Meltwater - Writing - Splott Boys Do It With Guitars: Chapter 1

“We're Charley Black, goodnight from us, and fuck you all very much for coming. Take care now.”

The white roar of the bass feedback subsided, the lights went up, and seventeen pairs of mildly excited hands clapped. The five members of Charley Black turned off their instruments, and set about deconstrucfing their meagre equipment. Before disconecting his microphone, the singer, Syke, turned it back on and spoke to the disinterested audience.

"We'll be at Shadwell's Rectagon Club, a week Thursday if any one's interested. Ta.” Said Syke. He was glad to see the gig over and done with. It had been a disaster from the first song.

Nineteen ninety two was going to be their year, he could feel great things ahead for himself and the band. It was only another two months until they got to record their demo. After that things would go ballistic, he had utter faith in Charley Black’s future. Not if they carried on in the manner they just had though. He was glad that there weren't many people there to see the debacle. He sighed as he lowered the arm of the mike stand, twisting his chunky frame to look at his fellow friends and band members.

Scuzzer, the lead guitarist turned to Syke and slurred drunkenly, "for what it's fuckin' worth. We were fuckin' shite mun." He turned back to his small practice amplifier and disconnected the leads.

Zippy, the bass guitarist mumbled softly, pacing the stage looking for a plectrum which he'd lost in mid riff, much to his annoyance. “Don't fuckin’ blame me." He spoke low and too himself. "It was that Glen, frigging cabbage. That's the last time he gets to play with us." He looked at the drummer, Manimal Evans, who had heard him and slowly shook his head in agreement.

Glen, the new rhythm guitarist bobbed about on the stage in his long tie-dyed shirt, playing his guitar without amplification. His bright clothes contrasted sharply with the austere look of the rest of Charley Black. They were all dressed in black denim and leather. The four twenty one year olds were casual in their clothes, which were not co-ordinated. Glen danced around them swishing colour across the stage. As he did his long floppy fringe danced over his glassy eyes. The only one of the dour young men with hair longer than Glen's was the short drummer.

"Da-da, nar, nan a nan." Glen strummed the strings whilst singing their sounds. "We were fucking cool guys, we kicked it didn’t we. Yeah man, we're rolling here." He staggered across the stage and tried to start a pretend guitar duel with Scuzzer. "Come on man, lets rock on."

Scuzzer was having none of it. He looked at Syke, who was winding the mike cable around his hand in a loop. As Syke wound, he wore a disbelieving smirk on his face, watching Glen's prattish movements. Scuzzer caught Syke's eye, and nodded towards the prancing guitarist.

Scuzzer and Syke were in agreement, a rare occurrence. The Singer pulled his finger across his neck in a throat cutting gesture. Scuzzer smiled and nodded. Zippy caught their signals and gave a thumbs up to Manimal, who watched them all as he dissembled his drums.

Oblivious to the distaste that he was causing, Glen swirled and struck the chiming strings in time to his own thoughts. The four band members left their equipment, the stage and the soon to be ex-member, and went to the bar.

"He's got to fucking go, stupid prat." Said Zippy to the other three as they stood at the bar with their drinks. "He was playing like a spaz, and every time he tried jamming along, the same shitty Led Zeppelin riff came out."

Every one laughed, except for Syke, who nodded solemnly in agreement, muttering into his drink, "aye, and I suppose your going to leave it up to me to tell 'im as well. Bastards."

"Nope, I've got a bone to pick with that shit before we boot him out." Scuzzer's eyes boiled, he knew an unresolved grievance was about to be closed. "I'll scrape the thieving wanker up the wall, see if I fucking don't"

"Uh oh," moaned Zippy, "That would that be the Wah-Wah peddle incident would it?"

"Are you sure it was your one?" Added Syke, "you wouldn't want to go making no false accusations would you?"
"It's mine all fucking right," snapped Scuzzer, "let 'im try and tell me otherwise."

Their plotting was interrupted, Glen tripped over his leads, and fell crashing to the stage floor. The members of Charley Black roared spitefully in unison, shaking their pints with laughter. On the stage Glen looked up and brushed the hair out of his eyes. "Jesus, man. Did you see that? Rock and fucking Roll," he sang into the air, laying on his back and looking at the rest of the band.

"Yeah, I'll roll you now mother fucker," muttered Scuzzer, sipping his pint and staring intently. After a moment of intense uneasiness Syke gestured to the others to sit down at one of the many empty tables. They sat, all facing the stage, where Glen lay on his back still playing the same riff that had so annoyed them earlier.

