Back in the beginning of the end of the last century, two disperate yet identical souls arranged for a day out, meeting up at one of thosefestival thingies at Clapham Common. Having been mates since the previous decade, it seemed a bit strange as now they were living onopposite ends of the island, one in Muswell Hill, the other in Leeds, One asinger-songwriterwho played every instrument available to someone born with the unfortunate handicap of being left-handed. The other aBohemian poetwho'd rather be living in France but for the sake of the story, was alsoa bit bass-suave.

Yet that very afternoon,almost as if by random coincidence, the two thought out loud to themselves,

"what if we were to actually give this sort of thing a go?"

Then suddenly, it happened.That almost magical moment that happens to everyone, sometime or other. Yes, it was time for the Leeds dweller to catch the last train home. But at that very moment in time,history was made:The two made thelife-altering decisionthat nothing would actually happen because a) except for aborrowed and batteredacoustic guitar, the songwriter's gear was5,000 miles awayand b) the BoPo bassistdidn't actually own any equipmentat the time, and c) the until-now-not-previously-mentioned drummer, who was indeed present, was alas in a signed band, who were currently touring the U.K. So there sadly, the story ended.Or did it? Read on...

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