Jottings from the Jazz Rig (written by AdeP)

Life on Earth

The mist clears and the screen pans into the intracacies of a small part of the city. A small creature is making its way along the pavement. Completely oblivious to anything but its immediate world. Birds call out as the little creature wrestles past twigs and litter.

Cue the soft whispery tones of David Attenborough.

"Welcome. You join us here in its natural habitat, as the 'Vinyl Junkie' (Vinilus Junkus) begins his day. It is now mid-day, he has just woken and although a little groggy, he is ready for the day's hunt.

This is indeed a special opportunity to see one at work and study it's patterns at such close quarters. Far bettter than having to base our research on stuffed specimens from Madagascar, as we did in the Fifties.

They first appeared 1 million years ago, around lunchtime, when, Crogus Junkus decided he wanted the new 'Dub Slate' for himself and borrowed it from the tribe's collection. Since that day Cro Magnon Vinilus Junkus Man has been hoarding dub plates obsessively.

While some primate mammals incubate CDs Vinyl Junkie will only touch records. Once collected they are incubated in a large side pouch until they are returned to the nest. Many of the nests are secreted with various amounts of vinyl detritus which cannot even be accessed, but the timid little creatures refuse to part with any of their 'catch.'

Being a solitary creature, they very rarely hunt in packs prefering to tackle their prey alone.

But how does it know where to trawl?

The answer is ultrasound, it can detect a Sun Ra B-side with deadly accuracy at fourty yards. Its nose also helps the little creature find prey and it has special claws for clambering through crates and racks. Here we see our little vinyl junkie in action. There's a cluster of them gathered outside that record shop and the saliva is already present. The ultrasound is triggered and the little creature scurries past the herd and into the door. They rely on spectacular acceleration and as we have just seen extreme acrobatic skills. As good as any squirrel they need these skills whilst balancing their side pouch on one leg as they grapple with headphones in one hand and WW Tracklists in the other. And before we know it, he is out the door with his 'catch.' Let's see that remarkable moment again in slow motion this time.

Unlike most other mammals, its appetite is voracious and its 'prey' (Vinyl) stands no chance.

Today there are nearly a thousand different species of Vinyl Junkies around the world and their numbers grow yearly.

Thankyou for sharing with us some of your time and glimsing into this remarkable world. Join us next week as we look at the Duck Billed Manga Fans from Guatamala."

Swarfega on Toast

A couple of days ago I visited my local scrap yard. I required a rudder for the Jazz Rig Lifeboat and not wishing to pay the full market value, I thought I'd see if I could pick one up second hand. Approaching a squalid reception area, so encrusted with oil and grease it looked more like Dante's coal cellar decorated with spark plugs, pistons and cogs, I introduced myself to the owner and told him what I required.

If you can imagine the circus clown in Delicatessen crossed with Shaun Ryder and dipped in a vat of tar you have a vague inkling of this character's fizzog. "A rudder you say?," repeating the words, his rasping blackened voice making the sound of a bow being drawn across a rusty barrel, we might have one in the yard, go and have a look.

For those of you who have never been to a scrap yard before, you basically walk through a Post Apocalyptic Mad Max begrimed landscape and search for whatever you can salvage from the metallic carcasses on offer. European Health and Safety regulations obviously have no parlance within scarp yards due to the suicidal manner in which you collect your detritus. Armed with whatever tools you can carry, you fight your way past rusty car doors, under forklift trucks (usually carrying Reliant Robins), over hundreds of mucky bald tyres, and into the knackered wreck of your choice. You then attempt to rip out the relevant piece without dying under a pile of hazardous junk in the process.

After an hour-long fight vandalizing a grubby tugboat, a rudder was finally mine and I ceremoniously carried it to the Ryder like cadaver at reception. "Ten quid mate" he rasped. "Bargain" I thought and crossed his feculent hand with silver. Just as I was about to leave the Steptoe like swagman grabbed my hand and pulled me close. My wrist was locked in his filthy grip and I struggled to pull away. Surprisingly strong for his size, he pulled me even closer and through fetid breath whispered, "Wanna check out some special stuff?"

My heart fluttered inside my chest like a trapped bird in a cage, "what do you mean" I gasped, "special stuff?" "You'll see" he said and without waiting for an answer pulled me behind the counter and down a dimly lit corridor. I was about to cry out for help - clearly convinced the filthy lunatic would murder me or worse still, offer me a job there when we both crashed through a chipboard door and into a large room lit by one bulb. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light I stood and stared in awe as he whispered, "You see? Special stuff!"

