You pile out of a gig exhilarated and buoyant only to discover yourself spilt via a back entrance into a dark and intimidating alleyway. Suddenly all your mates scarper and you’re by yourself. Steam rises from underground vents. Indistinct shouts emerge from impenetrable Chinese laundries. Yellow taxi’s flit by enticingly the entrance of the alley promising a return to the familiar and safe world. But your passage is blocked by four leather-jacketed blokes who morph out of the smoke and steam like monsters. Their leader is a tattooed barrel tapping a baseball bat into his palm and leering revealing gaps in his teeth, no doubt from previous battles. He cackles like Tom Waits.
“FANCY IT DO YOU MATE? FEEL LIKE MAKING A RUN FOR IT YEAH? RECKON YOU CAN MAKE IT PAST ME BEFORE I BASH YOUR UGLY F**** FACE IN DO YA?”
(I apologise but the mimetic chime of this monologue has caused me to wet myself momentarily. Excuse me…)
There, that’s better.
Anyway. Out of the blue a Ford Transit appears and out piles a band. They say they’ve come to rescue you. They’ll fight the gang while you make a getaway. Only trouble is, they’re the least qualified bunch of musicians to carry out their promise. They are, without a doubt, the worst band for fighting in the history of rock and roll and pop. Who would that band be I wonder? Pussycats all without a single ‘hard’ guy or gal in the line-up. I’d be interested to hear your nominations.
Meanwhile, the tattooed leader of the nasty gang is grinning lustily and tapping that bat-
“COME ON THEN YOU F****RS! WANT IT DO YA? I’LL TAKE YOU ALL ON!! ONE BY F**** ONE!!”
(Oh dear. It’s happened again. Excuse me…)