I've been trying to put this off for as long as possible but the truth is out there, clawing big holes in the screen door, plus it crapped out next to the back step and then walked in it and now its tracking it all over the place. Someone please go get a rag and turn the hose on and wash off the Truth before it comes in and tracks crap all over the rug, OK?
Many of you have written in asking "Why is it that you never visit the UK like you used to?" and "Why do my underpants feel all funny after I dry them with synthetics?" And to this I have one answer:
It started many many years ago, back when Ronald Reagan was just a schoolboy parading around in his mothers bra and panties in the bathroom mirror while his uncle with the funny accent watched through the keyhole. Back in those days the rules were different. People were different.
Babies were different too.
Some hinted darkly that his mother had been scared by an unknown assailant while she was out taking a pregnant, naked romp through the underbrush one day and that her offspring had somehow been marked by this trauma.
Everyone knows that's bullshit of course but its what people said and I'm not going to argue with them. Some people pointed a finger of blame at Winston Churchill. I like to blame things on Winston Churchill too. Winston Churchill would totally fuck with you. He'd do shit like unscrew the cap on the salt shakers and people would be like "Aw Jesus, Winston, don't be such a douche" but he'd just laugh.
The Beasts' early years are shrouded in mystery. Only this picture remains
...relic of a time when the Beasts parents had tried to foster a love of music in their growing boys' breast, despite the fact that it kept getting pinched in the bellows.
Back when I was making regular visits to the UK (or as we liked to call it back then "The UK") as a member of Led Zeppelin, we often found ourselves playing venues out in the trackless wastes of the English high desert...our only light the smouldering gypsy campfires; our only audience the smouldering Gypsies. It was a simpler time... a time when a middle-aged woman could lie about being a member of one of rock and rolls' most popular power groups and get away with it. I was happy as their lead singer. Happy save for one thing....
Somewhere in the darkness you could hear him. Breathing. Panting. Lusting after the taste of rock and roll flesh and entrails and guts and hair and stuff.
In the mornings you would find the print of his huge...print....waiting for you just outside, like a hideous 'Get Well' card signed by a disturbed stranger in a public restroom.
He was out there.
For years we remained one step ahead of him, like some maniac game of Cribbage with life and death as the stakes, until Robert Plant would put one of the little marker dealies in his mouth and everyone would go "Oh Jesus Bob get that out of your mouth; are you six?" and he'd sulk, and nobody could remember what the score was.
THE BEAST KNEW.
One fateful night he executed his fell masterstroke! In one savage moment reeking of blood and panic he leapt upon the prostate form of John Paul Jones and shredded his mortal coil, festooning his still-quivering flesh like icky bloody shredded stuff across the panicked landscapes of our shocked and shreiking brains!!!!! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" went our brains. Just like that!
AND THE BEAST LAUGHED!
Tune in next week for the further adventures of The Beast of Bournemouth! WHY? Because if I don't hit 'publish' this won't save for some demented reason! So yeah! Do that!
* oh come on that's funny. get it? get it? enlarged? and its a picture of an enlarged prostate? because prostate sounds like prostrate, and