Ari and I hitch up to town for John Cale. Halfway there we are in a shop buying sweets when I realise I’ve forgotten the tickets. I hitch back and she hitches on. Then I get the train up and the tube to Chalk Farm. There’s a dense crowd outside the Roundhouse: I look around and there she is, waving. John Cale comes on wearing a rugby shirt and an ice-hockey goalie’s mask. He has a bit of a gut, he radiates something ugly. This isn’t the night he decapitates a chicken onstage, but he might as well have done.