"We've haven't got long before they start closing up, we'll have these, and pack the rest of the gear in the car and then we'll sort him out." Said Syke, "not that it will take very long to pack the gear mind."

Everyone laughed. Charley Black had to be the poorest band on the Cardiff music scene. Their equipment consisted of two practice amps, a small drum kit and an old P.A. It would all fit snugly into the boot of Zippy's battered old Grenada, except for the guitars, which they had to put on the back window shelf of the car. Glen also played in another local band called The Boys. He had brought an. expensive guitar and amplifier, the price of which would have bought all of Charley Black's gear, Zippy's Car and the drinks for the night. He had arrived for the gig in a taxi, as his gear would not fit into the band's car.

"Another Wednesday night at the fucking Chapter." Scuzzer sighed as he exhaled his displeasure.

Syke looked around the room, it was like a graveyard. This comparison was echoed by the bar, which was monolithic and made out of concrete. The tables and chairs around them rose like headstones, occasionally topped by a familiar, corpse like, face; Charley Black's regular followers. They looked as disappointed at the evenings performance as the band was. The room was black and Spartan, apart from the stage in one corner and the bar in the other, everything was dark, flat surfaces. If it wasn't for the stage and bar, it could easily have been mistaken for a South American torture chamber. Fortunately, the only torture that had been committed that night was on the ears of the middle aged woman behind the bar. She always thought that music was what Frank Sinatra and Des O'Conner made.

"Ah, this won't be for ever though lads," exclaimed Syke, optimistic as usual, "I can feel great things ahead, maybe even some gigs outside of Cardiff. Who knows, this week Chapter, next week, um, let me see now, Newport, Bristol, London, The World!"

"Fuck Off Syke," Scuzzer butted in, "you only just said yourself, next week is Shadwell's. And if we don't find a new guitarist soon, we won't even be doing that."

Zippy agreed with Scuzzer, acknowledging his approval with a nod and a big draft of his pint. "I'll drink to that." He lifted his pint once more, "in fact, I'll drink to anything."

Glen had finished his antics on the stage, packed his gear and rolled the large guitar amp to the front of the platform. He walked over to the rest of the band, stealing a pint from in front of a slumped and lonely drunkard as he passed. "Anyone got a fag lads? I'm absolutely gasping for a smoke."

Everyone shook their heads apologetically, although each of them were smoking and had plenty of tobacco. Except for Manimal Evans, who didn't drink or smoke. He had nodded off to sleep over his lemonade. He was starting to snore loudly. None of the band took any notice, it was his usual behaviour.

"0h, I'll just go and scrounge one then, I'll be back now," he replied, slightly disturbed by the response of his fellow musicians.

As he walked away, Syke shook his head and spoke to Scuzzer and Zippy. "Fuckin' cheek, I mean he's got fucking money, yet he's never got any smokes and is always scrounging drinks. I'm fucking skint, but I always have something to smoke."

Zippy and Scuzzer nodded guiltily, they often took advantage of Syke's benevolence at the times when money was tight.

Syke continued angrily, "well, I ain't carrying that privileged cunt no more. I'm sick of it, its always the ones like 'im who've got the equipment and money, but are talentless wankers on the make. Welt he can get his own fucking fags."

Manimal grunted and shifted his head towards Syke, a small trail of drool crept from the corner of his mouth. People were seeping away from the bar, and an eerie stillness had settled on the place. The background muzak had finished, and its place had been taken by the barmaid noisily chinking the glasses as she cleaned them. She broke the silence by calling for the stragglers to finish their drinks. She looked over to the band in an attempt to catch their attention, wishing to point to the fact that it was almost time to go. She succeeded, and Syke replied, "We'll just finish these quick and pack it all away now, wont' take us five minutes love." He gestured by lifting the remains of his pint and cigarette. She looked content, as though her wishing the time would pass faster would have the opposite effect, acceptance of their slowness was the only course.

Glen had managed to get a cigarette off one of the girls who formed the Charley Black entourage, and was busily trying to impress her. He stood over the table, which now held the remaining four people left in the bar, apart from Charley Black, the barmaid, the still slumped drunkard and himself.

The four at the table were all good friends with the members of the band. They had all gone to the same school and had been following their antics ever since. Glen stood with his cigarette held camp and aloof. The girl who had given him the cigarette, Heidi, was only fifteen. As young and naive as she was though, Glen's rambling failed to impress her.

