I was in a deserted Covent Garden with my unstable friend Gavin. We were both in our early twenties and just back in London from Toronto. Early eighties. Gavin played guitar, I played drums and wrote lyrics and together we were going to break the music world somehow. Gavin introduced me to squatting and was way tougher than me. But he was mentally unwell and would lose it occasionally, which unnerved me.

It was just after 11 in the evening and we had been drinking. We probably didn’t have enough money to get well-oiled, but were eager for more. All pubs in London closed at 11 at the time, a remnant from the first world war when strict and odd licensing laws were imposed to stop munition workers from getting drunk and botching their work.

We were walking down a brightly lit side street and discussing if we could find an after hours club when a gang of 8 young men caught up with us. “Did we know of a place where they could get a drink?”. Gavin told them that we were heading to Soho to find a waterhole and they tagged along.

This made me nervous as they were a rough bunch, all talking cockney and they smelled of trouble. If only Gavin had not invited them, I thought.

We hadn’t got more than twenty yards when four of the gang grabbed me and threw me on my arse into a doorway.

“Give us your fucking money, or we’ll cut you!”

I could see their arms drawn back, ready to stab. I had very little money in my pocket and really didn’t want to hand it over.

“I haven’t got any fucking money!”

They shouted more and made ready to stab. I got angry and reached up between the outstretched knives, grabbed a pair of lapels and hauled myself to standing position. I berated them. “What the fuck are you doing? We invited you for a drink and now you pull this?”

I should make it clear that I am not a fighter or proficient in any way at protecting myself, so my reaction was entirely spontaneous and probably life-threatening. But to my surprise they were chastened and we started to talk.

It turned out that they were from the Old Kent Road in the East End, and that was where I was currently living. I sat down on the bonnet of a parked car and we talked some more.

After a couple of minutes the other four turned up, with Gavin leading them in a half-trot a few yards ahead. They had obviously run around the block after him and all were puffed out.

They came towards us and when Gavin got abreast of our group he shouted “Run!” and took off.

I didn’t move but pointed to the cowboy boots I had on my feet, ever the fashion icon. “I’m not running in these!”.

The four latecomers got to us and instead of running after Gavin they looked with interest at me. “Let’s do him.”

My four new acquaintances glanced at me and said “No, he’s alright” and then all eight ran after Gavin,

I stood there alone wondering what just happened. I found Gavin later that night, he had given them the slip.