I stood gob smacked unable to speak for a few moments. For inside the room on vast shelving units were row upon row of records, tapes, reel to reels, 8 tracks, and cassettes. "But what is all this stuff" I said trying to take in the sheer scale of it all. "Promos, rough cuts, master tapes. You name it it's all here, we've got it all" he replied proudly. "Go and check some of them out. I moved to the shelves. Written on one 8 track was "Jimi Hendrix live/unreleased". On another "Beatles: the secret sessions". Another, "Bob Marley Live and unreleased". It just went on, "James Brown unreleased", "Roy Ayres shelved sessions", "Fela Kuti in London", "The Sex Pistols first concert", "Grandmaster Flash", "Trojan lost tapes", "Miles Davis", "Faust", "John Coltrane", "Syd Barret", "Cameo", Soul To Soul, Carl Craig unreleased sessions etc etc

"But how did you get all this stuff?" I asked him incredulously. He leant over and gave a conspiratorial wink, "Glove compartments!"

"You mean to tell me that all this priceless, rare material was found in glove compartments?" "Basically yes. Over the years I've been working here, we've had 'em all bringing their cars in wanting to up grade to a better model and they always forget to look in the glove compartment!" "I am genuinely amazed" I said, "but what are you going to do with all this? You could retire and become a millionaire." "Don't want to mate, I just like listening to them every now and again, it's not for me to sell them, but finders keepers."

I accepted his decision and thanked him for showing me his glove compartment Aladdin's Cave. Next time you go rooting for a rear window or a bumper or a tyre, spare a thought for the glove compartment collectors keeping it real.

Dido Rail

Once upon a time there lived a posh princess pixie type thing called, "Dido Orsay Hermitage Gleaner Ftang Ftang Courbet Trouser Press." Or "Dido" for short. She was a famous singer and a poet with a great tribe of coffee table warriors known as "The Skcollob Suoidet." The Skcollob Suoidet, had won many "Battle of The Blands" competitions in the past, mainly down to their enigmatic elfin front pixie, and were confident of another win on Saturday night.

Dido was the daughter of leprechaun Finn Mac Cool and of Krojb, a fairy woman who had been turned into a doe by the dark druid, Fear Doirche, who had courted Dido's mother in vain many years ago. The family lived in an enchanted Elvin glade where all was at peace with the world. Crispin Mills Elf would usually pop round for tea and scones and they'd all read Country Life and look for pictures of themselves being posh.

Dido usually fluttered around the Elvin glade singing in a beautiful alluring manner, wearing a posh white dress and white veil. However on one particular morning she was troubled and so went to see her father. Finn Mac Cool, was sitting on a toadstool, smoking lavender with half wilted yarrow in an acorn pipe, when she found him. "Father, I am troubled" she said in her best posh accent. "Oh Dido, my little fawn, what seems to be the problem?" He was proud of his magical sprite type daughter and was always concerned when she was upset.

"Well father, I'm a little tired of the Elvin lifestyle to be honest. The singing no longer inspires me and I really don't want to take part in Saturday's Battle Of The Blands. I require a dramatic change in my life." Finn looked at his doe eyed offspring and asked her what she wished to do. "Well to be perfectly honest, I really want to own my own Railway Network father! It's something I've wanted to do for a long time."

"Well if this is your wish", said Finn, puffing intently on his pipe, "then you must follow your dreams." "Thank you father I knew you'd understand." And she ran off to look up "trains" in the yellow pages.

After a few weeks of making enquiries they finally found a railway network for Dido. Connex South Central had recently lost its franchise and was there for the taking. Finn bought it for his daughter with a big bag of gold, which he kept under his mushroom; saved specifically for a rainy day or for buying railway networks outright.

"Dido Rail" was an instant success and all those who travelled on the network enthused about the magical promptness of its service, the friendliness of the staff and the tasty fairy cakes in the buffet car. Dido enjoyed going to Transport and General Workers Union meetings, planning timetables and financing rail takeover bids. For several months all was fine and dandy.

That is until one fateful September morning when "Blue Annis" arrived on the scene or "The Wrecker." Blue Annis was a cannibal hag with a blue face and iron claws. The meanest witch in the glade. She was always jealous of Dido's family and their riches and so put an evil hex on "Dido Rail."

