Hey, y’all, you’re lookin’ real good! Don’t you go a-ch-ch-ch-ch-changin’…

H-hang on,

“NURSE, the keyboard’s rattling, get me that Hemineverin, FAST!”

S’better.

Now,

Mr. Sage, (‘I kill you where you stand’), Singe, renowned for having ‘done one’ and shouting about it, was a man with a lot of hair under his turban. He used to goad balding people at our gigs by whipping off his headwear, swinging his locks like a sling and yelling ‘eat your heart out, shine head!’

The recipients of such abuse, already depressed by the realisation that, having been entrapped by a cunningly altered poster, they had mistakenly paid to see the Ferrets instead of Gary Glitter, would usually take Sage’s advice.

Messy.

The condemned fan ate a hearty meal. Get it?

Me Neither.



Noteable quotables



“Yeah, I remember them. I set my dog on the drummer,”

Bob, ‘doorman’.

“I begged them to punch me,”

Billy Childish, ‘genius’.

“I think the funds can be found to help them re-locate to the North,”

The (then) Mayor of Maidstone.

“They were always polite,”

Mrs Rene Chatfield, mum.



Tin Tin



We once trod the boards as support to the Thompson Twins, who might at that time have been better described as the Thompson octuplets, it being their un-commercial, pre-‘sacking-the-others’ wilderness years.

Their gal with the challenged hair-do and the walk-the-plank peak cap gushed with excitement.

“You’re a natural born drummer,” she breathed at me.

How could she have known that I was actually untimely ripped from my mother’s womb?

We all smiled and gave her a badge, upon which the bloke singer, sick with jealousy, yelled “Doctor, doctor!”

Gregory Isaacs, appearing in the nearby Russell Club, crooned, “Night nu-u-urse!”

Neither of these men received any medical assistance.

Piling into a ‘Salmon cabs’ taxi, us Ferret fellows made (fairly) quick our get away as soon as the driver had finished rolling, and smoking, his pre-fare spliff.

“Fly me to the moon!” requested Liz Naylor, a game gal with a number none haircut who had somehow managed to sneak into the Ferret limo.

“You got it, mate,” drawled the driver, and I tell you, I swear that vehicle left the ground.

And, as I recall, Skillers swore when it did.



Life’s a Riot



Yeah man, it’s time for ‘your’ letters, relating tales of amusing Rock ‘n’Roll, Chas ‘n’ Dave incidents.

Also known as sideboard stories,

Tales of the shitty,

And What the Fuck’s occurring?

Prize Letter



‘I was watching Joy Division at the Factory club, Hulme, when Mr. Hook’s bass guitar suddenly flew into the audience. The venue was subsequently re-named the P.S.V. club, intended primarily for public service vehicle drivers like myself. Imagine my comparative lack of surprise when, heavily drinking there, I saw the shimmering image of ‘Hookey’s’ guitar floating above my head, chanting in a high-pitched voice, ‘there will be a new order, a new order’. Do I win?

‘deed you do, beauty! An access to mental health advice voucher will be, bass guitar style, winging its way to you, real soon. Just keep a-watchin’ those skies!

Where Are They Now?



Mr. Paul ‘Skillers’ Skilbeck is a TOP brain consultant in Seattle.

His favourite advice?

‘I live in toothpaste tubes.’

Ms Cathy Brooks is a wandering minstrel, stuck on the itinerant sole of life, and chief advisor to the chief whip.

Mr. Chris ‘Coich, pants’ Fenner is unwell.

Steve ‘now you see me, now you don’t, I’d surely benefit from a better brand’ Maguire, is a tax exile, and hot dog vendor.

Mr. Nigel ‘tits’ Chatfield, holed up in Moscow, scraping a living out of erotic bagel dancing.

Tim ‘I sort of did some drumming for them once’ Dick, a mercenary in the ice cream wars of Glasgow.

Mary ‘first bass’ Caney, a top class madam, and collector of Wotsits shaped like the heads of American presidents.

(please, send ‘em in.)

Oh, man, they’re coming to assess me again.

I tell you, I shoulda stuck to politics,

Love and peas,

The undefeated weedy-weight champion of the world,

Chrusty the Clown