Caleb looks us in the eye contemplating how to answer the question we have just posed to him. His beer swishes around the plastic pint glass firmly lodged in the American’s hand. It’s a bitterly cold December evening, the streets of London are covered in frost where oases of freezing cold water reflect Christmas lights from the Brixton residents. We knew the answer before we even posed it, the Followill brother is certain as well, but it still takes a few seconds or so for the rims of the plastic container to be splashed with an alcohol substance until the reply leaves Caleb’s bearded mouth.