I met him in the food court of Manchester Arndale and his was with his gang of cronies. Each wearing identical hoodies with 'JB must die' emblazened on the back'. At first I didn't understand the significance of this message...
"You came restless," he said stubbing out a cigarette on a nearby grandma.
"Yes," said I and handed him the mixtape I had compiled. He glanced at the tracklisting and instantly hurled it into the nearest bin with a sneer.
"Ho teh fuck am Apex Thin?" he LOLed. "I only listen to music made by gangly white boys with guitars."
He made some secret signal to his hooded friends and I was manhandled into the back of a Ford Capri and driven out to the moors, where I witnessed a bizarre ritual involving the burning of some tall besuited effigy.
"what is that?" I asked a nearby farmer as Wrighty and his followers poured more petrol onto the dancing yellow flames.
"I know not what it be, squire" replied the yokel. "them lads be up 'ere every week doing this strange ritual. Them call it the burning o' the Barnlove or some such. Then them get out they guitars and be singing that song about a dancefloor by that monkey fellow. It ain't nat'ral I says, them should be still playing with train sets at their age."
It soon became clear that wrighty (or 'phil' as he encouraged me to call him) harbours some deep seated hatred of this 'barnlove' - whoever he may be - as he drove (illegally) back from the burning he used his left hand to stick pins into another effigy - this time of a bespectacled face.
"Voodoo," he said knowingly. I merely nodded and prayed for my safe escape.
Then I saw him again later in Vinyl Exchange.