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Jude might have chosen a different band name, if he had known that they would ever be at all successful, and that people would pay money for t-shirts with it on the front.
They were seventeen, and he’d just left home. A row about his GCSE results and the discovery of a bong under his bed had got out of hand. He ended up throwing his guitar and his records in his battered car and driving into the city.
His dramatic attempt at running away had ended with a compromise. He agreed to stay in his parents’ little apartment in Primrose Hill rather than be homeless, and they agreed not to bother him as long as they knew he was safe.
He was living in his father’s work flat. It wasn’t exactly the romantic image of teenage rebellion he’d been aiming for.
The first week, he couldn’t even feel hard-done-by. He hadn’t been kicked out.He wasn’t living in a bedsit or a filthy squat (though Jude loved the idea of lounging about in an abandoned Georgian townhouse getting high with Bohemian types). There was no danger, or excitement. He’d asked for his summer job at a record shop back, but was going to have to wait a while before something opened up. In the meantime, he didn’t have enough money to go out, and didn’t know anyone in the neighbourhood. Even if he did, he had a feeling that the pubs around here wouldn’t be so lenient about his fake ID as they were at home.
Mostly he smoked and listened to The Smiths. What the fuck was he going to do with his life?
Then, after a week of feeling sorry for himself, he called Ewan.
He was on the first train down from Edinburgh in the morning.
A fortnight later they both had jobs (part-time, shitty jobs, but it was a start) and they’d written ten songs.
“So what are we gonna call this band then?”
It was a question that dogged them for ages. Jude took to Ewan’s habit of carrying a notebook everywhere, in case inspiration struck. Jude went out and bought a Moleskine whilst Ewan used an old exercise book, rolled up so he could stuff it in his back pocket. They’d jot down snatches of conversations they heard in the street, anything that came into their heads. Ewan favoured allusions to novels and old films. Jude wanted something snappy, and would pore through the dictionary looking for that one perfect word that would encapsulate what they wanted to be.
Jude had gone through a bit of a belated Goth phase to piss off his parents. It mostly extended to listening to The Cure and painting his nails black, but one night they lit candles and constructed a makeshift Ouija board, with letters cut from the back of a cereal packet, and a shot glass in the middle. They’d hoped that the spirits might reveal to them the perfect name for their musical project. Instead they’d just got tipsy on cheap cider and blackcurrant (fearful of spending their slim paypackets too soon, they were attempting to budget) whilst sat on the kitchen floor.
“This isn’t going to work, Jude.”
“Shush, just give it a go.”
“I really don’t think-“
A car door slammed. They both screamed (though they would later deny that) and gave up on spirit communication in favour of making beans on toast.
“Ewan?”
“Whuh?”
“Can I sleep in here with you?” Jude wormed his way under the covers without waiting for an answer.
“What are you doing? Christ, you’re freezing – Jude, are you scared?”
“No! I mean...it just gave me the shudders, that’s all, don’t take the piss...”
“Jude...”
“I said don’t-“
“No, Jude, ‘the shudders’, it sounds good, don’t you think? The Shudders. It could be us.”
A pause.
“You know, thats actually quite good...”
“So are you going to fuck off back to your own bed niw?”
“Don’t be a tosser, its my house. Give me some blanket.”
It was dark, and it was cold, and they were kids with no idea, but now they had something. They'd be okay.