Well, it must have been about half past two in the 
morning, and just sitting there in the front room, with 
Carl and Brendan and Adrian. We're just sitting 
listening to music, drinking tea, talking about the 
Palace Brothers, Bonnie Prince Billy, that kind of 
thing. All of a sudden the room fills with a harsh 
brightness and in barges my sister mob-handed from 
Cream. She points at the speakers on the stereo and 
starts chanting: “Shit band, no fans, shit band no 
fans…”

Well, I'm just about to defend our corner when her mate 
Natalie at the back pipes up with: “Yeah, the windy 
minimalism of that last track recalls some of 
Labradford's isolationist period.”

Thoroughly defeated, I retired upstairs to bed, left 
them to it. However, step forward three years into my 
secret hayloft, shot with shafts of afternoon sunlight. 
Brendan's changed his name to Federal MetronomeÂ…

Did you see me, being escorted round the ground, 
Motorola in the pocket of my Wampum jeans, over the ad 
for Continental, I made a comic bid for freedomÂ…

There are a million retired liberals watching 
Countdown. And in the adverts they close their eyes and 
they go to Umbria with CarolÂ…

Oh Carol, ohÂ…
Oh Carol, ohÂ…

They subscribe to Erotic Review because it's broadsheet 
acceptable, and they can read it in bed with their 
partners and perhaps try out suggested oils. Ah, but 
they still feel the need to board an EasyJet to 
Amsterdam every now and again. ‘Cos you can't get 
Teenage Eskimo in WantageÂ…

See the keepers hanging rancid in the glade, Arconada, 
Pfaff and Bats and Joseph-Antoine BellÂ… I hope for 
answers in the distance, far beyond deep sierra [?]

Go on, ask me what we do next. Just attribute it to 
King Alfred and go like thisÂ…