| That was a precedent well set by the band.
After the fist gig there was no activity for seven months. Then there was a gig in the
Funnel bar. A thousand scuttling crustaceans turned up to watch. There they stood, amid
the foaming heave and ho of the tide. The music was unfinished, primordial even. It made a
sane case for the abolition of evolution.
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Then followed a spate of shows. The was the Fusion bar…were you there. Dip was so big now he had to sit in the crowd, on a stool, next to some lovely people who had paid good money for the drinks he kept swiping. So he sat, and played, and also watched. He reckoned they were pretty good at this point. After the gig the band got drunk and fell over. |
Simon sleeps dreaming about Sherylinn Fenn coming down from above and enveloping his soul with a love so hapless and abandoned it would make even his emotionally impoverished cadre weep tears of distilled alcohol
