Overheard in a bar, a possible encounter between the Big Day Out's greatest stars, somewhere in Auckland tonight.
"Ah, Uncle Jim. Good to see you again," said the tall fellow, wiping the beer froth from his mighty moustache on to the pinstripes of his sleeve.
"Nick? Or should I say Neek? How are you?" smiled the shorter, older man, his bare torso and low-slung jeans attracting glances from the bar patrons but no reaction from the staff. Other than audible whispers of "hey look, it's the guy from the broadband ad. Nah, it isn't. Yes, it is, Nah, it's not..."
The taller man observed his companion's tanned anatomy. He looked like a sepia-toned diagram of the human circulatory system.
"Um. Aren't you a bit cold? Can I lend you a jacket? I have spares ... and trousers too."
"No I'm fine thanks. I've been working out in the hotel gym. I think I broke their treadmill."
"Bloody hell. How did you do that?"
"The usual. Just jumped on to it ..."
"From a great height, knowing you."
"Well, yeah. They're just tempting fate building those places with a mezzanine. You gotta stay in shape for these shows. And at our age..."
"Our age? You're the Godfather of Punk, Uncle Jim. I'm a mere strapling by comparison. You've got 10 years on me at least."
"Right. But can you do this?" said the smaller man as he vaulted from the barstool to hang spinning from the rotating fan above the bar.
"Oh Iggy. Stop it. Come down."
The smaller man dropped to the floor to a polite smattering of applause from the other patrons and the staff shrugging (some texting "gess wott guy frm the brdbd ad jst dd???!") as this was only an imaginary incident with no room for their intervention.
He smiled, bowed and sat down again next to the man in the suit.
"So, big Nick. Gotta tell ya. Really loved your latest thing."
"Thanks. Which? The album? The novel? ..."
"No, the car crash. You took out a cop camera. Wow, buddy, rock 'n' roll!"
"Hardly. Had the kids in the car. Everyone's fine. But their mother was ..."
"Pretty pissed off, I bet."
"Well, yeah," said the taller man. "but I was just working on something about her reaction to the whole thing."
He coughed and started singing in a dark baritone: "My woman's wrath knew no bounds/ when he found/ I had stranded her first-born upon that island of traffic/ as my mighty jaguar/ roared its last/ and I pleaded and I cried and I beseeched her: Look dear, there's no reason to panic ..."
"Wow" said the smaller man eyeing the following hand-written nine verses laid out on the bar in front of his companion. "Nick. You are clearly the Leonard Cohen of insurance claims."
"Thanks Uncle Jim. So what time are you on tomorrow?"
"Early evening. You?"
"Half past 10. Never really enjoyed the daylight shift."
"Well, okay it was good to catch up Nick. Oh yeah, I started that new Bunny Munro book of yours, but I must say it was a bit ripe, even for me."
"Thanks, coming from you that's high praise. Hold on, I'll come up in the lift with you. Those really annoying Germans from Rammstein have just arrived. They keep slapping me on the back and asking about my good old days in Berlin."
"You get that too, huh?" replied the smaller man, as the pair strode for the lobby.