(Any ripping off of "High Fidelity" was entirely unintentional.)

"You want to go out for a drink tonight?"

"Who's playing? I've lost touch with what's going on round here."

"Mike. I didn't say 'do you want to go and see some-band-or-other tonight?' I said, 'Do you want to go out for a drink?' You know, sit in a pub, look at birds, talk and, more to the point, drink."

"So there's no one playing?"

"Well, Rocket Launcher are playing at The Rusty Well, but I don't want to see them again, and I don't suppose you do, either."

"Oh God, no."

"So, I was thinking about going somewhere different. Greens, for example."

"Umm . . . I don't think so. I've got other plans."

"Huh! When the possibility of seeing a band was concerned, you were interested, but now it's just me and some beers, you've got other plans. What are they?"

"Well, I was going to spend some time on the Internet."

"The Internet! On a Friday night! What do you do on it? I mean, you get to look at record sites all day at work, what else is there to do? You've got to pay for all the good porn sites."

"I talk to people. And I've told a few of them that I'll be online to speak to them tonight."

"So how come all these imaginary people are more important than me all of a sudden?"

"They're not imaginary, and you're more important. However, I spend six days a week with you. We talk all day long, mostly about customers and what they're buying. If I see you outside work, we don't have much to say to each other, unless we're seeing a band. Therefore, I prefer to spend my evenings on the Internet."

"You sad bastard."

"It's cheaper than going out. In fact, it's free, on top of the set monthly charge."

"What do you talk to these people about?"

"Stuff. Music. Life."

"You don't have a life."

"I personally feel that talking to people all around the world constitutes more of a life than sitting in the pub night after night."

"You've met a bird, haven't you?"

"What?"

"On the Internet."

"No I haven't."

"I think it's stupid, trying to pull over the Internet. I mean, you'll probably live thousands of miles away from her."

"I'm not trying to pull."

"Yeah right. You just don't have the guts to in real life."

"You can talk. When was the last time you got your leg over?"

"Oh, shut up."

***

"Mike. I am fully aware that you run this place and I am but a humble assistant. But I feel that I must ask something: is it really a good idea to put two records in one sleeve?"

"Well, it depends what sort of sleeve it is."

"True, but the sleeve you just put two records in is most definitely designed for just the one."

"Oh, ok. I'm a bit tired. I didn't get to bed until five last night."

"Five! Don't tell me you're actually went out?"

"No. I was just on the Internet."

"Ok, so you get home from work, you have dinner, and you go on the Internet. That means you must have spent - what, ten hours online? You sad, sad bastard."

"I was talking to this girl."

"Is she fit?"

"I don't know, I haven't seen a picture of her yet. But she really, really knows her stuff. You'd like her."

"She's probably fucking ugly."

"What does it matter if she is? She virtually knows more about music than I do, and she's great to talk to. Also, she does web design, and said she could probably make us a website. At a reduced rate, as I'm a friend."

"And you've only known her for one night, and you're already a friend?"

"We got along really well."

"Oh, God. Where does she live?"

"London."

"Well, it could be worse. But find out what she looks like, all right?"

"I don't care."

"Yes you do. This is, like, your ideal bird."

"I hardly know her yet. Besides, she likes The Monkees."

"And you said I'd like her?"

"She likes a lot of good stuff too. You can't hate someone just because they like The Monkees."

"Yes you can."

***

"You been talking to your bird again?"

"She's not 'my bird', as you put it. And what makes you say that?"

"You're making silly mistakes. You just put 'Never Mind The Bollocks' back in classic rock."

"'Never Mind the Bollocks' is a classic, though."

"Yes, but we use the term 'classic rock' to refer to artists from the late 60s and early 70s, and we have an entire section dedicated to punk. If you don't think The Sex Pistols count as punk, you're mental."

"Well, you could argue that they weren't . . ."

"If you insist, I don't want to have that conversation again, but, correct me if I'm wrong, this shop is arranged for the customers' convenience. And every customer and his dog would say that The Sex Pistols are the defining punk rock act."

"Not necessarily. Most of the younger ones would probably say Blink 182 or The Offspring or someone like that are."

"They're just stupid, though. Punk is The Sex Pistols and The Clash and everyone else who was around in the late 70s. Well, not everyone, but all the good people anyway. And then there's west coast punk and stuff, but what they play on the radio now is so not punk. I don't know what it is, apart from a pile of shite. Metal-tinged pop and rap-tinged rock or something."

"But how is it really different that different from, say, The Buzzcocks and The Undertones?"

"It's happy American claptrap. The Brits - and the Irish - always sung stuff with a lot more poignancy. And it sounded better. You're surely not saying that that bumph is as good as actual punk?"

