The time I got Chump Dumped and met Spandau Ballet's biggest fan

This story is all Yasmin's fault. She's one of my oldest friends, who will hopefully be outraged that I've just implied that she's old (36, ladies and gents).
Yas and I used to hang out a lot. So much, in fact, that one of my girlfriends justified getting off with a random bloke in a club with "well you're clearly fucking Yasmin!"
Ha! No. We entertained each other greatly, but nothing ever happened.

Anyways, this story isn't about Jenny or how she thought I was cheating on her.
No, it's about how Yas' once threw me to the wolves to save herself.
She's clearly a value added friend.

The story starts at The Cockpit, an Indie Rock night at the Cock of the North in Leeds. Yasmin and I were there, like we were every week (as well as the Poly Stomp, Bash Street and various pubs in Headingly).
This one time, as we walked near the bar, Yas said "Shit, it's Span!" and suddenly she was gone.
It's almost as though she'd thrown a smoke bomb down in front of her and fallen through a trapdoor like a cheap stage magician.
In my confusion I found myself stood in front of an odd man.
I can only remember two main points about him.
1. His pronounced estuary accent.
2. The massive ear to ear scar across his neck. More on that later.

This man made eye contact with me, and started talking. A continuous stream of information spewed out from him, trapping me in the inescapable thick treacle of this man's life.
He had been to Spain. He loved it. More than words can express. I know this because he tried to use many many words to express his love for Spain. (years later I visited his house, unintentionally, and he was painting a wall with the exact gradient of blues - light at the top, deeper blue at the bottom - of the Spanish horizon, using dozens of photographs as a reference point. He once again took the opportunity to explain how beautiful the country is, and failed).
He was a strong proponent of nuclear disarmament, and had been involved in a great number of demonstrations and events. This fact was somehow linked to Spain, but the logic made my brain hurt. Anyway, he was passionate about living in a nuclear free world.
That passion was evident in everything he did, apparently. He didn't like things, he loved them.
He loved Spandau Ballet. He loved them so much, people called him 'Span', which is how he introduced himself to me. To this day, I do not know if he has any other name.
Finally, he likes talking. He freely admitted this. He then indicated the scar on his neck. His old flatmate had told him "If you don't shut up, I'm going to get this knife and cut your throat."
That story pretty much told itself. Span spelt it out to me anyway. "So he cut my fucking throat".
He then paused, for dramatic effect, and I was able to get a word in edge ways.