THE RAT WHO WOULD WALK ON WATER

Autumn: A light drizzle is falling on Edinburgh. It lacks forty minutes of midnight and most good citizens are abed. A few of the populace wander through the dampness, languidly travelling from here to there. On Princes Street, a knot of noisy young men search for a taxi, periodically collaring passers-by and interrogating them as to the whereabouts of an establishment known as the Astoria Club, where at this very moment Wilko Johnsons Solid Senders are filling a room with harsh incantatory R&B voodoo.