Sunday afternoon, a car crash, at the junction of Belgrave Road and Warwick Gardens. There are shouts, a crumpled thud as traffic island halts Ford, and a loud smack as I head-butt the windscreen. Hard…

Pity poor Tracey Evans, the object of my affection, as she arrives to work to find another token of my ardour on her desk. Here’s my debut album. “You don’t have a record…

Sunday lunch-time. George Quail, sixty-five year-old, recently retired steel mill worker, is poring over an existential essay written by Genesis P-Orridge, thirty year-old musician, artist and disruptor-in-chief with Throbbing Gristle. Entitled “A Lion In A…

A Thursday night in The Bee Hive pub at the top of West Street. I’m here with band-mate Charlie Collins, Richard Kirk and his girlfriend Lynn Clarke. This is their local, being just a…

My first festival, and I’m a little nervous. Not about playing, Clock DVA have been rehearsing hard all week, and even with the bass player tripping on mushrooms, we’re sounding good. I’m…

“We’ve got African brown rice and lentils, mung bean noodles, a tabbouleh salad. . .” “’Ave yer got any chips?” “We don’t do chips.” “Those bananas look a bit funny.” “They’re not bananas, they’…