Alan Coleman

I look forward to an Indian meal more than I do Saturday, Christmas and the start of the football season combined. The wind up to it starts at about 1pm on Saturday afternoon after I get back from the shops and tell Mandy that I’m having a starter, probably Sheek kebab. Then I spend the rest of the afternoon deciding whether I’m going to have a Vindaloo or not, which I rarely do because I’ll change my mind at the precise moment the waiter looks up from his pad, Biro poised.

At around 5pm I’m pacing around the flat urging Mand to hurry with the makeup. During the football season this part of the day is even better because the results are on the TV and I’m walking around with a can of lager pretending to be a Man City fan. Great.

As we walk towards East Dulwich I can see the restaurant sign shining through the trees from a quarter of a mile away. Mirash Tandoori, in red an blue neon. Finally, at last, like Clark Griswald reaching Wally World, I’m actually there. But not quite, to prolong the experience a bit longer we’ll go for a few drinks in The Black Cherry where they serve cocktails and Austrian lager.

And so to the Mirash, greeted at the door like a friend, seated, the wine glasses removed without asking. And as the pints of chilled Cobra are placed on the stiff white tablecloth, Mand looks at me over the menu, smiles and looks back down again. “Am I allowed a starter?”

I’m learning how to play guitar, Mandy brought me one as a present for my birthday and I’m properly getting in to it. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do as it’s been my favourite sound for as long as I can remember.

I used to play the Saxophone, grade 8, although that means nothing really as I was never actually any good. It was enjoyable from a technical perspective, playing in a band and keeping the thing in tune and playing the notes in the right place. It’s just that I’m not a natural musician so was only going to go far. Also I was playing in an Army Band, and in that environment unless you’re exceptional at your chosen instrument you’re treated like something scraped off the shoe. Men can be very bitchy.

Who wants to play the Sax anyway? As an instrument it’s always going to be associated with greasy pony tails rather than Stan Getz and John Coltrane. Anything on the sax post 1970 will always sound smug.

A guitar on the other hand is the embodiment of Rock ‘n Roll music. It’s what it’s all about, from 1950s America to the Mersey and from Zappa to Sonic Youth. Stuff marching around in a red uniform, that was a waste of everybody’s time.

I used to play guitar when I was younger, at primary school. The head teacher, Mr Atkins, would spend the best part of Friday afternoon teaching chords and songs to anyone that came along with a guitar. I used to ask myself why anyone would want to sit in a classroom learning arithmetic when you could be sat in the sunshine learning E minor, G and D7. The shoving parents of today would have had none of it. My child, the targets, push to the front. Judging children by sneering at league tables in grubby Sunday newspapers. Nice.

Mr Atkins was notable for another reason, he had a strange infatuation with the Parachute Regiment. If any child dared break rules the resulting lecture would probably involve a comparison with one of the British Army’s finest fighting units. “Do you think that’s acceptable behaviour do you? Eh?! Wouldn’t get away with that in the Parachute Regiment would you? No!! So why in Gods name do you think it’s okay to forget your sports kit here then?!!” There’s nothing more comical than an unintentionally funny person.

Mr Atkins, guitar player, great bloke and comic genius.