Svetlan de partinovsly was a 21 year old bass prodigy from Sheffield. He hadn’t been playing the bass for long due to his tender age but had a great ear and was a real natural. Fury tits and sugar pie had been able to get such a fine specimen of that rare breed of bassists by basically lying to him through their teeth. Well, exaggerating anyway. They told him the band was about to secure an album deal with a close associate of a major record company and that they were just about to rocket to super world stardom with a stratospheric bang. The truth was slightly less glamorous. There were indeed talks of some kind of recording but the “close associate of a well known recording company”, John, was really just an amature music lover up to his arse in debt and his studio nothing more than a financially unsound hobby. John used to tell everyone who would listen how he discovered the indie sensation kraspian only to be mercilessly ripped off by them. When he first started telling the krespian story he had allegedly let them use his studio in Leicester for a few days before they hit the big time but as the weeks and months went on and krespian grew in popularity so too did the story change. After years of storytelling refinement he’d let them practice in his studio for months on end and treated them like sons only for them to stab him in the heart by signing with a major behind his back and denying they ever entered his studio. To this day the truth is shrouded in mystery but fury tits was sure the poor sod had been more full of shite than a constipated monkey. They recorded three songs in the studio with a sound engineer who’d never done it before and played a gig organized by john at a venue near the studio in front of, it was alleged, the cream of the music business execs who had specifically requested not to be identified for privacy reasons. Fury tits was convinced the execs hadn’t wanted to meet anybody because they were incapacitated from doing so by being firmly lodged inside john’s head. The after party went on till four in the morning and on the train back to London fury tits and svetlan had a fight with the train manager who chucked them out onto the platform and left them stranded at Kettering station. As the train went to leave and the train manager leaned over the window to tell fury and svetlan that he would “see to it that they won’t get on a train that night” fury tits took a step forward and very neatly spat some florescent yellow, chewy catarrh into the train manager’s eye and bid him godspeed. When fury tits and svetlan got to king’s cross train station courtesy of the next train the platform was full of coppers and fury tits was escorted, still drunk, to the goodge street police station where he got his own very comfortable cot and a blanket and had the best sleep of his life. (On top of a criminal conviction for common assault and a 600 pounds fine to pay) ....

Sancho the Squirrel made his entry at around this time. Fury fancied getting another axe man and Sancho was a professional session guitarist from Surry who fit the bill perfectly. He was an ex alcoholic who’d play gigs for crisps. All major brands accepted apart from walkers, apparently because the Lineker’s ads got on his tits. He had long, curly, blonde hair all the way down his back and was such an avid rollie smoker that the practices had to be constantly paused for his nicotine refills.....

The tragic death of Svetlan happened at the next gig but alas not on stage, death of choice, of any musician worth his salt. Adding insult to injury, the young man actually died before the gig, just shortly after sound check and it was Sancho the Squirrel who found the body of Svetlan slumped on a chair back stage. Squirrel hurried to get Fury Tits and Sugar Pie and they all rushed backstage to see what had happened. Svetlan was sitting on an armchair, naked from the waist down with his stage trousers around his ankles. He had a surprised look and tea all over his face and down his chest. The boy had chocked on some pg tips as he was getting changed for the show. Well, either that, Fury thought, or he’d chocked on the tea while cranking a cheeky one off. Either way he thought the whole death thing before the gig to be very inconsiderate behavior especially as there was not gonna be enough time to find a replacement now.

 ....

People started to walk to the front of the stage of the dingy joint as the band got into their set. Some people thought it was very cool for the bass player to be sitting down on an armchair wearing a pair of sunglasses and unzipped trousers while displaying the classic attitude of a spaced out rock star who couldn’t be arsed being there. Fury tits was being haunted by the horrible visions of what had just happened back stage. The three of them had been struggling to hold the body upright while attempting to slide the very tight trousers all the way up to the waist and at one horrific moment Fury had  Svetlan’s shiny white arse pressed against forhead as he was struggling the trousers past the knees. He let out a scream as he shook his head from side to side in rapid jerks. “ARSE…FACE…AAAAARGHHHH”. The tugging and pulling of the trousers started to rock the dead bassist’s waist from side to side and Sancho the squirrel, who was kneeling in front of Svetlan got a resounding slap in the face by the dead boy’s swinging dead cock and was sent flying on his back, buried by the his thick curly mane. Eventually they managed to do the trousers up, sneaked him onto the dark stage and put a bass in his hands. He’d just looked stoned. Perfect.....

