Angry me in 1979, drawn by a designer working for Headly Brothers printers at Ashford, Kent.
My Roland System 100 - Model 101, still alive and adorned with seventies glitter!
Me operating an Intertype typesetting machine in 1978,
Ten years operating this damn Digitron computer for
Type Practitioners in Sevenoaks, Kent.
Operating a Xenotron computer for Type Practitioners.
Ergonomics were a little better
Operating a Xenotron computer for Type Practitioners
For details of my very early bands click here
Seems somehow that I got ticket number 1!
The Delinquent Mutations
Frank was in a despicable band called the Delinquent Mutations, they had been written off by all the music press as "Utter crap!" but the public loved crap and Frank had plenty of it, he spent months in various toilets around the country writing his songs o. "The filthier the toilet the better the song!" says Frank "The best songs are written in British Rail bogs on hard toilet paper". Frank played guitar like an electric zombie (frightening) and sang lead vocals as if he was in a time warp (out of sync). Frank had tattoos all over his muscular body and 'mum' embroidered on the back of his hand.
The DM's crashed into their final number at the Marquee and in the process the keyboard player knocked over a 1000 watt stack onto the drummer, killing him outright. What a stage performance, ever seen blood seeping from under a speaker cab! The audience clamored for more so Frank plugged in the drum machine, took hold of his Fender Strat and swinging it wildly above himself he brought it down on the side of the sexy backing singers head knocking her for sixe or eight bars and she ended up in a leggy heap on the other side of the stage, her leather mini-skirt up around her waist. The crowd roared with approval as the backing singer lay twitching at the feet of the bass guitarist.
Frank stomped about the stage spitting at the frenzied audience as his guitar sparked and squealed in agony. A bow-tied Tory gentleman was trying to get on stage from the wings making drastic 'cutting' motions with his hands, Frank didn't give a fuck he continued to yell into the mike "Gob into the wind, get it back in the face, that's how we can cure the human race!". A spiky blonde-haired punkette in the front row who had been idolizing Frank through all the set got up onto the stage and took her knickers off to the cheers of the audience. Frank then told the punkette to bend over and he took a giant 10ft felt-tipped pen and, with a dirty smirk on his ugly face, autographed her bottom with it.
Just then the two crocodiles came on stage biting off the gesticulating bow-tied Tory's skinny legs as they came through. Frank teased the vicious crocks with his mike-stand, poking and prodding them with it until they looked even meaner but at least they could clear the stage of unwanted flesh and they-especially enjoyed musicians. One crocodile lifted up the speaker cab to get at the drummers corpse and the other started to tug at the backing singers suspenders, eventually dragging her off behind the stage to really get his teeth stuck in. Frank was on his finale and screamed "Blood is better than soap to clean my evil soul".
Fans of his were by now climbing on top of each other to get a better view of the action and a piece of his toenails, for he was cutting them with his electric carving knife. Frank threw pieces into the audience and they went potty scrambling for them, most of them were guitar-hero hopefuls who would use them as plectrums, others were just plain insane like him. The final chord was struck and Frank buried his guitar in his amplifier causing a short circuit, which exploded the amp and fused the main lights. Silence and darkness, Frank and the DM's left the stage kicking the satisfied crocodiles back into the cage they had came from with their DM's. In the dressing room everyone in the band, apart from the crushed and dead drummer, were fighting for the make-up-remover pads and then the groupies, one of which couldn't tell the difference in talent and was making love to the drum machine. Frank had to get out of the Marquee vicinity while he could, before he was mobbed by his uncontrollable fans who were now pouring over the stage. A helicopter had been hovering, for some time over the Marquee at the ready and it let down a harness through the opening in the roof, "I love getting high after a gig!" Frank said grabbing the harness and a joint, and he then disappeared off into the warm September night.
What can I say about all this? Written in 1980 by JB