Glen took a measured and theatrical puff on his cigarette and continued. "Yah, so, like I can only play with the band occasionally, as I spend three days a week in London, doing session work for various studios. Yeah, and I'll be able to get us a record deal no problem. They want me to work there full time, begged me in fact, but I told them no. No way Jose. Being in Cardiff with my friends is more important, I don't care how much they offer me, I simply will not do it."

"Oh, well how come I see you on the bus stop every day, as I pass on my way to college then?" Replied Ben, the single male sat at the table. "If you spend so much time in London, how come your always here at the Chapter?"

Glen pretended not to hear, and walked back to the band, his long shirt swishing behind him. He cursed Ben, as the table he just left burst into restrained laughter. The breeze from his fringe and shirt rejuvenated the sprawled drunkard as he passed. The middle aged man woke and stood bolt upright, as though shocked. He didn't realise that his drink had disappeared. He left the bar swinging gently and forcing his movements in a vain attempt to look sober. The bar maid looked relieved, she wasn't envying trying to move the man. She was just glad he wasn't dead, as she had feared. He hadn't moved or stirred for the last hour, even with the din from the stage.

"Would you chaps mind giving me a hand down with my stuff?" Glen asked the seated band.

"Fucking do it yourself, you useless twat," said Scuzzer, angry.

"What's wrong with you?" Asked Glen, shocked and dismayed. "I only asked a favour!"

"Aye, piss off," added Zippy, "we don't need an arsehole like you in the band, we've got Syke as it is."

"Charming," replied Syke, pretending to be hurt by Zippy's comment. He took a breath, looked at Glen and spoke as diplomatically as the alcohol, and atmosphere from Zippy and Scuzzer would allow. "I think that what the boys are trying to say in their eloquent manner is, well, your out of the band."

"What have I done?" Asked Glen, not understanding why they felt that way. "I thought we were brilliant, we played really well together. I enjoyed it man, we were rocking."

"Sorry Glen, we think you'd be better sticking with The Boys." Syke was not getting any pleasure from the situation. "We just don't think you fit in with us, your style is more suited to your old group. Sorry Glen, our minds are made up on this."

Scuzzer was about to add a comment, but was stopped by Manimal Evans, who woke up with a grunt and said, "are we finished yet?'t He looked around, took a sip of his drink and wiped away the drool with the back of his hand, which had taken a flesh impression of his ear.

"Oh, fine. If that's the way you want to be," replied Glen, chin drooping, "no hard feelings then. Urn, Scuzzer, could I have my Wah-Wah peddle back please?"

Scuzzer looked liquid fire at Glen, and with a sudden movement that shocked everyone, he had leapt from the table and gripped the terrified rhythm guitarist by his bright shirt. "Oh, your fucking peddle is it?" He said menacingly, as he proceeded to scrape Glen up the wall. * The Chapter bar was part of a larger arts complex, which included galleries, theatres and cinemas, housed in a large, old, red brick, converted comprehensive school. Although it was a graveyard place to play gigs in the week, it came to life on the weekends. It held a certain love-hate relationship with the members of the band. They hated playing there on their own in the week, as hardly anyone came, with it being well away from the city centre. A turn out of twenty people was exceptional, and as the payment for the band came from the door money, Charley Black looked forward to the day when they reached that figure and could claim to have made twenty pounds from their musical endeavours. This wasn't just the case for Charley Black, but for all bands who thought they could make a night at the bar. The only reason that bands played the Chapter bar was because it was one of the few venues in Cardiff that gave groups of an alternative nature the stage to play on.

It was always easy to book a night in the week, but to try and get a gig there on a Friday or Saturday night was impossible. That was unless you were a band with a big following and didn't mind waiting the best part of a year. This didn't appeal to Charley Black, so they made do with the weekdays. It helped them to keep a profile amongst the musical hierarchy of the city. They were moving up the ladder slowly, Wednesday nights meant that you were known, and was better than being given a Monday or Tuesday.

Sunday nights were a different matter altogether. That was the night when the bar was always full. It was the Chapter Melting Pot Taient Night. A well known band would be booked to play the last hour of the evening, but until then, absolutery anyone could get up on stage, plug their instruments in, and have a go. Charley Black made their debut at one such night, three years earlier, appearing early whilst the bar was still quiet.