It didn't take long for the spell to work and "Dido Rail" fell into disrepute; overcrowding, lateness, dirty trains and stale fairy cakes. Dido could do nothing but break the company up and sell it to the highest bidder, a Russian Smurf called "Father Abramovich". Even Blue Annis secured work on the new network as a tea lady.

Dido went back to singing with minuscule Gangsta rappers but was never the same again. She did have some success though with her bitter ode to the whole sorry experience with, "The Taking of Clapham 123."

P Diddy Cryogenics

I hear through the grapevine that P Diddy is to freeze himself in a cryogenic chamber next month. Apparently he is fed up being really rich in the 21st century and wants to see what being really rich is like in the 22nd century. Legions of Diddy men are, as we speak, constructing a huge pyramid to encase the Dada of all things Puff. Along with his millions of dollars he is to be entombed with many things from his present life just like the great Pharaohs of Egypt. The list includes: A 20 Diddy man strong private army, Thirty Mink hats, Enough Swan meat for when he wakes up, A solid gold urinal, A record contract, sticky back plastic, an ice pick, Enough "Bling" to sink a canoe, 50 bottles of Champagne, Ten Doner kebabs, A diamond wheelbarrow, Platinum crochet needles, Blacken Decker Workbench with assorted tools, and Jlo.

Dr Doobeedoobeedoolittle, the famous Def Mammal Jam Producer is organising the freezing process. Basically he had to retrain as a Doctor of Cryogenics after his record label went bust. How was he to know that a venture capitalist was selling jam to supermarkets on the back of his good name? And how was he to know that the jam in question was made from deaf mammals? Well that's another story.

P Diddy will be encased in a freezer very much like the ones you get in Iceland. In fact it is from Iceland, Doobeedoobeedoolittle got a good deal when he was shopping in Peckham high Street last week. There is a specially designed thermo conductor on the side, which when activated, moves through very specific sensitive temperature conditions. Basically, 1) Ooh that's chilly 2) Blimey Charlie it's cold 3) BRRRRRR! 4) I can't feel my toes 5) I can snap off my own urine 6)AAAAAAAAAAAAH!! 7) Frozen like a Christmas turkey.

Once P Diddy has moved through all seven stages, he will be placed into the pyramid with all his servants and objects. Apparently he has a house album coming out around the same time so if you all rush out and buy it he will get a nice surprise when he is defrosted next century. He can check his chart placings whilst he sits down to a nice plate of swan meat all washed down with a glass of ostentatious champagne.

The pyramid is being built in the Bronx Ghetto, New York to "keep it real." Unfortunately several "projects", five schools, three hospitals and a community centre have been razed to the ground to make way for the tomb itself. But hey P Diddy's needs are more important because he's, well rich.

The cost for the project is astronomical, but it's all in a good cause because Puffy deserves a pop at the future as he's got the present all tied up.

Are you worried that you are an addict?

Are you worried that you are an addict? Are you unsure if you are a Vinyl Junkie? Do you lose sleep at night sweating about being a Vinyl Trainspotter? Well here at Jazz Rig Jung/Freud Towers we have introduced 20 fail-safe indicators which will help you check the seriousness of your addiction.

You know You're a Vinyl Junkie when......

1) You suffer more pain in your body due to record collecting - shoulder strap burn, crate lugging spine crack, dusty finger dysentery - than sports related injuries.

2)You will quite happily visit a quaint historical English town purely for the record shops and not for the quaint historical English town.

3) You seriously weigh up the pros and cons of purchasing more records as opposed to buying any food at the weekend. "Well that jar of pickled eggs and box of Shreddies will see me through."

4) Even on bright sunny days 'inside with choons' is preferable.

5) You frequently measure your room, not for new furniture, but in order to look for extra space to pack in more vinyl. "Ahh, the skylight, now there's room for a shelf up there"

6)You develop a love for groups such as, 'XTC', 'Yes' and 'ZZ Top' because your alphabetical record library is a little, "top heavy maaan"

7) You will quite happily convince yourself that the one hundred pounds plus you have just spent on records is a sound investment. Only to get home and have a proper listen and realise that 90% of it is a load of old pony.

8) You think, Ikea is a hateful place, full of pseudo-trendy flat pack Automatons, purchasing lifestyles off the peg; but you're willing to concede that they do possess top quality shelving.

