Death by posh Ball. Fun!

You get well paid. The girls look great, decked out in the ball dresses. The blokes stand in ball suits, the first people going down when the revolution comes. I've played the poshest gigs possible in England, theOxford / Cambridge May Ball circuit. Very smart people, or idiots, whose daddy did rather well. I loved playing these gigs. You had no idea how they would go.

Cambridge: In a room, where you could hear the stage hypnotist's act outside. I still don't know how that one went.

Oxford: Noel James sticking the microphone into the speakers. Massive feedback. He then stared down a room of terrified posh kids, with immortal line, "I'm fucking Jimi Hendrix I am!"

Cambridge: The sound drenched in so much reverb, I played it as a Marley gig.

Then, there was that Oxford gig:

My mate Sam used to book these gigs. He, his now wife Nicola and I rolled up with every expectation it would work. I was MC, Sam was doing 20, and we had Miles Crawford to headline. How could it go wrong?

Very quickly, it turned out.

The gig was outside in a tent, bad. 200 over priviliged, drunken hoorays were dancing the night away, to a disco we were about to shut off, for COMEDY. Worse. miles Crawford was nowhere to be found. Sensible.

The music died, I walked on to sulking posh kids, who were already missing their dancing. They'd sat down on the white plastic chairs that littered the tent. The floor was covered in beer. One by one the chairs started to collapse. One leg would shoot up, followed by an airborne hooray. i was having a great time. I was the only one.

I upset the Oxford rugby team by claiming that they had formed a blowjob daisychain, outside the tent. As I say, I was having a hoot.

Then, a very posh girl lost it. She stood by the stage, and projected some very inventive swearing at me. I paused, then said

"I understand what your problem is. You sat in front of that mirror all day. Stare, stare, stare, stare, and Snow White is still the fairest of them all."

She replied:

"Are you calling me a fucking witch!"

I said:

"I'm just saying I wouldn't buy an apple from you Now, go and sit down with the blowjob rugby boys and shut the fuck up."

At this point, having thrown the room into the abyss, I brought Sam on. He did aright, well they hated him a lot less than me. More chairs collapsed. more beer hit the floor. No sign of Miles.

Sam comes off, and we decide to kill the gig, before it kills us. Music comes back on. Those who can still stand, dance.

Miles arrives. He looks around the tent of death. He walks up to me and says, " Let me guess Dowdy. You stood, smiled, then said the worst thing you could possibly think of."

We got paid. Miles gave me a lift home. Gig.