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These pages dedicated to the memory of WILLY RUSHTON |
It began, in all innocence, with a telephone call to Judith Proctor. It ended in carnage, chaos, and untold human misery. Lives were lost, hearts were broken, minds were warped beyond all comprehension. Chris Evans and Geri Haliwell started dating. Quite what urgent matter drove me to speak to Judith in person now lies buried and forgotten in the detritus of teeth gnashed to the raw and bleeding gums of the human condition. No matter. For what she and I discovered, on that fateful evening destined to become the fateful eve of something unbelievably fateful, was a common gnosis of what future generations may yet come to call Mrs Trellis' Bane. A radio show, broadcast through the sublime ether of the BBC, a paradise lost, found, put in a safe place and yet still destined to end up behind the fridge, that thief of socks that go astray in launderettes throughout the land, I'm Sorry, I Haven't A Clue.
And thus it was that two sternly erect foundation pillars of this wireless edifice slithered into the heretofore unviolated waters of that limpid pool, the Lysator Blake's Seven Mailing List. And thus did the mighty fall, and the meek inherit some earth, as unknowing Lysters, lissome in their innocence, enjoined in the shabby wrack and rattle of:
and
And thus did the kraken wake.
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These pages dedicated to the memory of WILLY RUSHTON |
