Frankly Honey, you bore me. With your dreary dreary punk rock stories about
pennyfathing-it twenty-one miles over the arctic tundra to pick up the
latest import 78s from Uncle Dave Macon and his Fruit Jar Drinkers only to
get home and find out they were a load of scratchy old bollocks. And I
*know* you've got a stonk-on for me. Because you showed it to me in the
toilets at the British Protector before the legendary Manchester Town Hall
gig. Your mate Hugh was encouraging you, and Mark C was straining for a look
through the neatly Black and Deckered glory hole. Your "I know the hairy
bloke out of Dutch prog rockers Focus" stories are borderline disgusting. No
wonder your only friend is Keith.
I wonder if Stuart David will be "in character" for those upcoming Peacock
Johnson in-stores? That might make it a bit more interesting. Start saving
up just in case, Genevieve.
We want Ooon!
Peter
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