 ....

After a few songs of complete immobility the attitude thing was starting to wear a bit thin and people were beginning to think that that arrogant bass player was just taking the piss. He wasn’t even playing the thing!!! The boos started half way through the set and seemed to be directed at the bass player who clearly thought the shitty venue beneath him and his locals not worthy of his talents. Bottles of beer started to fly on stage and the cheeky bass player didn’t flinch even when a bottle of stella hit him right in the face only to roll down his arm and make his hand fall onto his crotch giving it the “suck on this” pose which infuriated the crowd even more. Here the gig had clearly degenerated beyond saving point and people started to jump on stage to wreck the gear. In an attempt to divert the audience’s anger from the equipment fury started shouting “it’s him” pointing angrily at Svetlan. The boy was still frozen in that Michael Jackson crotch pose but his head was tilted at a sharp angle. When the crowd fell on him they kicked and punched him as the alive members of the band  made a quick exit with what they could save of the instruments.....

Not a good gig.....

 ....

To be continued...

After the death of cock, floppy ranger and fury tits parted ways. Fury tits ended up roaming the streets of central America only to end up in los angeles with four dollars in his pocket and getting a job as a toilet cleaner in a youth hostel in exchange for a free bed and a toast. In la he busked on the Hollywood boulevard, played a few gigs in venues on the legendary sunset strip and engaged in unfettered debauchery before finding his way back to gray London a few months later to resume the musical dream in a country where he wasn't an illegal immigrant.

Hi tried joining existing bands but always managed to get kicked out of them unceremoniously for some reason or other (usually he would tell the band's main songwriter that his songs were crap and he should stick to play the instrument without fancying himself as the new fucking john lennon), so after getting chucked out of yet another outfit, a certain traci something, he decided to put the soup back together again. Teamed up once more with the ever reliable floppy ranger, fury tits auditioned drummer sugar pie and gave him the job within fifteen seconds of the audition. Sometimes you just know. Or maybe he just couldn't be arsed practicing that day.

The first few gigs went fantastically wrong. At one of them fury tits's mike stand kept slipping further and further down and as he couldn't adjust it with his hands without stopping to play the guitar, he had to play with his legs wider and wider apart in order to lower his height and reach the mike. At another one whenever his mouth touched the mike the stand would swing sideways, causing fury tits to have to reach the mike with his face and bring it back to the center. It was pathetic really but eventually they started to conclude the shows without major calamities.

It happened virtually out of the blue. Fury tits looked at sugar pie during band practice and the drummer just nodded. It was as simple as that.

People often use phrases such as "stabbed in the back" but they usually mean it metaphorically or if it is literal it's usually meant with a knife. Floppy ranger got stabbed in the back with a les paul imitation guitar. The wonderful tokay, which is an okay guitar but an excellent killing tool. As the guitar was still plugged into the amp and fury was still holding the last chord, a very poignant d minor (the saddest key of all) rang out, the sound slightly dulled as part of the guitar was inside floppy ranger's back. Tit's couldn't help thinking that now what floppy had said a few weeks earlier was truer than he could have ever imagined. "yes mate you really have the music inside".

Floppy turned around as he fell and looked up at his band mates. He wasn't dead just yet. Tit's went to sit next to him and cradled his head onto his lap. "sorry mate" he said. Floppy smiled and said "it's okay buddy". Even then he understood. Sugar pie went to sit next to the two of them and they just sat there in silence. After a while fury looked at floppy who's head was still on his lap and said "oi mate, while you're down there…" they all laughed.

To be continued...