9)You will wander the length and breadth of your town to find an uncreased mint nick version of the latest Moodyman 12". One tiny crease on the corner will not do.

10)You're willing to wait behind, 'Dj Trance Monkey' - as he pretends he's in Cream - and waste twenty minutes in Virgin/HMV just to listen to a record you picked up, 'on a whim.' You wish cholera and pestilence upon Cream after you eventually listen to your tune and you realise that it's pants.

11) You cannot sell any of your records and you will quite happily convince yourself that the 'Trancey Happy Hardcore Revival' is just around the corner and Gilles will probably be caning it all next month anyway.

12) You suffer apoplexy when steaming off price labels and it takes a bit of the cover with it.

13) You must have both versions of 'Strathclyde Milkbottles' by The Electric Figs, even though the only difference between the two 12"s is a triangle going, "PING" in the last two bars of the first version.

14) You cannot return home from a shopping trip without the feel of a plastic record bag slapping at your thigh. Even if you have to buy, 'The Best of Racey', 'Mrs Mills Piano Party' , 'Mantovani Live' or 'Mother' by Goldie.

15) You get irritated when a reviewer spells the name of an Aphex Twin song incorrectly, eg. Antiphlemghoxxornish!te as opposed to Antiphlemghoxxornish!ta.

16) You will quite happily buy obscure 80s pop from markets and confidently pass it off as 'Balearic.' Point of Caution - Thomas Dolby, A Flock of Seagulls and The Brotherhood of Man were, and always will be carp!

17) You call into question the professional integrity of a record shop owner who doesn't open before eight o'clock in the morning.

18) You will happily talk for hours about the limited editions on the Bulgarian record label, 'Imploded Cavity' with anyone who will listen. NB. It is not a good idea to share your knowledge with, members of your family, the police or the armed forces. They will undoubtedly have you committed.

19) You have too many records.

20) You state the bleedin' obvious!

A Cautionary Tale

2003: - According to a recent MORI Poll, 45% of the world DJ. That includes professionals and the bedroom wish it was variety. Experts predict this figure could rise next year.

2004: - 43% of the worlds land mass is covered by 49% of the world's DJs. As more people decide to spin records, the service industries begin to suffer. Britain's Telecommunication network falters due to lack of employees. No one can get their hair cut because all the hairdressers are Djing with self-inflicted "Bubble-Mullets."

2005: - According to Dr Alban's bar line graph, 55% of the population now DJ. This is bleak news as all the hospitals are running on skeleton crews, schools and universities are holding DJ only lessons and police are predicting possible anarchy.

2006: - A vast leap due to the education system, 74% of the population are now full time DJs. People have to grow their own food and exchange records for water.

2007: - Planes, trains and automobiles are incapable of running, due to pilots, drivers and trolley dolly's keeping vital engagements at Pacha, Mambo and The Swan in Swansea.

2008: - 85%!! There are no deliveries because even long distant lorry drivers are busy reworking Johnny Cash back catalogues a la Mad Lib's Blue Note Project.

2009: - 97%!! Law and order finally breaks down, even the police are busy remixing "Voices Inside My Head". DJ Battles are held on every street corner as the whole population tries to eke out a living spinning tunes from the three percent not rinsing - the deaf, the criminally insane and Daily Mail readers. Gangs of marauding "crews" battle for supremacy and even steal other crew's tunes.

2010: - 100%!! The world implodes. A Tsunami of biblical proportions covers the earth with waves of water, due to all the bass bin and filtered treble in the atmosphere. Everything - Baseball caps, flight cases, Jazzanova records, - are swamped in water. The planet is all sea. Only the Mighty Jazz Ark survives. Before the flood, it was filled with two of everything, Acid Skiffle, Sun Ra Slippers, Jazz Bingo Sheets etc.

A white homing dove perches on the Jazz Ark's crow's nest. It has a piece of paper in its beak. Captain Jazz Beard removes the paper and begins to unfold it. What could it say? A new hope? Word from survivors? Hidden Land? He reads it and begins to chuckle, for it reads: "When's Irfan Coming Out?"

Anobots

The Japanese - always one technological (two) step ahead of the rest - have recently developed the ultimate controlled machine, a robot that digs the crates for its owner. You programme your personal musical tastes into its ovoid like electronic brain and off it goes, tirelessly searching for your ultimate set list, as you lie in your jazz hammock and replenish your sherry glass.