"No, no. I'm just saying it's something you have to consider before writing it off totally. It might not be likeable, but it's not bad music. Besides, the younger generation doesn't know that better stuff exists: they've probably never heard real punk. Anyway, to go back to a previous point, no, the shop is actually arranged to inconvenience the customers as much as possible. That way, they're more likely to stumble across and buy items they wouldn't find otherwise."

"Oh, right, so if a customer doesn't find 'Never Mind The Bollocks' in 'Punk', he's going to think. 'Perhaps it's in 'Classic Rock' instead and during his search for it, he's going to find something by Sky, and think, 'Ooh, I must own this?' No. Either he's going to walk out of the shop, or ask you where it is, and you'll find it, and he won't be impressed by your organisational skills one bit. Anyway, I know you didn't put The Sex Pistols back in Classic Rock on purpose; you're just tired from talking to your bird all night."

"I've got a picture of her now, if you want to see it."

"Don't try and change the subject. Anyway, I thought you weren't going to ask for one?"

"I didn't, she sent me it."

"She must fancy herself, then."

"No, she just said, 'Can I see a picture of you? I'll show you mine.'"

"She must have fancied you, then. Before she saw it. I'm surprised she's still speaking to you."

"If people only spoke to those who they found physically attractive, you'd never have got this job."

"Shut up. Anyway, where's this photo?"

"It's on the computer. I'll just load it."

"She's . . . all right, I suppose. Nose is a bit too big, though."

"Your wish for all girls to look like supermodels is probably the reason why you haven't been out with anyone in all the time I've known you."

"Shut up. It's not as if she's going to go out with the likes of you. She isn't, is she?"

"Don't know. We're just friends. We'll see how it goes."

"You fancy her! Well, ask for a picture that shows more than just her head and shoulders. She's probably got an enormous arse or something."

"I don't care. She's great to talk to."

"Oh, God. You . . . love her, don't you?"

"No."

"Yes you do. Oh, God."

***

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? You've been listening to The Undertones all morning and now you're singing along with Bon Jovi? Um, do I have to point out that it's not like you? Oh, I see. It's that bird, isn't it?"

"Could you please stop referring to her as 'that bird'?"

"What, you want me to call her 'your bird'?"

"No, but her name would be good. And as it happens, yes. I'm going to visit her at some point."

"She's probably really a seventy year old man who got the picture out of a magazine, or something."

"I don't care if she is. She's good to talk to, and I want to have a proper conversation with her. It's difficult over the Internet; you can only type so fast."

"Why don't you phone her then?"

"She doesn't have a phone."

"What sort of crazy person doesn't have a phone?"

"Well, she's on the Internet twenty four seven, so there isn't much point. She keeps in touch with her parents and friends by e-mail."

"She doesn't even talk to people? That's so sad, it's unbelievable. She's probably got a fucking horrible voice if she never uses it."

"I don't care."

"Oh, come off it. If you don't fancy her, there's something wrong with you."

"So you're saying you fancy her?"

"Certainly not. Yeah, she's not bad looking, but if she knows more than I do, forget it. I can't handle birds like that. But you're different."

"Well, should our relationship develop into anything more than friendship, I'll be happy. But if it does, I'll still have a flipping good weekend."

"You're one weird bastard."

"Why thank you."

***

"Can you man the shop on Friday and Saturday?"

"Why? Oh, right, you're off to see your bird."

"She's not my 'bird'."

"You sound very indignant about this. Methinks the lady doeth protest too much."

"She never protests."

"I was talking about you, you woman."

"How do you work out that I'm a woman?"

"You keep saying that you don't fancy her! If you were a bloke, you would. This means you must be a woman."

"It's not totally unheard of for men and women to be just friends."

"Yeah, but you're single and she's single, right? You haven't had a shag in all the time I've known you, and judging by the way you look at that bird who's buys Iron Maiden albums in chronological order, you want one. Having said that, you barely gave her a glance when she bought 'Seventh Son Of A Seventh Son' which indicates your mind is on that bir- Lucy. You're presumably going to stay at her place, and a single woman wouldn't invite a man to stay with her unless she had some ulterior motive. She's exactly the type you go for, so why the fuck don't you fancy her?"

"Well, like you said a while ago, until I meet her, I can't really be sure what she's like. Besides, she's been a bit subdued lately."

"Well? You can't fault her on that, you have been too."

"Only because she is. I assume it's just because she's feeling nervous about the visit."

"Well, yeah, she doesn't know if you are who you claim to be. But if she won't talk to you on the phone, that's her fault."

"You know, that does seem slightly odd. She's got a telephone line, obviously, and it's not as if handsets are expensive or anything."

