performing ferrets

Portsmouth Polytechnic, around 1982 sometime. Outstanding criticisms?

“The guitarist would benefit from a better haircut.”

Mais oui.

And, “ the band lacked Polish.”

Maybe so, but wasn’t it typical that our grasp of several other languages was overlooked?

Somebody in the audience, perhaps thinking it had been flung as a prize or memento, caught a drumstick that flew accidentally from my sweaty/bloody fingers. His triumphant grin of pleasure quickly changed when confronted with my terse, tense visage very near to his. I had no spare, you see?

We once played a place that boasted a proper stage, curtains and all; sadly, upon the dramatic opening of these, our twin W.E.M. speaker columns collapsed like a couple of buildings struck by aircraft. The resulting, relentless feedback got a bigger reaction than any of our songs.

We were in the Hacienda, Manchester and Nigel (Chatfield, melodica and addit. Guitar) was dancing around with a cushion under his jumper singing the theme to ‘Canon’, when Tone Wilson entered wearing a chiffon blouse.

“You guys should scrap your plans for an E.P. and release a long player,” chimed Anton H.

We took his advice, and copies are still available, if you can be arsed to burgle any former Ferret’s house and look under his or her bed.

Vinny Reilly was sitting in a corner eating a cream cracker.

“This will sustain me for weeks!” he cried.

Cath Carroll anointed him with Paco Rabane aftershave, which prompted him to assert,

“You are meat and drink to me, Ryecroft!”

Ms Carroll smiling at the mention of her true surname, tweaked Mr Reilly in a tender place, and replied,

“You are mistaken on both counts.”

Some rascal set fire to an arty, decorative tissue paper tree in the basement bar. ‘Woof!’ a nearby dog was suitably surprised. He was a sniffer dog, employed to encourage the trend for scorning, in an offhand manner, the efforts of the visiting band.

Luckily the audience adored us, and we were born aloft even onto the moors. It was only then we noticed the family-sized wicker man on the horizon.

We had a ‘fan’ called ‘Sage’, clearly a misnomer, who was eager to show his support by repeatedly shouting, during gigs, the title of one of our songs, for example, “Brow Beaten! Brow Beaten!”

Nigel persuaded him we had written something called ‘I’ve farted.’

Mark E (by gum) Smith was seen dancing wildly.*

I thank you. Cheques and international money transfers, (as long as they wash off), most welcome.

Signing off before they re-apply the restraints, and the good old camisole de force,

I remain yours’

The almighty, bossking type chap, Chrusty the Coich.

* at a wedding reception for Carey Grant in a nearby marquee