Opponents of this technology argue that robots exist solely to relieve man/womankind of monotonous or hazardous tasks, and that surely crate digging is a pleasurable pastime in itself. Fair enough, but if you've ever struggled through several hundred dusty seven inch crates, risking vibration white finger and crate dig spine crack, then you'll understand the need.

There are five models on the market at present:

1) Anoraksia the 7" Completist
2) Mekquake the Amp and Rack Fiddler
3) Turbo Master the Vinyl Spotter
4) Tamagotcha! I've needed that for ages!
5) Taught Thought the Power Jazz Droid.

The term "Robot", which is actually a Czech word meaning, "labour", was first applied to machines in the 1920s, but it is to the clockwork automata of the 1700s - performing complex actions for the amusement of their owners - that we find the inspiration.

There is talk of marketing the "Anobots" over here, but I would just draw your attention to the shocking premonition I suffered last night, after eating too much Emmental before bed.

Due to a malfunction in their programming, two of the Anobots grew tired of collecting vinyl and began eating it instead! This produced a kinetic reaction inside and they began to grow and grow. In my dream, Anoraksia and Taught Thought towered over London, fighting for vinyl supremacy. Anoraksia, casting a shadow as far as Docklands, laid waste to the whole of Berwick Street whilst Taught Thought devoured the whole of West London's vinyl output and broken beat boutiques.

Eventually, Anoraksia, now 60 foot high, climbed to the top of the London Eye and as acrid smoke belched out of his nostrils he happily gorged upon Jazzanova boxed sets as he fired off broadsides toward Taught Thought, who was now gripping to the turret of Big Ben. Hours passed as the Anobots battled each other across the capital, firing molten wax at each other and anything else in their paths.

That was when Squadron Wing Commander Ginger Baker approached me, "Captain Jazz Beard, You are our only hope. You must climb into that plane and kill the Anobots"

What could I do? I had to save London and its vinyl emporiums, so I climbed into the cockpit of the Sopwith Camel and took off. I fought the Anobots for a whole hour until eventually both crashed to the ground in a pall of flames, metal and Goya 12inches. London was saved to "dig" another day and as for buying a little robotic crate-digging friend, I'd just say no!!

Scruff

Mr Scruff and his manager were sitting at a pub table drinking tea. They were discussing Scruff's next venture with great concern. "Pies, tea, jigsaws, mugs even fish we've done it all, what we need is a new gimmick," said Scruff anxiously.

"What we need is inspiration" countered his manager, "and hopefully we'll find it in this salt of the earth drinking den". "Agreed" replied Scruff, absentmindedly doodling on a beer mat "I'm sure something will turn up".

Just then the door swung open and a young boy, clearly underage, entered the saloon bar. "Pint of Bitter please mate" he said to the barman and settled himself onto a stool. "Two pound thirty" demanded the barman gruffly holding out a hand. The boy placed his rolling tobacco onto the bar and fished around in his pocket for the correct change. He took a swig of his pint, placed it back on the bar and continued rolling his cigarette, whistling absentmindedly.

Scruff and his manager had watched this scene with great interest. "Blimey, he's whistling "Get A Move On" my famous hit record, maybe he's seen us?" noted Scruff. "Nonsense, he never looked over once," whispered the manager. "Well in that case, what' s a kid, clearly underage, doing in a pub, drinking, smoking and whistling one of my tunes? That barman said nothing to him, no ID, nothing! This is the inspiration we are looking for! I'm going over to speak to him." "No don't make a fuss" but he'd already approached the bar.

"Hello I'm Mr Scruff famous DJ and Pie vendor." "I know", replied the boy. "Eh! How did you know that?" The boy looked him in the face carefully, and whispered, "I'm a leprechaun, I know everything." "Blimey", said Scuff open mouthed, "but how were you able to get served, looking so young?"

The Leprechaun took a swig of beer, wiped his sleeve on his mouth and continued, "Simple, I put a spell on the barman, he thinks I'm a lot older." "In that case, why did you pay him any money, you could have put a spell on him to give you free beer as well?" Scruff grinned. "Listen mate, I'm a Leprechaun, I'm not a thief!" "Ah, fair enough" replied Scruff.

"Anyway, I'm here to help you." "Help, what do you mean how?" "Well you and laughing boy over there are looking for a new angle, a new gimmick, yes?" "Yes but..how did..you.." "Never mind that, I told you, I'm a Leprechaun. Now do you want help or what?" "Yes..er..please." "And by the way, call me Wayne."

