I DON'T MIND LOSING OR FAILING, ESPECIALLY OF MY OWN VOLITION . . . . HOWEVER, I DETEST HAVING MY SHIT FUCKED UP BY SOMEBODY ELSE . . . . OR, WORSE, DOING NOTHING TO STOP IT HAPPENING . . . . THAT'S WHAT I DID IN MY FIRST BAND, I LET SOMEONE ELSE TAKE THE WHEEL.

Notice anything odd about the photo, not including my hyperactive sweat glands, stacked quiff and effete hand gesture, nor is it my lucky towel, or the Peavey bass rig lying on its side, no, its's the fucking ridiculous Simmons electronic drum kit wasting space behind me . . . . I mean, as if drummers aren't bad enough in their own right, they decide sometimes to have a half mind of their own and actually do something without being told to or seeking group approval first, under any set of normal circumstances, things they never do . . . . as 'The Ballistics' we were a psychobilly/rockabilly/punk hybrid act, sweaty, loud, ugly and thoroughly flat out, we were braining it, getting the best support gigs, headlining to full houses, touring the country, free piss, road crew, PA and truck on permanent hire, all the gold we could eat, it was post punk, alternate rock heaven . . . . the last thing we needed or deserved was a hair brained plan by our chief noisemaker and non-metronome, to go out and drop three fucking grand of the band's money on a dinky idiot syndrum kit, but, being a drummer by name and nature, he did, and, I let it happen. I should've realised there and then that the entire shitfight was doomed to plummet into the ground like the Pan Am jumbo over Lockerbie . . . . what I should have done was say, 'hey, Cam, this is my fucking band and we're playing rockabilly not doing Ultravox covers, you either take that ridiculous collection of Tupperware back to the supermarket or you're looking for another gig', but I didn't, and the rest is just so much piss and wind . . . . not that I'm bitter and twisted about it . . . . much . . . . I mean, 1983 was a long time ago and I'm over it . . . . sort of.