A long time ago, a generation or more (depending on whose definition of generation you take, of course), I found myself waiting for a train from Leicester to Derby. I was with my housemate, and we were, for all intents and purposes, cosplaying Down And Out In The Midlands (of England). During that time, Orwell would have recognised our situation and circumstances and nodded, before returning to scrubbing his dishes or tramping along ancient routes circling and spiralling out from London Town.

On this day, we decided to risk the money for the train tickets and spend it in a bar near the station, instead. At that time, we often had to choose between eating, or drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Sometimes, we’d espouse both in favour of cheap alcohol.

The bar had a pool table and, because it was mid-morning and no one else was there, the barman let us play for free. We’d bought pints of local bitter and a bag of crisps each for breakfast, and he seemed a benevolent sort, chatting amiably for a time, until he went to check the lines on a couple of barrels. We did not sit down, those chairs and benches looked like they were heavily impregnated with the ash and tar of centuries. The smell, I’m sure some of you remember—I do not miss that.

We were busy talking about whether we should somehow move to Berlin, rather than Derby, how we needed more experience of different places to be able to write deeply, with a richness which comes from travel and excitement when the door opened and a man walked in.

I’m sure you’ve probably met people like him. One look, and you know he is dangerous. Not the bluster and swagger of the gym-swollen and terminally lacking in sense, but the danger which comes from actually being dangerous. He glanced around the room quickly, noting there was no barman, looking us up and down, and that there was no one else there.

We exchanged quick glances between ourselves, then said good morning and got back to the game at hand. Best to be polite.

This man was not large, but he was wiry and carried himself with the surety of confidence and experience.

‘Are you here for the match?’ he asked, as we tried our best to shrink and somehow disappear, looking at our still mostly full pints and knowing we could not leave immediately without risking offence.

‘No,’ we replied quickly, in unison, ‘Waiting for a train back to Derby.’ We were not really interested in football and, proclaiming any foolish allegiance to a team in a bar near a railway station is not wise.

We silently prayed he would simply let us be, especially as, at that moment, he took off his battered leather jacket and turned to the bar, showing the hilt of a knife in the back pocket of worn jeans. We thought we might have been saved by the return of the barman, who clearly knew and respected this man, immediately pouring him a pint and a double of whisky as a chaser. No money seemed to change hands.

The man turned back to us and placed coins on the pool table. We couldn’t leave now, he couldn’t play himself, after all.

I think we both thought the same thing—maybe throw that match between us, lose, so as to not have to play the stranger. And I think we both came to the same conclusion—better to play as well as we could, or we’d risk losing respect and setting us on a bad footing for what came next. He’d watched us both play already, after all and, in those days, we were both rather good players, hours spent on the tables at university the preceding years, days spent in bars. I’ve not played pool in a long, long time now.

Strangely, I can’t remember which of us won, but I do recall much of the conversation.

At one point, he asked what we did, looking at us closely as he lit up another hand-rolled cigarette from the dying butt of the last, obviously expecting something more than ‘we work for a job agency, taking whatever sporadic, horrendous scraps and shit they throw our way.’

We answered honestly.

‘We are writers.’

He didn’t bat an eyelid, just inhaled and exhaled then, in a cloud of Old Holborn smoke, took his shot.

At another point, I’m not sure when, he took out his knife and placed it on the table, to be able to better bend over and stretch to reach the cue ball. His hands were scarred and rough, tattooed and lived-in. The barman watched us carefully, ignoring the knife, as the man continued the conversation.

‘Tough game, writing.’

We exchanged glances again, familiar with the hardest job in the world sketch in The Fast Show, featuring Paul Whitehouse’s character, Archie The Pub Bore.

What followed was surprising, given how he looked and acted. Unlike Archie, he did not tell us he was a writer himself, but began to share advice on what he thought we should do, how we should approach writing and the world at large. It was, wondrously, sensible and carefully thought out. He talked about observation, about not missing a thing, about note taking and diaries and journals, and he spoke of using these things in our fiction—my novels and my friend’s scripts.

He ended by talking about how we should ensure we have a strong nucleus of people we trust around us, if we are to stand a chance of making a living with words, people who understand what it means to be a writer. He finished with telling us that, if we were serious, we needed to get an agent, but to make sure we did our research first, find someone younger, who was still ambitious enough to ensure they took chances and also represented us with heart, mind, and soul.

Eventually, it came time to leave that pub and that man, after he bought us another drink, not listening to our protestations about not being able to afford to reciprocate, that he had appreciated the company and conversation but, looking back, I wonder how much of that conversation actually included us talking. He did most of it and, to this day, I wonder who he was, what was his story? How did he know so much about what it meant to be a writer, both practically and also much deeper than that? I still remember the feel of his hand in mine as he shook it as we left, how strong and how sure it was. He genuinely seemed to have enjoyed our company.

I’m not going to end this with a lesson, I’m seeing too many stories churned out by AI here which follow that pattern. The lesson—or lessons, plural—is/are already there, above. What I will say is that, this coming year, I really think it is time I follow that last piece of his advice, and find that agent. Whenever I’ve thought about an agent over the last few decades, I’ve always thought of that bar and those pool games—and it feels good to write down this snippet of memory and finally share it.