IMAGINE you’re a tribute act, one of the best in the country, and you’re invited to a competition on national television to find out who is the best, the most authentic, most realistic. The show’s going well, you’ve all done your best and everyone is so supportive and respectful even though it’s a contest.
WITH its pierced tongue firmly in its razor-slashed cheek, Steve Steinman’s Vampires Rock Ghost Train is cheesier than a runaway truck load of Ritz crackers, and as equally irresistible. This hugely popular show has been running for years with hundreds of performances and is building up a cult following similar to that of Rocky Horror or The Sound of Music with punters turning up suitably dressed up.
“AS MUCH as I admire his work, that Roy Wood can flipping do one,” said an exhausted Santa Claus before collapsing into his fireside chair at his cosy little gaff at the North Pole.
YOU can’t beat a good old knees-up, as my doctor always likes to remind me, and particularly at this time of the year. And few do a good old knees-up better than Chas and Dave, who’ve been getting punters out their seats and dancing their plates of meat off for more than 40 years.
WHO’D have thought it was 40 years ago that the Sex Pistols offended the nation on tea time telly and The Damned unleashed their debut album Damned Damned Damned, thus igniting the volcanic eruption of snot, pus and bile that was punk rock in late Seventies Britain?
THE moves might not be as fluid after 48 years, but the peerless harmonies are as matchless as they ever were.
SO TODAY is Black Friday, when normal, everyday shoppers turn into steely-eyed Ninja assassins, ready to kill and maim for that bargain 52” plasma foot massager and Bluetooth spoon sharpener they never really wanted.
IF YOU’D told me, some 40 years ago, that three of the most successful bands of that magical era would still be going today, I’d have said you were having a giraffe. A large one at that. And if you then told me that these three bands would be playing at Weymouth Pavilion all in the same week, I’d have said there’s more chance of the Tango Man with a Shredded Wheat on his head being voted president of America.
TO make it as a blues singer, not only do you have to have shedloads of talent and a lifetime of abject misery, you have to have a credible name. Ever heard of Blind Lemon Meringue? Thames Valley Trevor? Jivin’ Jack Russell? Semi-detached Simon? Carsick Steve? Nope, nor have I.
IS IT just me or is Hallowe’en bigger than Easter now, and will it be bigger than Christmas in a few years? Just asking. For a friend, like…
