The return to filth, a simple transformation. The band played in The Art College. It was a gig from nothing, arranged at a whims notice. Dip played a three string Dead Plant bango. He went: Three fucking strings? John said: The D string is missing, which would only be a problem if all our songs were in D. Dip said: All our songs are in D. John said: ahah.

To infuriate, the band improvised. The crowd consisted of some very poor or very cool Art Students, huddled over cans of bovril, hidden in the bowels of the college. They neither clapped nor booed. They carried them selves with the bored decorum of the uberfan. John played makeshift drums, while Simon and Dee made sounds from nothing about nothing. Vincent made strangualted noises of a little boy locked in the cellar. Paul beat and murdered the piano till he bled. The Piano had won this round. The paltry crowd obviously had nothing better to do. They did not feel part of the "moment". The Art Man would not pay the band. All they wanted was beer. Dee and Dip and Vincent felt violently about this. Simon muttered and ran away. The band reapired to The Clock. Vincent lost a fight to a ten year old barboy. Paul bled onto the table, smiling wickedly. The only thing better than an orgasm, is a bad orgasm he said. It was a summation of the band. They watched Star Wars on the pubs telly. Luke Skywalker, where are you now?

They repair once more to the Studio. A little boy helps them mould the songs. They sleep on the couch covered in drink related shrouds. Dee plays Clarinet. Or drums. Or anything. Vincent plays the guitar machine with watch this time. How things have changed in the Vincent camp. He is a deconstructionist now. An anti guitar hero. He’s everything you would afraid to be. At gigs he sits because his strap is broken. So there. The music seems to refuse to be recorded. Memories of the music are hazy. No one has heard them since. They scuttled off like pandas to hide up trees.