Wayne reached into his pocket and took out a small leather pouch. Placing it on the bar he turned to Scruff, "Here, take these, they are for you." "What are they?" asked the confused pie vendor. "Beans, here take a look" and he tipped several bluish kidney shaped beans onto a bar mat. "Eat one!" "Eh!?!" "Go on, eat one!"

Mr Scruff was slightly nervous but did as the leprechaun said. As he crunched on the bitter bean he looked over to his manager and gave him the thumbs up. "Nothing's happened, I don't feel any different" Scruff said to the Leprechaun shortly after swallowing it. "Patience my friend, patience." Wayne took out an art pad and some watercolours. Placing them in front of Scruff he says, "Right have a go at doing The Mona Lisa."

Scruff was intrigued and so without questioning, he began one of his potato characters in the style of the Mona Lisa. Eventually, as he was adding the final flourishes to his painting a dreaded sinking feeling hit him deep inside. "Oh My God!" He cried, "Oh Nooooo!"

His manager, who had been watching events unfold, came running over. "What is it? What's the matter?" "Look at the painting" cried Scruff, "Just look at it!!" "Oh my God!" shrieked his manager, "Oh Nooooo!"

For on the page there was a perfect brush-mark for brush-mark copy of The Mona Lisa. "I don't see what you two are worried about. That's a brilliant copy, you'll go far." "Yes, but you don't understand, I'm Mr Scruff, famous for my potato men. Not Mr Scruff, famous for my perfect forgeries!!"

"Sorry mate, only trying to help," said Wayne, collecting up the beans on the bar. Just then a taxi driver popped his head around the door. "Taxi for Mr Kerr! Taxi for Mr Kerr!" "Ah that'll be for me." And with that he was gone.

Mr Scruff looked pleadingly at his manager and said, "what am I going to do? What am I going to do now?"

"Err... The Haywain" he answered, not unkindly.

Bermuda Dansette

I chanced across a "Bermuda Dansette" in a charity shop yesterday. With the advent of Rock and Roll, teenage culture was taking off, new commercial opportunities were beginning to emerge, and the vinyl playing, "Bermuda Dansette" - with its colourful modern styling - was one such object aimed at this youthful market. Once back at home, I decided to get "rinsing" immediately, so I slapped on "Amp Dog Night", closed the lid and sat back with a sweet sherry.

Once the tune had finished I lifted the lid and went to collect the record. Imagine my surprise, when I realized that it had completely disappeared! I peered within but could see nothing. Pulling out another tune, I placed it on the platter, closed the lid and recharged the sherry glass. Once again, it finished I lifted the lid and it had gone. Intrigued as much as annoyed, I reached for a third record and again I played it opened the lid and again it was gone.

Utterly perplexed I decided on a thorough investigation and climbed inside the Dansette. To my horror, the lid closed and I was flung into another dimension. I landed on a pile of Lee Morgan Albums, which cracked apart once I hit them. I was in a vast warehouse full of records, wall to wall. A man pushing a wheelbarrow with another man inside approached. It was Jah Rule wheeling Dj Shadow around. Shadow was main curator and explained that I was in the Bermuda Tune Triangle, (It makes tunes disappear) and that there was no way out. Jah Rule disagreed immediately, "Yo man you gotta follow the white rabbit" and he pointed to a small burrowing rodent swinging in a hammock, smoking a pipe and humming Grace Slick tunes. As soon as Jah Rule had caught his eye, the rabbit darted off through a wooden door. I chased him for maybe six minutes until a dim looking sloth with a rather tasteless coat and eating a pot noodle with some considerable relish approached me.

"Listen son, you are in the western hemisphere of the mighty Sun Ra's head, do not panic. Simply travel the spaceways in that Sinclair C5 until you reach utter enlightenment. When you do, you will be free of the Ra Head Triangle and you will be free." I thanked the noodle eating sloth and hopped into the C5. Several minutes passed and sure enough the tunnels gradually spiraled into a colourful vortex of light, which in turn became my living room again. I stood motionless for a moment, eyes cast downward to the Dansette pondering my adventure. Then a blinding light of realization hit me. Of course!! This is how Shadow gets his rare as hen's teeth tunes! He lies in wait, deeply ensconced in his warehouse wheelbarrow until some poor sap places a tune on the Bermuda Dansette. Clearly he has some immortal powers allowing him to live forever, painstakingly amassing every known record under the sun.