Since their fateful debut, Charley Black had made regular appearances at the Melting Pot, and it was a love of theirs. They had moved further up the placings, but never right to the top. Sunday nights playing at the Chapter were always a joy. That was apart from the one time, the night that Scuzzer's wah-wah peddle was stolen.

It happened at a Melting Pot, ten months earlier. It was like any other Melting Pot; an ageing hippy muso opened with his acoustic version of 'Interstellar Overdrive', the various arts and crafts people drifted in from the whole food restaurant outside the bar, and Manimal Evans was asleep in the comer, waiting for the band's spot. The windowless bar always seemed brighter on a Sunday night, as though the bright people added their own light to the large square room. The concrete bar lost its monolithic quality, hidden behind the legs and skirts of the Melting Pot patrons. The main portion of the crowd were middle aged and cultured, as the night was renowned for its unchallenging, easy listening mixture of folk and blues.

That was in the days before Charley Black, and a handful of other new, young, and noisy local bands made inroads into the evening. On that night, they were joined by The Boys. Syke was sure that The Boys had modelled themselves as an artier version of The Smiths. But it was Scuzzer who hit the nail on the head when he described them as a bunch of privileged mothers boys with a Morrisey infatuation. If there was one thing that Charley Black all agreed on, it was there hatred of The Smiths and Morrisey. Despite their musical and financial differences, the bands both got on well with only the friendliest of rivalries. They would often take it in turns to support each other when required. Although, behind each other backs the descriptions and curses were usually stronger than when the bands met face to face. This night the victory belonged to The Boys, as they were rewarded a later spot than Charley Black.

Charley Black played, a good set. Syke always judged their success by the number of straight, middle aged, middle of the road, hipsters that they could drive out of the room with the trademark wall of feedback. For everyone expelled, more frightening and exotic creatures would wander in for the duration of their set, enticed from the gentile restaurant to the raucous bar. This transformation would be reversed when The Boys came on afterwards, and completed by the start of the finale, a Chilean folk troupe with instruments made from aardvark shells.

As ever, Charley Black had overplayed, and were forced to leave their gear on stage for the duration of the night. They sat and politely applauded through The Boys set, as ever. The evening wore on and the alcohol consumption was increased. At the end of the night they tapped their toes to the twirling South Americans, screaming in time with the audience and band at the allotted 'whoops' and 'heys'. All that time though, they were oblivious to the fact that A prime piece of Scuzzerts equipment had grown legs and wandered off the stage.

The evenings entertainment ended, and the band went on stage to disconnect their equipment. Scuzzer had a worried look on his face, which concerned Syke, the only member who didn't have to sort anything out and remained seated. He watched with growing anxiety, aware that something was wrong. Scuzzer began darting around the stage, looking behind the stacks of speakers and mounds of cable. Once his search of the stage had ended, he began asking the remaining musicians. No one knew anything, and worse, lots of the musicians who had been there that evening had left early. The Boys were amongst the section of the entertainment that had gone. A black look crossed Scuzzer's face as he realised that his second prize possession, after his guitar, had been thieved. A bleak silence hung over the band as they drove home, and it was worse the next day as they rehearsed.

An important brick had been removed from the Charley Black wall of noise. In the long months after it was stolen, Scuzzer had to beg and borrow wah-wah peddles from various people. The gigs that they played without the extra instrument had seemed flat and lacklustre. There was no way he could afford to replace the peddle, as he was unemployed, and had bought it at a time of prosperity. Even when he managed to borrow a peddle, it was never the same, he had customised his own one to give it unique qualities. The last thing he could do was to start stripping down someone else's peddle minutes before they went on stage. This hindrance had hung over Charley Black until they had been forced to sack their first rhythm guitarist. In her place, Glen had offered to help the group out, wishing to play in a heavier band than The Boys.

At his first rehearsal with the band, Scuzzer had bemoaned his lack of wah-wah. "No problem," said Glen, "I have one that you can use for the meantime." Scuzzer's excitement was great, until the next practice session arrived, along with Glen and the wah-wah peddle. Even better, it was exactly the same make as Scuzzer's had been, he could hardly control his pleasure. Then Scuzzer decided to alter it, as he had his own, he could always fix it at a later date when Glen wanted it back. So he opened it up, only to find that the job had already been done; by himself. It was his own peddle. It was confirmed by the scratches and scrapes on a panel where Scuzzer had written the name of the band. He couldn't believe it, and nor, when he told Syke, Zippy and Manimal, could they.

