I Dream Of Spaghetti Junction.

This story concerns itself with life on the road with Ricky Spontane. We won’t tell you the way it happened. We won’t tell you the way we remember it. This story never happened. We hope it confuses you.

The tour is booked for spring and consists of one gig in London, which is near Enfield. Sometime in early August, some kind of excuse for transport turns up outside the Spontane house. The Spontane people are all ready to make their driver a cup of tea, and do so almost immediately. Not long after (according to the Spontane watch : a digital which lights up on Tuesdays to reveal the date) the band have finished their refreshments, and are searching for their instruments. This task proves to be only half successful and certain instruments have to be substituted for - the band agree to bring their mascot, a large concrete pelican, instead. Using an abandoned crane, the pelican is lowered carefully into its seat. Just forty-five minutes later and we’ve hit the road, followed by a coach load of Keyboard players, all driving down especially to play the ‘D’ note.

Everyone occupies their time trying to remember the Bass player’s name. It is now mid-afternoon, so it’s clearly not the same person they were talking to this morning. The driver was sure he knew his name, but has now completely forgotten. Less importantly he has also forgotten to put any petrol in the van, a fact he is reminded of when the van grinds to a sudden halt.

The nearest petrol station is just a couple of motorways away, and so with petrol can in hand, he scampers off down the hard shoulder. On the way there, a car pulls up next to him, and three heavily tattooed burly blokes, who all go by the name of Sally, get out with the intent of kicking the living daylights out of him. This is due to the lad wearing some particularly offensive glasses. However they are put off this task by shouting from the nearby van:

"Chicken ju-ju. Remember the Quorn, fruity lad." *

Noting that these words come from the mind of someone who clearly hasn’t been anywhere near our solar system for quite some time, the three Sallys leave the situation, and thankfully a can of petrol.

We resume our journey. The jump to hyperspace is eighteen miles and counting. To prepare for this leap we stop at the North Birmingham services. It is here that we meet local Shirley lad, Brian Fronty, who is returning from MFI where he’s been to purchase some new grips for his lawnmower. He is, as ever, enthusiastic about Ricky Spontane.

"Oh you’re late for the gig, that’s brilliant. I love being late." He then discusses, for about twenty minutes, the brilliance of bands, lawn mower grips, vitamin pills, and everything really. We can’t be bothered to listen to him, and tell him so. Brian Fronty smiles in contentment. He likes abuse.

* If you wish to grasp a basic understanding of this sentence, you are advised to send off for the linguaphone package, "Talk Sykes in a fortnight", as recommended by Lee Majors.

Meanwhile, the Keyboard players are trading in their coach for a convoy of motorbikes. This is a fairly straightforward swap, although two of them are left without transport, and solve this problem by taking up jobs as waitresses. With the two of them living happily ever after, the rest of us continue our journey.

The jump to hyperspace is more familiarly known as travelling through Birmingham. We travel through slowly, for this is part of the journey where we feel peace and serenity. A moment of exquisite happiness. I dream of Spaghetti Junction. To see it with one's own eyes is almost too much. Then the moment is over and we’re headed for London, home to both The Queen Mother and Kevin Shields.

Several hours later and we’ve reached our destination. The Forum in Kentish Town, is the place where we park our vehicles, before unpacking our gear and taking it into the pub next door. At precisely three months, twelve days, and eighteen hours late, we are told there is no time for a soundcheck. Some people are not aware of leniency. However we see it as a blessing as there is now more time for drinking. And that’s that really. Oh no, hang on-we play a gig. The audience loves it. The audience's name is Dave. Thanks Dave.