Weapons Grade Y-fronts Tour - Programme Notes (continued)
I pressed on. Did they have a
message for the fans out there, perhaps?
“Booze, chips, beer,
lager…”
“Oh, Eddie, stop it!”
cried Richie. “The first time you said it, it was only
vaguely funny in a poor BBC1 sitcom sort of way. By the third
time we're beginning to wonder if the moron who wrote this has
any idea how to write jokes at all!” Then, turning to me
again: “What Eddie means is that we have the best fans in
the world, naturally. They come, they give us their money, and
then they fuck off out of it when we tell them to. They really
are very special.”
“Yes, they're very
discerning,” said Eddie. “Except for the ones up
north, of course, who are a load of clog-wearing,
whippet-shaggers who wouldn't know real butter if it was used
to insert Marlon Brando's knob up their cutely writhing French
arse.”
“Yes,” sneered Richie,
“the only ones worse than them are the know-all,
seen-it-done-it, Groucho-going, ungrateful fuckheads that come
to the show in London.”
“Too right,” said Eddie,
fondling his bar again. “I'd rather play to those
sheep-munching, drunken inbreds in Cardiff than strut my stuff
before those London wankers!”
“London wankers!” cried
Richie, .
“Not including us,
obviously,” added Eddie.
Obviously.