Nothing was said, they couldn't believe that Glen had been so stupid as to steal it and lend it back to the person he had stolen it from. They realised that he couldn't have known about the internal alterations. They did not want to press him on the matter, as having both a rhythm guitarist and a wah-wah peddle were more important. They had previously heard stories about Glen's underhandedness, but hadn't believed them as they knew him to be quite pleasant. Now though, it all made sense, and it was shocking. Syke made it quite clear that they said nothing, as they wanted Glen in the band. He had fitted in and played well at the rehearsals. After his debut performance that evening at the Chapter, it was no longer an issue.

* Glen's face whitened as Scuzzer lifted him by his collars, much to the amusement of the people' in the bar. Only the barmaid looked concerned, and was hurriedly looking for assistance from outside. Glen was the taller of the two, but was built from straw. His stature made the normal build of Scuzzer seem obese. It was as if he would snap at any moment, his thin body unable to ride the softest of damage.

"What was that you said? Who's peddle is it?" Scuzzer asked. He was not shouting, he could see fear in Glen's eyes already.

"Ah, come on Scuzzer, put the poor shit down before he wets himself," Syke was concerned. He had never liked confrontation, and it was unusual for him to see his friend so worked up. He could handle himself when the situation was necessary, and with aplomb, but only when it was the final straw. He sensed that Scuzzer was getting a kick from bullying the effeminate guitarist, and he didn't like that. Syke had always hated bullies. He did not want to intervene physically as Scuzzer would only be pissed at him if he did. Zippy would have joined Scuzzer, and life would be hell with their jibes for the next couple of weeks. It wasn't worth it. "Come on Scuzzer1 he's not worth it mate. You've got your peddle back, let the cunt go."

Glen was frozen rigid, he made no attempt to struggle, surrounded by the band as he was. He couldn't believe that he'd got himself jnto the mess to start with. After what felt like an eternity of intense pressure from the eyes and mouths of his persecutors, he felt his own lips begin to reply. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't hurt me, please don't." He felt ashamed at his inadequacy, but he could see that his pleading was working. "I didn't mean to take it, it just happened. I would have given it back eventually, really." Tears came welling from his eyes, he couldn't help himself. He was sobbing high and gently. "Please, just don't hurt me. I'll never do it again."

"Don't you take none of his fucking bullshit Scuzzer, fucking hit him," goaded Zippy, "go on, have 'im. Hit the fucking cry baby. We'll keep his guitar as well."

"Yeah, that a good idea. Shall we do that Zippy?" Scuzzer was weighing up his next move, hit Glen, or throw him. He looked Glen in his tear streaked eyes and made his decision. He pulled his hand back, ready to hit him.

Glen cringed up, bracing himself for the pain that was about to startle his face. But before the impact arrived, Syke had stepped in and stopped his friend's hand.

Scuzzer flexed his fist forward towards Glen, trying to break free of the singers grip. Syke was his height, but built a lot stronger and stockier; the singer's strength restrained his fist without a great effort.
"Come on Scuzzer, he's not worth it man. Look at him, can't you see that he's got enough problems. You'll fucking hate yourself for it, he's only a little fart." Syke wasn't happy that he had been forced to act, but sensed his friend had listened and understood.

Zippy was quiet, feeling ashamed for his goading. Manimal had sensed that calm would prevail, and left the situation to finish the dismantling of his drums.

"Now put him down, and lets get out of this shit hole, aye?" Syke relaxed his grip and left Scuzzer's hand alone.

A smug look crossed Glen's face, as he was released a victorious grin emerged from his soppy face. He straightened his collar and brushed himself down, ignoring the streams down his face. He looked at Scuzzer as though he had just kicked the shit out of him with one hand tied behind his back

"You'd better wipe that grin of your face now," said Syke, angered by Glen's attitude, "or I'll fucking finish the job myself, and you will notice it. Now take your fucking stuff and piss off. Go on!"

The smug look on Glen's face disappeared, he thought Syke was an ally, he was mistaken and not going to stay around to compound his error. He waited at for Syke and Scuzzer to step aside, and rushed through the gap between them. To his dismay, the table of Charley Black fan's was still there, giggling at him.

On the table, Ben was pretending to play guitar, and skitting Glen's voice. "Yah, so, Like I'm world famous man. Hard as nails." Every time he finished his mimes, the three girls on the table rolled around trying to control their laughter.

