performing ferrets

Starring Coich

With special guest shots from ‘Tits’, ‘Skillers’, ‘Magwouse’, ‘Brook-o’, ‘Moich’ and a cast of thousands.

The Hotpot

A purpose-built, loud-carpeted pub next to the Moss Side Centre, Manchester. The barman was called Rene, and greeted one with a wink and the words “Hello, flower!”

He used to drag up and perform a lewd strip act, involving a large rubber dildo that he liked to dip in folk’s pints before fellating it.

Nice chap, actually.

You may already have read about the notorious son of landlord, John (‘I’m thirsty’) Gorrers, who was chiefly employed to eject troublemakers. He had only to shout ‘MOVE’, and they did, often to another part of town. He also announced last orders, with that now famous line, “You’ve paid yer money, you’ve ‘ad yer beer, so now fuck off out of here!”

I mention this establishment mainly because it was one of many in which the Ferrets failed ever to secure a gig. I threw in the incidental details for ‘colour’.

More tales of venues that refused us anon.


Not he of biblical fame, but a bloke who tried to make sense of our musical ramblings in his recording studio. The latter establishment was actually downstairs in a council flat, the vocalist, Skillers, having, for some reason, to stand in the airing cupboard. Adam would be upstairs in his bedroom, the location of the mixing desk; he communicated with us via headphones, or the big hole he had smashed through the intervening concrete floor for the wires to go through. At times of particular confusion, i.e. often, his head would appear through that aperture with an expression on his face redolent both of frustration and sheer rage.

Nigel would be playing continuous melodica in a wardrobe, the door of which someone would open whenever we wanted a bit of his input on the song being recorded.

In an attempt to stop my drumming from ‘bleeding’ too much onto other tracks, my kit and I had to be enveloped in bubble wrap. Dehydration soon occurred, if not challenged by a four pack of Red Stripe.

Khan ‘fried fish’ Neighbour

This man worked in a factory where jumpers were made, one of which he foisted on Paul. It was beige, with silver glitter yarn running through, and still is, a must in his work attire as a partner in a firm of solicitors, (Terrence Woolly and Son).

Khan lived next door to a flat where we ‘rehearsed’, and, uniquely, sometimes knocked to express his appreciation of what he referred to as an ‘excellent drum-beating programme’. Khan’s partner, annoyed I suppose, for some reason, threw paint all over his front door, an incident thereafter referred to by Khan as an ‘un-excellent paint-flinging occurrence’.

You know what? Bring me my cocktail ‘o’ barbiturates, for ‘tis the hour of


And our letter of the week, as it were, and this says a lot about the quality of the other contributions follows:

‘I played the Ferret Band L.P. backwards on my reel-to-reel tape machine and it sounded quite amusing. There did not, however, appear to be any significant hidden messages, satanic or otherwise.

I only drink Robinsons’ beer. Perhaps the brewery will send me money if I don’t win your alleged prize letter award.’

Bill O’Tarmey, Romiley, Stockport.

Well, Bill, I don’t know about the beer cash, but you’ll sure get what you deserve from me.

The Dog’s Tit’s Band

Using the above alias, we secured a gig at the prestigious Band on the Wall club. The venue’s booker was seduced by what he considered to be our wittily post-modern, yet retro name. And by the cheap hooker we sent round with the demo.

We did not appear at the Apollo, despite an attempt at convincing them we were a Californian heavy-rock band called ‘Pagan Buffalo’.

Their loss.

Well, ‘friends’, I guess it’s time for me to draw another veil over these rumblings. Day-release is suiting me fine, by the way, really.


From Coich Fennhur the Eighth