Bad Badgers

Is it me, or does the whole world look coloured-in today?

Zosia was restless in bed last night. Kept me awake for hours. She was sleep talking too. At some dreadful hour near dawn, she said out loud in perfectly clear English, “You and me go together like hairspray and lighter. If idea pop into my brain, whooomphf, your hair be burnt off.”

Too much cheese before bedtime, me thinks.

Anyway, as Zosia kept me awake most of the night, I found myself absently fiddling with my privates, thinking uncharacteristically deeply about the events of my life so far and how it is that I'd arrived at that exact point in my life - you know, in bed next to a turbulent sleep talking Polish bird.

I moved to London from Somerset, where I grew up, bringing with me a suitcase of classic porn and dreams of making it big in the music biz.

I joined a few different bands, but they were all crap and went nowhere. I got myself a telesales job cold calling people at home trying to flog them insurance.

'Twas a terrible way to earn a crust, and I hated it. I took a lot of verbal abuse from people over the phone irritated at being disturbed in the privacy of their own privacy. Really rude stuff.

Unfortunately, because the calls were monitored, there was little scope for retaliation. I was forced to sit and take it, or risk getting fired.

Once home though, I’d pull out a sheet of crumpled paper and flatten it on the kitchen table; a list I’d furtively scribbled down at work of telephone numbers of all those who’d been unspeakably rude to me that day.

After loosening my tie, downing a chilled Kronenbourg and speed-smoking a joint, I’d take a fistful of coins and the list, nip out to the public payphone down the street, call each number up in turn and be extraordinarily abusive to whoever answered.

But anonymous revenge was shit revenge, because one day I walked into the office to be confronted by my boss, a certain Shirley MacGerth.

I’ve seen many amazing sights, including the Grand Canyon, the size of which I admit was pretty awe inspiring, but it pales into insignificance compared to the vastness of that lady’s bottom.

Anyway, turns out one of the people I’d called had recognised my voice from my earlier call, put two and two together and complained.

I was instantly dismissed.

And thus embarked on a four and a half year hiatus from paid employment which saw me claiming all manner of benefits and squandering my waking hours in my front room with the curtains drawn playing my guitar, writing songs or watching DVDs in a vague coma-like state brought on by a potent concoction of booze, weed, powders and pills, hands thrust deep inside my filthy underpants, scouring my privates for substances requiring a connoisseur’s sniff.

Under those peculiar set of circumstances, came the inspiration to form Bo Molasses.

And the rest, as they say, is history.