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We've never met, that's true, but nevertheless Bono and I go back a long way. To 1980, in fact. My first band, the Walking Floors, were about to play our debut London gig at Imperial College. Waiting nervously for the call, we heard a noise from the stage. Some guys were playing with our gear. Our "manager"--actually one of our older mates--rushed on and asked them what they were doing. "We're U2, just over from Dublin," one answered. "I don't care who you are," said our "manager." "Just piss off."

When we went on they heckled us, and then left noisily after one number. Months later we went to see Talking Heads. The support band was U2. What, them? During one song, while The Edge played an elongated guitar solo, Bono preened around for a bit, then gestured for someone to throw him a cigarette. Someone duly did and he dropped it.

After scrabbling about on the floor, he picked it up and put it in his mouth. Then realising he hadn't a light, he signaled for someone to throw him some matches. As The Edge continued noodling away, Bono attempted to light the cigarette. He struck the match so hard the end flew off--twice. Finally he got it lit. We cheered ironically, and shook our heads. I mean, if you're that uncool, it's best not to even bother. Surely that would be the last we'd see of him.

Not quite. Soon afterwards, U2's debut single "I Will Follow" was all over Radio 1. And to add considerable insult to injury, its guitar line was similar to a recently demoed Walking Floors track, "Last Telegram."

Still, we had time to catch up, we thought. But while the Walking Floors continued to plough an ever-deepening rut of obscurity, U2 grew massively--obscenely--popular.

In the late 1990s, while researching my biography of Captain Beefheart, I was amused by accounts of when Bono tried to lure the Captain out of retirement in the early '80s. With typical dismissiveness Beefheart would disingenuously ask friends: "Man, who is this Bongo?"

Beefheart had become ill and a complete recluse, and my requests to speak to him were all declined. Hence my horror, in 2002, when I saw the cover of MOJO's April issue proclaim: "Beefheart Speaks... To Bono." Bongo's part in the phone conversation felt contrived, over-verbose, as if he was trying to match Beefheart's own verbal facility. But even that offered scant comfort.

In 2008, the Walking Floors' "Last Telegram" was finally released on the UK post-punk compilation, Messthetics: London II. At the time of writing, on Last FM, the Walking Floors had achieved 543 plays to U2's 44,606,871. Ok Bono, let's just call it a draw and move on.

Just before Barack Obama's inauguration I read that U2 were to play some shindig in Washington. "It could have been us," I thought. With typical breathlessness BBC Radio 5 Live asked on the day, "Where will you be when Obama becomes president?" Me, I watched proceedings on Sky News in the gym, hoping that Bono wouldn't suddenly pop up on screen, asking for a light.

Mike Barnes's excellent Beefheart book is now quite rare...

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