However, it was all too much for me and I've decided to sell the Dansette, so if there are any takers you know the number.

A Cunning Plan

The cerebral cortex is divided into two hemispheres: the left and the right. The left side or "the left brain" is more active in the more artistic, sensitive and creative of humans. Conversely, the right side of the brain is more predominant when it comes to logical, tough and emotionally detached types. No one was quite sure of the mechanics within Otto Cronos's brain, but they did agree on one thing, it wouldn't be pleasant in there. To part the veil would have revealed a soul so dark and ferocious that even Struwwelpeter would have found his mannerisms difficult to convey legitimately without terrifying a generation.

Basically, Otto Cronos was a pirate and a hunter of whales. A modern day Blackbeard, and just like his predecessor, Otto had a nickname. Inspired by the category A prisoner, Charles Bronson, he took his name from his own personal hero, Bob Marley. His gangly crew of milquetoasts only ever referred to him as Bob on their swashbuckling adventures, never as Otto.

"Bob Marley and the Whalers" seemed just like a mythological outfit to me - the type you'd hear about in tales of the high seas -until one fateful day, they raided the Jazz Rig! The still midnight air was shattered with sound of cannons and suddenly pirates overran us! Bob, stood on the poop deck and shouted commands to his band of miscreants in his cod Rasta, "Eazzy Nah, get them Sun Ra Records Mi Lions. Leave none of them Bathyspheres in tact and steal all the snuff, Raas Claat".

We fought back as hard as we could, but being pacifists from the Ghandi School of self-defence, we were no match for Bob and his Reggae loving pirates of the English Channel. Within minutes they had ransacked the whole place and left us with nothing, except several cannon holes in the Jazz Rig walls and a calling card which read, "Congratulations, You Have Been Visited By Bob Marley And The Whalers! Booyakashark Bait."

As the sun came up over the drilling platform, and the Helipad smouldered, with tears in his eyes Crog turned to me and said, "What can we do Jazz Beard, they've taken everything? How can we ever get it all back?" I looked at him and, putting a comforting arm around his shoulder, said, "Patience my friend, I have a cunning plan."

"We're going to build a what?" said Crog incredulously. "A Trojan Horse" I said for the second time. "Look, we know Bob is a sucker for reggae, yes? " Er yes." "Well, we're going to build him a gift. A huge wooden horse based on the pictures you see on the Trojan record label. And, as you know, no one looks a gift horse in the mouth! We simply float the Horse into the sandy cove where Bob and his cronies hide out and leave it there as a present." "But why do we want to give him a present?" pleaded Crog, "The swine stole all our belongings!" "Ah, but there will be a gift inside the gift" I said. "And what will that be pray tell?" asked a bemused Crog. "Us!" I said and a wry smile began to befall his Cro-Magnon features.

It took three weeks to complete. A vast Trojan horse with Trojan record labels painted on either side. There were two huge dub cabinets built into the body of the wooden beast, which pumped out Madlib's Bomb Shelter mix on constant rotation. The icing on the cake was a huge doobie whatsit clenched between the horse's teeth sending prodigious plumes of smoke out over the water. The construction had enough ballast down below to enable it to float like a giant Ark and a ten-horse power engine allowing it to majestically glide through the water at a serious rate of knots.

The plan worked like a dream. At midnight, once we were all inside the giant carcass, we slid through the water to Bob's sandy cove and waited for several minutes. Mini Prince Far I, Bob's lookout man, spotted it and on hearing the Blunted dub coming out of the speakers, "ringed the alarm". Several pirates came out in a small craft and after tying the Trojan horse to their bow, brought us into the quay.

Bob himself was brought out to examine the gift and showing his approval, "I and I like it", ordered a party to be thrown at the feet of the horse, now moored securely at the harbour. They partied for what seemed like hours and in our Blaine like cramped conditions we could only wait in silence for them to cease. Although they were ferocious pirates they were wusses when it came to partying and when they eventually retired to their hammocks we realised that it had not been hours but actually 45 minutes.

We crept from out of the horse and tiptoeing over sleeping pirates took back everything that was rightfully ours and then some. Crog managed to nick Bob's Lee Perry crown he was wearing for the party and I made off with his "Learn To Speak Rasta In Two Weeks Or Your Money Back" Book. We made good our escape in The Trojan Horse and thankfully we've never seen them since. Vital!!