He'll be shuffling through the City of Heroic Failure towards the end of May, so we've made these special arrangements :

This one is a well-established Dylan Fest, attracting contributions from every part of the master lyricist's vast and varied catalogue. Experience suggests it will likely run and run, so grab a seat early.

______No, but he will be on May 24th.______

First, apologies to anyone who may have taken offence at the last epistle, but it was actually posted before there was any news of an outbreak. The macabre coincidence is, therefore, as regrettable as it is gruesome. If only the next rollover jackpot numbers would suggest themselves before the event as readily . . .

Secondly, Dixons finally fixed a certain car the week after Easter - fingers remain crossed - only took 'em 3 months or so. It was noticed that they were also hitting the headlines in other parts of the country as well, still, no publicity is BAD publicity . . .or is it ? . . . Hmm . . . Make yer own minds up, and now read on.

Kids, don't try this at home !

Previous visitors to this saga page may recall those unconfirmed reports at the tail end of that notorious last bulletin, wherein it was rumoured that the legendary Louis D'Cadnov had been apprehended in Fryupdale on a cheese rap ?

Well folks, fear not . . . the old-looking guy who was zimmer-ed into custody was, allegedly, the guitarist from Buzzard's stunt double, and he quickly 'magick-ed' hisself into the blue yonder under cover of a smoke bomb, or similar . . . At least, that's how the story goes 'round these parts !

So, Louis the centenarian pimpernel is still alive and well, elusive and at large, (maybe even al fresco - who can say ?), though his exact whereabouts MUST remain a closely guarded secret, until the flak dies down, innit ? He went into hiding and missed our March gig, which felt more like a reunion affair for the original line-up, though it was no less enjoyable for that as Dave aka Trevor celebrated his return to action with considerable gusto. Not only that, but the equally resuscitated old git ' Mr. T ' found some dancing room, choosing to lean to the right where the keyboards used to stand.

Ageing with time, like yesterday's wine . . . ? Plonk !

Word evidently got through to Louis as he dropped us a line t'other day. His French letter goes something like this . . .

____________________________________________

Ah ! St. Michel. What happens there now ?

As a young man, I would hustle for loose change among the Tunisian immigrants and gypsy women - it wasn't for the money, you understand. No, it was for the belief that I was heading for something better and, in truth, where did I find myself ?

No, I was never a King in this world, I was only ever a backstreet poet elevated by the delusionary grandeur of the title of 'Propaganda Correspondent' for the "Sport de la Paris" . . . but what stories ! What places ! What characters !

The Place de la Concorde, Bastille, that little café where I first laid eyes on Marie and that hotel room where she began to hide her thoughts from my gaze. Ah ! Such bitter memories and sweet reminiscences haunt me from those times.

(Is that a French accordian I hear ? . . . Aah . . . Oh no . . ! . . It's Edith . . . . Pass the Gauloises . . . Absinthe . . . Vite !)

I, myself, witnessed strange goings-on in the Languedoc heartland in the South. Perhaps the set list may be a little different next time, perhaps not. Every note is not yet accounted for - (so they tell me).

When the time for action has come, the moment must be quickly seized. Anxious hesitation is a nuisance that is bound to bring disaster.

(Tell that to the Bantams !)

I reminded 'The Bones' of their gig at a bar in Harrogate - they wouldn't listen ! And so the macrocosm becomes the microcosm and, as the central scrutineer says before 'Watermelon in Easter Hay', "Who gives a . . . . anyway !"

This is 2001, not 1969, and This is The Time and I have been . . .

God Bless You For Now - Louis"

___________________________________________

He's a Real Old -Time GameBoy, don't you think . . . . ? (I hear he's joining Fulham at the end of the season as Media Relations Director / Half-time Pie-Man. Calls his new boss 'Meester Alf Harrod', apparently . . .)

(No guarantee you'll understand it though, but . . . even Edgar Lustgarten had that problem with Louis . . . and Dali's crowd called him a 'right twat' - ('twat adroîte'). However, it was rather hot on the Med' that year - just look at how that watch melted - and that crowd of Onanists were nothing if not a bunch o' wankers anyway . . . !)

Rest assured - Louis tells it like it IS. Louis sees the Real Deal - (as well as the SUR-real one) !

No punches pulled and no diving in the box. (He knows better from watching the scar-faced fire-eater and the burned out street girls . . ! )

Act now before the end of the month and he'll waive his usual fee.

What've you got to lose ? Your extra-normality badge ? Pif-paf-puf . . a mere bagatelle . . .

Alors, mes amis. Tout suite . . .

What did YOU go without ? Drop us a line. Share it with your chums !

Please stand up . . . Mister Eminem !

(Some pundits are speaking of him in glowing terms, likening his gifts to those of Dylan, Lennon and others with a gift for stripping away the hypocrisies of Modern Life . . . but I fancy the Electoral College will ultimately side with the view attributed earlier to, and of, the Dali faction . . . )

 Y'all Come Now !