Lemme tell you about Tony. He has a greying ponytail. It makes him look a tad bit like Francis Rossi from Status Quo. With that waistcoat and those shiny shoes thrown in, he could pass for Francis Rossi’s scouse twin. Still living in the days when people dolled up nice for a Sunday morning. Tony took me down the hall to a poky living room. He told me to take a seat. The armchair was already occupied. This dirty great big gun was lying horizontal across it, hogging both of the doilied armrests. A proper old-timey one with a wooden body. Tony said it was called a Standard Issue Harry Enfield, something like that. This particular one had seen action at the Somme, or so he’d been told when he bought it online. A bit too new and shiny, if you ask me. I reckon Tony got himself scammed there.  I had to pick the gun up to get to my seat. After resting near the radiator, the wood felt warm and alive. Apparently there’s a rule about not pointing a weapon at something unless you intend to destroy it. That was my first bollocking of the day. Tony told me off for waving the tip of the barrel in his face, as if I intended to destroy him. I told Tony I’d actually just got back from the Somme. I swear for a second his eyes flicked down to my trainers, as if he were expecting to see French mud and German blood spattered up to my knees. It was a school history trip, I explained. Tony looked giddy on my behalf. He asked how it went. I said it was alright, except you can’t really see all that much these days. Time has eroded away a lot of the scars on the battlefield. Some of the landowners around there have taken to spraying the old craterholes with hosepipes, trying to make them look deeper and soggier and more treacherous. Tony looked a bit disappointed at that. Then he said, “Wanna see my SS coat?” Well I'll be blown. The real article. With some Nazi bastard’s sweatstains still right there on the collar. Tony bought it when he was researching his history dissertation. He told me he wears it to answer the door to nuisance cold-callers, just to fuck with them. Before you ask, yes I did try the trenchcoat on. I caught my reflection in the bronze-framed mirror above his mantlepiece. My shoulders looked sharp. I suppose thousands of young men across Germany must have had that same thought once, a long time ago. I’m not saying that makes it right. Take it up with Herr Hugo Boss. Lemmy Kilmister is a hero of Tony’s. Lemmy embodies all that is rock’n’roll, and just like Tony he also collects war memorabilia. In the opinion of Tony the Ponytail, Motörhead are one of the finest bands this country has ever produced. He told me good music should leave yer teeth chattering like you’ve just eaten a raw steak. I thought that was interesting. So was the rifle, and the coat too. In a strictly academic sort of way. This was supposed to be a guitar lesson. Here I was dressed like Heinrich Himmler swinging a piece around. Yesterday, on the phone, we’d agreed that lessons were to be held every Sunday morning without fail. Tony warned me that his lessons often ran long. As it turns out, so do his phone calls. My guitar is just some cheap Strat knock-off. My uncle dug it out of his loft last year and decided it made an acceptable fifteenth birthday present for me. Tony plays an old Rickenbacker with a faded white finish. During a pub gig, he’d once slashed his wrist open on the metal bridge whilst playing a particularly frantic solo. The bloodstains were proudly left to soak into the maplewood. A badge of honour. As Tony showed me how to tune up, he laid down his one ground rule. I’m to never ever ask him to teach me the chords to House of the Rising Sun by The Animals. Apparently he’ll have swastikas in the house (for research purposes), but that song is never to cross the threshold. He asked me what kind of music I was into. I took a glance at his CD collection running the length of the wall. The scratchy black-and-white collage cover of Revolver was flipped open, sitting on top of the others. I said “The Beatles.” Tony nodded at that. Always a safe bet in Merseyside. He said, “Alright I’ll start you off with an easy one.” In our first ever lesson, Tony taught me the chords to Here Comes The Sun. A song in which George Harrison takes over lead vocal duties, with Paul providing backing. Tony was deadpan when he said the Beatles’ biggest achievement was getting John Lennon to shut his trap for three minutes and five seconds in 1969. As he nattered on showing me the chord patterns, I wondered how The Beatles would’ve gotten on with Tony in their ranks.