Confessioniossi de beatiari dos drumos (Cinque)



Hey, babe, the place was rockin’, twas an earthquake!

Or so people thought, as the Ferret Band blasted their ears at the ‘White Noise Club’ with ‘Fallen Tyrant’. This dive was a kind of speakeasy in which it was actually really difficult to make discourse, due to the distortedly high volume of the band’s output through a woefully inadequate P.A. system. In other words, cetait un bruit terrible, bleedioso to de lugholes.

Keep up.

Members of ‘Sad Café’ were shamelessly cavorting naked in some sort of drug-induced corybantic dervish; not members of the celebrated soft-rock combo, of course, but a disparate gaggle of geeks dedicated to frequenting rather depressing restaurants.

Naturally Mr ‘legs’ Skilbeck, (a devil with a kazoo), sent them packing, employing his famous howler monkey scream and sock-rending grimace.

Cathy ‘top in everything’ Brooks, (you couldn’t meet a nicer gal) checked that they did the packing neatly, since it was her luggage they were getting ready, prior to her trip round the world on a tandem, equipped only with a bearded man and some inflammable chewing gum.

I tell you, guy!



Life’s a RIOT!



Which brings me to the brink of suicide, as I announce this week’s lucky letter-sender:

Mrs. Vi. Subversa, of Toxiclady, Liverpool, writes, in her own blood,

“You don’t know the half of it, you wouldn’t know real work if it came up and smacked you in the face, my husband used to toil twenty-nine hours a day just to keep body and soul together, and still found time to visit the local prossies; you don’t know you’re born, and my husband should know ‘cause he was a midwife in his spare time and he’d recognise every last one of you, you scrounging bastards. He fought in twelve world wars he did for the likes of you, and this is the thanks he gets, pushing up the daisies while scum like you sponge off the state and pollute our ears with the rubbish that nowadays passes for music. ‘Hit Parade’ my arse! Dame Vera Lynne must be turning in her grave, if she’s dead, or feeling poorly anyway. You should be ashamed of yourselves. I blame that Cliff Richards of the Rolling Stones.”

(Address withheld)

Well done, Vi! We’ll do everything possible to trace you so that you get what you deserve.



Drums Along The Medway



1981 it must have been, I was strolling through Maidstone beside that waterway mentioned in ‘Develop that river’ by the Ferrets, when I was approached by a skinhead.

There was, in town, a big group of these tonsured tykes, who had taken umbrage at a line in one of our songs, ‘saw some skinheads, didn’t have to run’, that they had somehow interpreted as, ‘we hate the skinheads, the skinheads hate us’. They used to pay to get into our gigs purely for the joy of chanting this throughout the set, and throwing the odd glass. It was a strange glass, too, but they always brought it along.

Anyway, I digress, Ronnie Corbett style. This boot and braces boy sidled over to me, walked beside me for a while, then admitted,

“I heard your record on John Peel.”

He looked around to see if anyone had seen, and added,

“You should have recorded one of your better ones”, before hurrying away to buy some chips and a battered sausage.

I found Steve (Maguire) sitting in the ‘Wander Inn’ playing tiddly winks with his plectrums.

“Why is it so crap?” he asked.

We went off to the bus station and staged a mock fight, followed by Steve’s famously mirthful stunt which entailed him shouting furiously while standing beneath the sign that read, ‘CROSS HERE.”

The driver of the 89 was so mesmerised by this that he reversed into the side of a number 5.

We knew how to enjoy ourselves.

And we were in a BAND.

Well, it’s bromide break, so I’ll say ‘ta-ra’ for now,

Yours truly,

Coich the Pantmaster