported clique and the additional presence of Dot and Stefan, our soundman, we came on stage (or rather, the raised platform by the toilets) to some noise. The dartists, however, restricted themselves to cries of “one hundred and eighty!” or, only slightly less audible, shouts of “Fuck off!” My slightly facetious opening gambit of “Hello, North London! How yer feeling?” did little to rescue the situation. The locals were obviously not ready for our mix of progressive punk theatrics with no light show. To say we died would be an insult to all those poor souls who had lain next door in the Chapel of Rest as we feasted earlier in the day. But it wasn’t good. Our final chord of the evening was greeted with silence, apart from the bibulous burblings of the aforementioned clique. One could almost have heard a pin drop. Indeed, we clearly heard the crash as our guitarist, Mr. Taylor, performed a spectacular forward topple and landed flat on his face, and Telecaster, on the conspicuously deserted area that passed for a dance floor. He lay for some time at our feet, stock-still. He had obviously been drinking. He was, of course, not the only one. Apart from the Bosch entourage the only other people in the pub who had seemed to enjoy our set had both clearly been imbibing of something or other. Looking back it was probably the other and that that was no doubt hallucinogenic. This couple, a throw back to the sixties although probably no older than myself, initially celebrated the end of the show by approaching Rick Taylor, still lying comatose on the dance floor, and bending down to his face level intoning, “Yeah! Fucking great set man! Yeah!” When it became apparent, even to people in their state, that an in depth conversation with Rick was not really on the cards at that time they turned their attentions to me. Now, whilst I was never terribly adept at pulling the groupies I seemed to have an unerring knack of picking up any nutter within 600 paces. This evening was no exception. It was and is my lot in life to have been born in the famous Essex town of Barking. This pair had not been. They simply were barking. Ever the consummate PR man I really tried to be polite and told them when I thought we were likely to be playing in the area again. Actually, I lied. I knew, from the looks on the dart players faces if nothing else, that we would be unlikely to ever be able to enter the area again if we valued our manhood. But I nodded in agreement to their fortieth “Great gig man! Yeah!” And tried to return the stare of their blank and unfocussing eyes. Eventually I gave in and, seeking escape called Stefan over and introduced him to them. A good deed for which I doubt I was ever fully forgiven. This clever ruse enabled me to join Dot, Ash and Rick Birmingham who were discussing the evening’s fee with the representative from the booking agency. I had not seen him before as he had obviously slipped into the pub incognito during our set. The fact that Dot was looming over him making menacing noises suggested that all was not well. I wasn’t wrong. He had hated the show and was threatening to withhold payment. Considering this was only £15 anyway, which even in the late seventies was not that much small fees being commonplace as a London gig was supposedly good for ones career, this was a little galling. Still the guy had guts seeing that there were lots of us and only one of him. One of his major objections was that the singer (me!) couldn’t sing. Had I had less to drink that night I might have pointed out that both the group and myself were always perfectly in tune; although not always with each other. However, threats to his life finally elicited £5 and the promise of a phone call regarding our future the next day. No one was very optimistic. No one except Rick Taylor that is, he had now come round and was crawling about the pub on all fours telling anyone who would listen how much he loved them. He had even managed to frighten away the two loonies. This meant that we were now alone in the pub with little money and a hostile publican, the darts players having long gone leaving only their curses behind. We packed up swiftly and with little of our usual witty badinage and verbal interaction. We were probably never more glad to leave a gig and get on our way home. At least some of the entourage looked set for a pretty swift relief from the traumas of the evening. Rick Birmingham crammed his still adoring fan club into his battered van and, along with Stefan, set off for home. No doubt the plaudits and approbation he was receiving from his many passengers as the yellow sardine-can disappeared into the night served as a suitable emollient to his earlier distress. Rick Taylor had by this time regained partial use of his legs though little of his long term memory. His conversation being confined to questions such as “What’s my name?” and “Where am I?” it was universally agreed that he should go home with Julian in his MGB GT rather than risk a nasty vomiting accident in the back of the van. We all thought this was the best course except, of course, for Julian. However, he was eventually persuaded to take his confused and rambling passenger and we could all make our escape, vowing never to return. Having worked hard all evening Ashley and I decided to ride in the back of the van, which had been reunited with its freshly charged battery and thus brought back to life. It was neither luxurious nor very comfortable amongst the equipment but it did enable us to lie supine and stare at the streetlights and the black night sky through the murky rear windows as we were conveyed home to bed. We were both rather the worse for wear and were very enthusiastic about sleeping. However we had given John and Dot, who was riding shotgun, the instruction that before we hit the A127 and the straight run home we were to stop at a kebab house and there purchase the largest donners on offer. To emphasise this point Ash and I spent the first part of the journey lying in the back bellowing “Kebab! Kebab!” at regular intervals when we sensed, erroneously that such an emporium was close at hand. After about thirty minutes of fruitless driving it suddenly became apparent, even to the starving layabouts in the back, that something strange had happened. We could not work out what it was at first then we realised, it