The Bowers fucked me up but good.

From Left: Evil Spencer, Liam the Giant, Philly G and Kit, the smart-guy who stayed home and was subbed by Nadine Supervixen.

...and so, once again, to Londonium, where the iron grey sky frowns upon unemployed, middle-aged dandies, feeding their Peter Pan complexes by riding day-glo, off-the-rack fixies at walking pace through the clotted traffic like so many drugged tropical fish infesting a dying reef of shitty brick buildings.

Here's me, skipping down onto the tarmac at LCA.

I was brought hence by the outstretched wings of British Airways, depositing me at London City airport in a magical cloud of civilised adulthood, so far removed from the school-bus depravity and rank incompetence of the filthy, wretched Easyjet and their drooling, retarded patrons. If only I could have enjoyed the experience, but my mind and body had been savaged the previous night by a small pack evil rockers from my homeland.

Yea, it was The Bowers who fucked me up.

They came and stayed at my peacfull pad on Calle Avinyo, to while away a rest-day in Barcelona before tackling the last leg of their short but frenzied European Tour. I was heartened to once again meet and hob-nob with the legendary Philly G, driving force behind many a rockin Melburn outfit. But the civilised Phil was acompanied by a crazed and destructive clutch of filthy bandmates, including Liam the Giant, Evil Spencer and Nadine Supervixen, the 20 year-old stand-in drummer with the face of an angel and the body of a stripper.

Want some coconut? No? How about something stronger??

After scoring a few grams of coke from some Pakistani no-good at the beach, these trouble makers proceeded to turn my humble home into a house of ill-repute, disco dancing lewdly to the MC5 and smearing their bodily fluids allover my nice couch. Then they took me out drinking, with predictably awful consequences. I remember Nadine (wearing a sleeveless red leather jumpsuit) spitting Cashasa at a Honduran bartender and Liam the Giant singing broadway showtunes as Evil Spencer and I heaped insults on confused strangers and scoped for easy pussy. Horrible. The night seemed endless.

They forgot to add "6. Crushing shame, 7. Suicidal depression, 8.Poo in pants"

You know those hang-overs that are so wretchedly bad, so physically punishing and infused with so much shame that you moan and weep and pray for death out-loud, even while in crowded public spaces?
It was with just such a burden that I rose early next morning and made the pilgrimage through the skies to Baaron Von Cupples dismal lair in the heart of Dalston (innit). The cold rain soaked my inapropriately Mediterranean attire as I lugged my heavy sea-chest full of delay pedals and romance novels through the shitty urban sprawl of East London. The thin rasping sound of Baarons buzzer seemed to mock and goad me as I waited for him to let me inside.

So now I sit with the violent and scampish Baaron, mixing "Lights On A Leash", our new tit-ripping prog smash, while outside on the street groups of viscious Jamaican drunks hurl rotten fruit at the window and the dispiriting London autumn serves up extra helpings of freezing wind and drizzle.
What went wrong? I was such a clever and sociable child. I should be wealthy and admired and ruling the fates of many. Instead I find myself balding and tired and squabbling with an anorexic sociopath over whether to put that 808 rimshot on the 2 or the 4.

Godamnit, you bastards better go absolutely bazonkers over this track. It is steeped in pain, conflict and failure and cannot help but make the casual listener think, with an involuntary shudder, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

But no, really, it's a top notch ditty, suitable for parties and picnics, and we're just as excited as kittens on crank to start playing it at our hilariously entertaining live shows. Come on down for a bucket full of japes and good-timey sounds. Love to see you.

Peace.