"She's probably got phonephobia or some fucked up mental disorder. She's definitely got problems if she stays at home all day, on the Internet."

"I guess I might find out when I get there."

"If she turns out to be a murderer, give me a ring, ok? If you're dead, I can get rid of all those stupid albums you like that no one's ever going to buy."

"I don't know if I'll get any reception on my mobile in purgatory, but I'll do my best."

***

"Morning. How was the weekend? What did you sell?"

"The most appalling thing happened."

"What? You accidentally broke our copy of 'Jilted John'?"

"No, it was worse than that."

"You accidentally ordered two thousand copies of 'Chocolate Starfish And The Hotdog'?"

"No, much worse. On-"

"You got a phonecall from someone-"

"Shut up, I'm trying to tell you, all right?"

"But this one's good: you got a phonecall from someone who owned every record we ever wanted, and was selling the whole lot for a fiver, but before he could tell you where he lived, he had a heart attack and died. And when you dialled 1471 you found out that he'd withheld his number?"

"That would be pretty bad, yeah, but it was worse than that. The most amazing looking bird ever came into the shop on Saturday afternoon. I'm not joking, she was porno mag material. Long blonde hair, blue come-to-bed eyes, perfect lips for giving a blow job-"

"Don't know how you'd know."

"Fuck off. Dressed entirely in black leather, tits practically hanging out of her top."

"To go to a record shop? You're making this up."

"No, I'm serious. Never seen her before, like, but she was the best looking bird I'd ever seen. I'm not joking. And then the most awful thing happened."

"Her psycho boyfriend came in and beat you up for even looking in her general direction."

"Hell, no, I wouldn't mind about that. No, she bought the worst album ever. I can't believe we even had it in stock. What were you thinking?"

"Which album?"

"I can't even bring myself to mention its name."

"N Sync? The Backstreet Boys? Aqua?"

"Worse."

"Korn? What are they called, Hear'Say? Oh, I've got it: The Artful Dodger!"

"No."

"Can you give me a clue as to what era it's from?"

"Early 90s."

"Ew. You're not talking about Nirvana, are you?"

"No. Nirvana are shite, but everyone should own their albums anyway."

"2 Unlimited? M People? Oh, there's loads of crap 90s music. I'm going to check the day book . . . Reel 2 Real featuring The Mad Stuntman? Ewwww! How the hell did we end up with that? Well, at least we've got rid of it."

"But don't you see? The most amazing looking bird in the world has no taste in music whatsoever! It's the most tragic thing I've ever heard!"

"Well, the album might have been for her younger sister, or something. In any case, she wouldn't have given you the time of day, anyway."

"Oh, shut up. How was your weekend?"

"Um, interesting."

"Interesting as in you had rampant sex, but there's no way on earth you're going to tell me about it?"

"No. Interesting as in 'she didn't turn up'."

"And you didn't know where she lived?"

"No."

"Well, that's fucking stupid! What did you do, then, find out where she lived from the phone book?"

"No, she's not in the phone book. No phone, remember? Anyway, I booked myself into a hotel, and went to a cyber café and e-mailed her. For the rest of the day, and all of Saturday, I kept checking to see if she'd answered, but she didn't. Eventually, on Sunday, I got an answer, and she apologised."

"What did she say? Sorry, I forgot? Sorry, I couldn't drag myself away from the computer? I've got another Internet boyfriend now?"

"No. Truth of the matter is, she didn't want to meet me because she's deaf. It was something she'd never told me, never needed to tell me when we were talking online, and it got harder and harder to confess to, especially when the prospect of meeting up arose. In the end, she couldn't go through with it."

"What?"

"Are you deaf too?"

"No, but, like, wasn't the main reason you liked her the fact that she knew so much about music? How can she possibly know so much if she's deaf?"

"She's read about it, on the Internet, so as to be able to converse about it without having to confess to her deafness. She's formed her opinions from those of other people."

"God, that's sad."

"It is. How would you like it if you couldn't hear?"

"Well, I wouldn't have to listen to you talking bollocks, so perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Anyway, what happened? Did you go and see her? Can she lip read?"

"I went and saw her, but no. When she became deaf, she didn't want to go to the trouble of learning to lip read, never mind sign language. She didn't want people to pity her. That's why she spends so much time on the Internet; her disability isn't evident there."

"So what happens now you know that all her music talk is bollocks?"

"It's not bollocks. She might have never heard the songs, but her theories are as valid as mine."

"Oh, God. And people say I'm too obsessed with music. Anyway, what's happening now, are you going out with her?"

"Something like that."

"Fuck! How come you've got a girlfriend and I don't?"

"All my time on the Internet paid off, huh?"

"Perhaps I'll try it out . . ."