had all gone dark! Now the route back to south east Essex, even in 1977, was always awash with light so this was most peculiar. Had there been a massive power failure affecting the whole of north east London? Ash and I scrabbled over toppling equipment to get to the cab. “What the fuck’s going on?” we enquired. “I think we’re on the wrong road,” said Dot sheepishly. Indeed we were. Our intrepid driver and navigator had somehow contrived to mistake the newly opened M11 motorway cutting its fresh swathe through the fields and farmland north of the conurbation and with its distinct lack of Kebab Shops and in those early years lighting of any sort, for the bright and bustling North Circular Road. What was even more galling was the fact that the first junction where we could turn around was in Harlow, about twenty miles to the north and about as far away as you could get from Benfleet and still remain in Essex. Ash and I gave our warmest compliments to the navigation team and gazed morosely out into the deepening gloom that stretched away in front of us and in all other directions too. Time seemed to drag along even more slowly than it had when waiting for the spontaneous applause to break out at the gig, an event that was fast fading from the collective memory. Indeed very few Bosch gigs were memorable for the central event. What made each and every one of them so unforgettable were the often bizarre chain of events that accompanied them. I think that we all knew, even as we sat peering into the darkness silently willing the Harlow turnoff sign to appear, that that night was going to be well up there in the upper echelons of Bosch related disasters. I had always believed that the notion of “pathetic fallacy” was a fallacy but that night proved me wrong. A heartfelt exclamation of “Shit” from our driver announced the onset of yet another unforeseen and malicious occurrence. Rain. And lots of it. Now, we had calculated that the four-hour charge we had given to the battery during the “show” would probably have been enough to get us home with amperes to spare, so to speak. And no doubt it would have done had it not been for this unscheduled detour. To preserve as much electrical power as possible we had been running on the sidelights only. Yet again this would not have been a problem on a well-lit highway but on a dark road shared with cars travelling in excess of 70 mph this course of action was a little foolhardy to say the least. Our collective well-being was placed in even greater jeopardy by the torrential rain. However on switching on the windscreen wipers we were not really that surprised when they merely performed a slow motion, staccato parabola across the glass before failing to successfully complete the return journey. This mocking terpsichorean display was accompanied by an almost total dimming of the lights and a worrying misfiring of the engine. It was time for an executive decision. Lights or wipers? Although the sounds of the high speed motorists just managing to avoid our now almost invisible conveyance made the question somewhat academic. We went with the feeble sidelights. But how would we see where we were going? Certainly not through the windscreen. Imbued as he was with the Captain Oates spirit Dot volunteered to make the supreme sacrifice. So, with Ash and I holding on to articles of his clothing, he leant precariously out of the open passenger door (which was fortunately of the sliding variety) and peered through the descending stair rods in a game of “Spot the kerb”. We had cleverly worked out that if we were to keep the van at a constant distance from the kerb we would be able to follow the line of the road and also avoid veering into the path of our speeding fellow motorists. So for the next ten miles and the next forty minutes John drove us towards Harlow to the constant refrain of “left, right a bit, left, right, RIGHT! Fucking hell!” Had I had more foresight a new TV game show could have been born. Eventually a frisson of excitement ran round the van as Dot said that he thought he could see the sign to Harlow. When we realised that he was not hallucinating hope was restored and we all started to speculate how long it would be before we were home. Even better was that the rain had now stopped. God was good after all. Normal banter was resumed as we circumnavigated the roundabout following the signs pointing us back whence we had come. Then the van spluttered to a halt. At first we were too shocked to speak. The lights were still on (just) so there was still power to spark the engine. What was the problem now? The awful truth was that in our preoccupation with the state of the battery we had overlooked another essential aspect of happy and trouble free motoring. We had run out of petrol. Almost unbelievably we actually had a petrol can amongst the equipment in the back. Inevitably it was buried under the PA speakers and its retrieval meant unloading them onto the deserted highway. However it gave Dot and Ash the time they needed to work out which way to walk in what was probably going to be a vain search for an all night garage. Having tossed the coin they set off into the dark night. John and I waited in silence. I made a quick calculation. It was Departure Hour plus six hundred. I also got a mental picture of Rick, tucked up in bed, no doubt with a friend, and I hated him. I was woken from my reverie by an approaching car and a cry of “Whoaaaah!” emanating from it. A motorist had seen Dot and Ash trekking into oblivion with a can and offered to take them to the all night garage, which wasn’t far but was in the opposite direction to that in which they’d been going. In next to no time they had been delivered back to the van with a full can and a selection of chocolate bars. Ash’s roll up bobbed carefreely between his lips as he merrily slopped the petrol into the tank and we prepared to reboard. But before we could bump start our vehicle back into life, as if out of nowhere, another car pulled up behind us. For the umpteenth time that night our hearts sank. One of the two occupants strode slowly but purposefully towards us adjusting his cap the while. We braced ourselves for what we knew was coming next. A phrase that was etched into our combined consciousness. A phrase that never failed to chill the blood. “Is this your vehicle, Sir?”