Floppy ranger plugged his bass guitar into the rig and some funky vibrations filled the poorly lit studio. Cock was sitting on the other side of the room cradling his axe with a stern expression on his face. Cock only cared about two things in the world; his dreadlocks and his guitar. He was a white boy with straight hair mucked up with seal fat and fish glue twisted into dread locks. He was a cock. Fury tits was standing by the mike doing his vocal exercises. Gu gu gu gu ga ga ga ga and all that bollocks. Unbeknownst to fury tits, cock had gone behind his back and tried to steal floppy ranger away from the band, the then infant plastic soup.
Floppy had gone to the mutinous jam which cock had organized and was disappointed with what he found there. The “very fit girl with an amazing voice” had turned out to be a shy, fat croaker and the songs that cock had written were guitar gibberish with no structure, nor purpose. Floppy had sat through the shambles of a rehearsal and bolted out as soon as it was passably polite to do so.
Now, Monday evening, was business as usual. Fury tits and cock had had yet another fight over something trivial and fury tits seemed more pissed off than normal. As soon as cock walked out of the room to take a “time stopping” shit, fury felt the rage bubble up inside him once again. He skulked past the other rehearsal room doors and headed for the toilet after cock. When he opened the front door he lowered his head to the floor to see which cubicle cock was using and as he was doing so he heard the under-strain grunt which accompanies the most challenging defecation attempts. Fury kicked the door open with one mighty blow and proceeded to bash cock repeatedly over the head with a half empty waste bin. He had to hit him really hard as his head was protected by copious amount of grease and the basket kept bouncing back up. When he was done with it and cock had ceased moving fury tits stopped to catch his breath. The faint sound of the other bands rehearsing was the only accompaniment to his heavy breathing. Just one more whack on the head for luck he thought. As he did so the familiar “plof” of a last splinter of a turd hitting the water made fury look at cock with a disgusted expression. “Amazing” he thought, “he’s dead and he’s still full of shit”. It took a long time for fury tits to chop up the whole body into small enough bits with the pocket swiss army knife to flush them down the toilet “where he truly belonged”.
A couple of times fellow toilet goers had come in to take a whiz and, after hearing a bit of commotion coming from the cubicle, had rapped firmly on the door and given words of encouragement like “Go on. Teach it a lesson mate”.
By now floppy ranger had been waiting in the practice room for a substantial amount of time and when fury returned he never asked what had taken so long or indeed what had happened to cock. He probably knew exactly what happened and deep down must have thought it was not only the right thing to do but also the only one.
To be continued...

The reason the English breakfast is so popular in this country is because it's the best hangover cure. Other than more drink (hair of the dog) and a good sleep that is. In a land of alcoholics that goes a long way.

Some more esoteric approaches suggest water but that's nowhere near as much fun and it's far too healthy for anyone's good in an over burdened little planet.

So what I like to do after a Saturday night of self obliteration, is to sleep late and go to my local pub for a fat, brightly coloured fry up.

Last week I was denied this simple pleasure by the logic defying "Breakfast Curfew" as I like for it to be called.

On Sunday I went to a pub near a friends place and, after pretending to read the menu' for about a minute (I never read the things coz real men know what they want and technically I am a man) I went for my usual traditional English breakfast option as is my want on a Sunday morning (afternoon to you), which, after a night of drinking and jumping up and down at the Astoria 2, is the only thing that can restore some sense in my otherwise pointless life.

The barman told me that breakfast was only available until 14:00. I am finding it difficult to understand the logic...What do you mean? Breakfast unavailable after 14:00? Is the chef not still in the kitchen cooking lunches? Does he perhaps feel indisposed towards an English Breakfast at that time of the day? Is the bacon not feeling well? Have the eggs fallen out with the sausage? Have some relatives of the Heinz Baked Beans brigade died? Maybe the mushrooms are taking the afternoon off because they started early?

Do the bubble and squeak have a Pilate lesson just after 14:00? Why is the man in the kitchen happy to make me a chicken roast but won't go as far as a traditional English? MENTAL….MENTAL!!!........

You're in there…the eggs are there…COOK THE THING!!!....

It's like you go to the hairdressers and ask for a blond tint and they tell you "sorry we only do blond til three o' clock. It's five now you can be a mahogany red or a chocolate brunette".....

Fascists.....

It seems to me, the choice of when we eat is one of the few liberties we have left in life.....

Let's stop the wank and scrap the deadline please. It's Sunday. Give us a fucking break (fast).....

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Tits of Fury Dan