If I bought a chair I wouldn’t expect it to be delivered along with the factory and its entire workforce, all intent on explaining how they made the chair. And a collection of other chairs - one with only three legs, a misshapen one that didn’t quite work out, one that fell to bits… and why not throw in the Pirrelli calendar from the men’s room and an anecdote or two about how the ladies in Upholstery shoved the apprentice’s cock into a milk bottle. Fuck that – I just want a chair, though the rest of that scenario might be more interesting than the average Special Features.

I must be out of my fucking mind. (I’m saying that before anyone else does.) Perhaps it’s because I’m in show business so I don’t need a sneak preview, a special peak behind the scenes. Or is it because I know how much conceit goes into being creative for a living? Millions of us can feel like we’re in the know, we’ve been backstage at Glastonbury, we're on the guest list, almost pals with the actors, watching them limber up for that famous scene in this film or that film. We know, for instance, that they mounted the camera on a shopping trolley, shot the film at forty one frames per second and used a household ratchet from the hardware shop to trigger the explosion that caused bright green fibreglass to erupt from the villain’s pustulating head. (I think I’ve been watching too much TV.)

I realise that, for how ever long it took to make the film, it was the most important thing in these people's lives, but I can’t bear the smugness, the utter arrogance involved in making a film about the making of the film alongside the making of the film. It makes an unforgiveable assumption about the future importance of the particular film in cinema history.

I’ve always been a fan of bootlegs – the version of Can’t Buy Me Love before the version that became the huge worldwide hit that found its way, for a couple of decades at least, into the collective consciousness. I’m glad that the version where Paul forgets the words and makes a cunt of himself with a bit of shibooby dooby scat singing still exists. I love hearing George Harrison’s disastrous solo (the one you can still just about make out on the actual record from the spillage into the other microphones) in all its dischordant glory long after it had been replaced, forgotten, and The Beatles had packed up and gone home. But that’s because it’s The Beatles and I’d known the songs for half my life before I ever heard a bootleg. By the time I did they were history, important history, and I was ready to have their mysteries revealed to me.

Mystery and mystique are big part of it. I’ve ranted on in the past about a young English band who regaled the audience with tales of what they’d been up to on their tour bus – not as you’d hope: shagging birds, smoking opium and gambling for higher stakes than we could ever possibly imagine – no, they’d been watching Buffy The Vampire Slayer. I was disappointed – I wanted them to have arrived in a space craft, not on a tour bus full of bunk beds and old socks.

The purpose of culture is to fuel the imagination, to lift us out of the mundane. So I don’t care how successful a film from last year might have been, I’d like to see an end to pre-planned special features. I’d like to be allowed, even expected, to use my imagination, to learn to live with a film, to watch it again, perhaps fall in love with it and return to it repeatedly over the years, each time finding new depth and meaning hidden in its dark recesses.

And then, one day, in ten or fifteen years time, I’d love to stumble upon a film about the making of the film. But for now I don’t want to have it explained to me by blabbermouths high on creative adrenalin. I find that depressing.

I’m quite heartened by the response to my last post. Even round where we live people have read it and everyone wants to see the ambulance and wish us God’s speed, whatever that is – it sounds good though – I can just imagine everyone we know lining the street dressed as peasants, which I imagine would entail lots of dirty sacking, red shawls and matching faces burned raw by the bitter cold. ‘God’s speed!’ they’d all say. Or as it’s a story book kind of thing they probably wouldn’t say, they’d cry. ‘God’s speed !’ they’d cry, and off we’d trot at a merry canter with the red and blue buttons both pushed in. Parp Parp !
And parp parp isn’t a quote fromThomas The Tank Engine, it’s from The Wind In The Willows : as Ratty and Mole survey the wreckage of his horsedrawn caravan Toad sits in the middle of the road mesmorised by the sight of a fast receding car muttering ‘parp parp’ over and over again. He's become transfixed by the idea of a motorcar. It may also be a quote from Thomas The Tank Engine but if it is they probably nicked it. Actually I wouldn’t really know because even at the height (or depths) of my drunken unemployedness, when I'd taken to watching daytime soaps, I never could deal with Thomas The Tank Engine because it had Ringo Starr in it. ‘There goes another Beatle’ I thought to myself or possibly even cried.....

What a fucking waste of time that paragraph was. I pride myself on doing my research, except when I’m priding myself on being a misinformed bigot which is something that happens to me with alarming frequency. I mean, not to dwell on it, but sometimes I get so worked up about something that I don’t care a flying fuck about that I’m driven to win the battle (as it has then become in my own mind) even if it involves killing someone. Well, not exactly and completely killing someone but near enough to make a complete twat of myself while some calm and annoying voice in the back of my head tells me over and over that I ought to back down, back out and move on.But I can’t… I imagine the voice being a bit like one of those people who used to stand behind news reporters and try and get into the shot, back when being on the telly was still a novelty.
Anyway, the point is that I’ve just checked and the person who claims that parp parp comes from Thomas The TankEngine wasn’t claiming any such thing. He was (incorrectly) pointing out that it comes from Ivor The Engine. Which it doesn’t. I’ve never heard of anythingso ridiculous – engines don’t go parp parp, it’s an impossibility.....

So that’s dealt with that.The fact that the Ivor claimant is a friend of mine cuts no ice. A couple of stupid turns of phrase (which in itself is a stupid turn of phrase, turn of phrase that is) that possibly has its roots in something really fascinating. (Please, don’t explain it to me, I’m sure it’s deeply uninteresting.)
I should have done my research before I started but it’s too late now.

I think I live in a fantasy world half the time. I’m always on the lookout for unusual venues to play so when a friend suggested The Ace Cafe on the London North Circular I fairly jumped at the idea. Someone else might have thought it out a bit before jumping in but you’ve must remember I’m the guy who berates people for getting ThomasThe Tank Engine mixed up with Ivor The Engine.
I got on the Ace Cafe website and saw that they do indeed have bands playing there. So I wrote a nice email to them explaining who Amy and I are, and I must admit I laid Amy’s Americaness, NYC status and Nashville connections on pretty thick – I described her as a renowned country songwriter and us together as a country / pop / rock ‘n’ roll outfit. I’m not proud of myself here but fuck it –there’s a recession on. Or do we call it a Credit Crunch. We haven’t had one of those before - sounds exciting !
Anyway, I got a very nice email back thanking me for my email and explaining that The Ace Cafe only has Elvis and Gene Vincent theme nights, rock ‘n’ roll DJs and rockabilly bands.
How desperate can you get ? I talked to Amy about it and we came up with Betty ‘n’ Chet. By lunchtime we’d sorted out the image, written an entire set (most of which was just nursery rhymes so it wasn’t that difficult) and choreographed the stage show.....

Betty: I gotta guy and he’s got a woodie...

Chet: Rock ! Rock ! Hard as a Rock…

It’s genius – the first line mixes in the surfing genre, the second line mixes metaphors.
I can see a big future for Betty ‘n’ Chet – Betty with her pleated skirts, unruly tits and impossible hair. And Chet – big Lybro work jeans, a wallet on a chain hanging off a belt loop, tight T shirt over his wannabe body-builder torso, a pack of Luckies tucked up the sleeve… At the end of each number he spins the wallet on the chain, whips out a steel comb and drags it through his greasy locks. By the end of the set there are credit cards and loose change all over the floor and he’s dragging the comb, thick with matted clumps, through ther emaining strands of his bloody scalp.....

Er… Hickory dickory dock, the mice all wanna rock…....

I think I’ll start a myspace for them.....