My friends and I decided to start a boy band. One of us bought three books on the subject, but they all turned out to say pretty much the same thing. One of us bought headbands, but they were all the same colour, and we were fairly sure that wasn’t right. I brought along my electronic drum kit, still in the box, but when no one could find a way to plug it in, we realised it was actually a picnic set. My best friend, however, came through with the goods. He had contacts high up in the music industry, and had already organised us a manager. The manager was into what he called Real Raw Talent, which, as it turned out, meant our penises, which he insisted on seeing before he could score us that huge gig at Central Park in New York, which was going to be pretty sweet.