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THE SOUTHAMPTON HUNDREDS

22

I am sitting in the student coffee bar, and on a plate in front of me are three custard tarts, which I demolish. “Nothing succeeds like excess, eh Pete?” says a new friend with a shock of deep red Celtic hair, sardonically. I realise that I haven’t offered him so much as a bite, and as a distraction I ostentatiously rip through the NME crossword in five minutes flat. He instantly christens me The Electrick Guru, which delights me even more than when he called me Aquila the Hun a few weeks before. I adopt it. It kind of sticks.