Glen struggled to lift the large black amp off the stage, wobbling about his skinny frame at the effort. Once he had lowered it to the ground, he was away, wheeling it swiftly across the floor, and out of the bar. He did not stop to look at anyone. He returned briefly for his guitar, and as he left he turned to the band who were on the other side of the room and shouted, "You're fucking crap anyway, you bunch of idiots" He scurried quickly out of the room, not waiting to see if he was being chased.

Scuzzer started to make a run for him, but as he did the barmaid returned with two large, shaven headed and muscular male dancers who had been sat outside in the restaurant. "I'll fucking 'ave 'im," said Scuzzer, thinking it a bad idea to give chase with the door blocked by the barmaid's companions. He turned to Syke, not angry but displeased. "You should tave let me hit 'im, you didn't have to stand up for the shit."

Zippy nodded in agreement. The barmaid looked around, assessing the situation to have passed. She looked at the band, who were now in the act of completing their packing. Syke smiled and apologised loudly across the dark and empty bar to her. "Sorry love, just a minor disagreement. It's all been sorted out."

She shook her head, waved her two friends away with a pat on the shoulders and a kiss. She sighed, returning to her cleaning duties behind the bar. She gave one final "drink up please," from behind her concrete wall, and flicked the lights on. The illumination did little to warm the atmosphere of the large black bar room.

Syke turned to Scuzzer and replied, "I didn't let you hit 'im 'cos he wasn't worth the hassle that you would have been in. I wasn't sticking up for him, I fucking hate his kind."

Scuzzer wasn't convinced, “you should have let me hit him all the same," he felt that his friend had belittled him by stepping in.

"Really man, you would have hated yourself for picking'on such a little shit." Syke didn't care if his friend was unhappy, "besides, his dad's a fucking lawyer, and you would have been right in the shit."

"It would have been fucking worth it though," added Zippy, "I'd have paid just for the pleasure of it, the little wanker deserved a good kickin'.""Maybe so," said Syke, "but his kind always get their fucking way in the end. He needs a psychologist, not a beating." He paused, lifting his hand. "And anyway, besides all that, I didn't want Scuzzer hurting his poor little handy." He laughed as he mimicked a limp wrist, shaking it back and fore with a sore look on his smirking face. "Not with Shadwell's next week anyway."

"Aye, what are we going to fucking do now," said Zippy, "we're back to square one. No rhythm guitarist. We could always ask Gemma to do it?"

"No fucking chance," Scuzzer had shifted his pique to Zippy's comment. "Not in a million years. You only wants her back tcos you fancy er anyway."

"That's not true, she was your girlfriend." Zippy denied all, but the truth was already out. "I'm going to start packing the car then.tt His scolding sent him out quickly, taking his small amp through the black fire doors to his Ford in the car park outside. As he flung the doors open, a breath of cool spring air wafted in, refreshing the tired atmosphere instantly, and reinvigorating the silence that had filled the room. The Charley Black regulars started stirring, much to the pleasure of the barmaid, and began putting on their coats.

"I suppose your right Syke," said Scuzzer, losing his anger, "I wouldn't want to dirty me knuckles on such a little shit as that, anyway. I don't know what happened to his guitar playing either. He sounded fucking good in practice. He went to pieces up there." He gestured to the stage with a finger over his shoulder.

"He just ain't got what it takes to play with Charley Black." Syke spoke softly, not wanting to sound like he was bragging. "He couldn't 'andle being with geniuses like ourselves, aye?"

"Yep!" Chuckled Scuzzer, "We should have been warned when we saw him playing with The Boys to start with. Bleedin' affluent poofters the lot of them."

On the stage, Manimal had dissembled his drums and moved them to the front of the stage. "Will you give us hand out with these Syke?" Asked the diminutive drummer.

"Aye, coming now." Syke turned to Manimal and acknowledged him. He turned back to Scuzzer first, and smiled. "Really mate, you did yourself a favour, he wasn't worth it."

"I suppose your right," sighed Scuzzer, placated by his friend's insistence. He was beginning to see the funny side of it, and finished by speaking in jest, "I still reckon you should have let me hit him though."

"Nah, wait until he's with the rest of the band," Syke picked the bass drum off the stage and began carrying out, "and I'll join you with that one." Manimal jumped down behind him, scurrying out with the snare and cymbal.

Onto Chapter 2