First off, here's a trip down Memory Lane for one or two of youse good people, courtesy of Dave (aka Trevor) cleaning out his shell-suit underpant drawer a while ago and scraping off this treasured memento from days of yore :

I never knew Françoise was a cuddywhifter, did you ? Ah, but no mind - can you not just picture the lass singing "Tous les garçons et les filles". I well remember her in the 60s on the TV doing the occasional token Euro slot on ToTP. They didn't have 'In Vision' then with the captions, but you could tell from her voice how very sad the song was. Every bleeding song she sang was about her getting the shit end of the stick . . . Such pathos from one so young. Sheer magic and a pure Gallic delight.

Yes . . . great years. All the young boys, mini-skirts, dolly birds, young French exchange teachers, bikesheds, onanism . . . . the sweet secret stickiness of youthful yearn stains . . . Oh, Françoise . . .

I don't recall her ever playing at Wembley, though I believe she was down to be a sub once but broke a nail in the warm-up. What a team they had then, let me see now : Juste Fontaine, Clouseau & Maigret policing at the back, Serge Gainsbourg, Richard Anthony, Johnny Hallyday, Sacha Distel, the great Belmondo orchestrating the midfield and taking out the opponents' playmaker - (nothing was ever proved !), Monsieur Hulot, (what a dribbler), the left-sided Françoise herself, Marcel Marceau - (nothing was ever said !), Pet Clark, Carlos the Jackal - (what a striker), and that guy with the replacement hip . . . what was his name ? . . . Oh aye, Plastik Bertrand . . . . . . far more gifted than today's crop of Nancy boys. Then there was the sublime Catherine Deneuve - (were frogs legs ever so dainty ?) - she was the pick of the bunch for me. I have to hold my hands up and admit that she had a tendency to go down rather easily, but Oh ! That sweet left foot could unzip even the tightest defences in the World, even the legendary catenaccio ! - All together now :

Doo-be doo-be doo, doo doo doo dwee dah ! Aaoeauurghh, je t'aime . . . .

They just don't write 'em like that anymore, do they ? - Who needs words anyway ? - That Serge never did need that many, did he ? - Hey, and he got barred by the BBC as well, didn't he ? - Class will out, sooner or later. Shame the Bones don't have any . . . they'd never even dream of shagging in the soundproof . . . I mean, which band do YOU know could spend four hours rehearsing songs they've known for 30 years, make a pig's ear of it and think they done well ? . . .as I said, no class !

And imagine Woody being a multi-instrumentalist as well. I thought he was strictly a Sunday afternoon Noo Yawk jam (and bagels) clarinet man, but here he is on his couch, casting his spell on Françoise, who must've only been a young girl herself in those days . . . hmm . . .

(Deep baritone Voice of Reason) "Don't go there or the lawyers'll have a field-day" . . . so we'll not tempt 'em.

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(My mate once found a mandolin in a litter bin near Brandon Stadium. Somebody had given it a right good seeing to, but you could still get a tune out of it. There's interesting, innit ? - Gimpy for Gold, eh ? - Brew Xl ? - Those were the days. Anybody know what became of Eddie YingTong ? - The little Shit.)

We don't give two hoots whether it's a straight or an AC/DC guitar though. In fact if it's a real dog, so much the better. No private, intimate or too personal details needed, but please, No Air Guitars ! - (They're a bastard to scan !)

Rifles, do I hear rifles ? - Well . . .OK, so long as they’re point TwoTwo. Ah, young boys in the woods, tight camouflage trousers, liquorice water, five Cadets, a tin of Eley Wasps . . . sudden pains in a warm bum biddy’s suddenly much warmer bum . . .

It wisnae ME, you understand ? - A big boy did it and he ran away. Was it YOU ?

I just overheard the biddy in the fish-shop telling the apprentice armature winder – surely you know him ?

Clearly the runt of the family, and the youngest of 2 point 4 children, he wears wrong size overalls and has a gormless face, no memory and a ginormous cardboard box. On Fridays he takes this box to the chippy together with a list, hastily scribbled by an illiterate – hence indecipherable and thus of little use as neither of the permitted overage Dorises can read it - and AAW can’t remember which of the three Kevins wanted scraps on and which one wanted double Spam fritters and coke and which one wanted the diet Iron Bru, black pudding and sweetmeats with a balti dip and a shredded shark-shite scuffler with extra mango chutney. . . . etcetera, etcetera, et-bloody-ceteraaaah ! - And it all looks and tastes like cardboard. How can they tell the difference ? - AAW always mixes their orders up, and Kevin always gets extra dogshit in his !

Haven’t you ever stood behind him on a Friday dinnertime when all you wanted was a fish and two penn'orth ? - Does the Doris squeeze you in, ever ? - Nah, same in Bratfudd. And hey ! - That Diet Iron Bru's a tad wimpy at the side of the real thing, don't you find ? - "Made in Scotland, from staples !" - Give me DangerMouse Cola ANY day, preferably with Albatross Scratchings !

And, any road, just how long does your average armature winder have to train before he can turn professional ?

Can you imagine the passing out parade when one of 'em manages it ? - I bet there's loadsa food and booze and speeches and certificates, then it's "ShowTime". A reverent hush descends on the assembled multitude - ("Thankyou, Please, all around the room !) - as the lights dim until there's only the one spotlight left, bathing in brilliant green light that part of the stage where the star will emerge. The smoke machine cranks into life, the drum roll begins, and then those immortal words . . .

"Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be Wynder K. Frog" ! - Great applause all around the room.

Oh. Suit yourselves.

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(I hope Greg didn't get my drift last night - I'd been to a Barby AND had mushy peas. He said nowt, so I think I got away with it . . apart from several urgent visits today, that is. Now, if I were a rich man, and I had 2 Sheds . . . .

Anybody out there got 2 ? - Or more even ? ? ?)

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Now, if you're still with us after the above toss and rant, you'll no doubt have surmised that we are once again on a par with Stoke Newington in the 'What's Happening ?' dept. This, however, is destined to change, if only for a few hours, on :

You are invited to "Come, Join Uncle John's Band" that evening, a case of ‘the more the merrier’, and we'll be having several 'Open Mike' slots as the gig progresses. Events will start considerably earlier than usual, with the proposed acoustic segment kicking off somewhere around 8.15 p.m. (Yeah, and pigs will fly at twenty past.) The Bones will still do a couple of sets but there will be room for anyone who so desires to get up to sing with the band, by themselves, with their mates, whatever . . . You can even put a bag on yer 'ead if it works for you . .

The June gig at Mac's was a bit of a hoot. It followed the now familiar pattern of a rather shortish opening set, where we try to become re-acquainted with each other and the material, (Mickey was back), then more ale, some dropped pennies and then it's full mash 'til the Debonair Doctor dances and the Large Lady lets loose her larynx.

Richard Trousers-Leather / Gumboots-Hell jammed in again and seemed to give the boys a shot of adrenalin which carried them through 'til the end. Thanks to all our friends for a very warm reception and a great atmosphere, and a special thanks to the bonny lass who went roond with the glass. She broke the record !

The Live Bones Dead CD hasn't been that well received by the few who've heard it. It seems 'Franklin's Tower' subsided after a couple of verses and was last seen sinking into the quicksand of a faltering tempo.

(Timmy only had one stick left at the end of the night it was recorded ! - If memory serves me well he'd stuffed the penultimate one up Dave's shite amp - since replaced ! - - Er, that's Dave's amp, not Timmy's missing stick. Times is 'ard up North, and getting 'arder by the month. See the Gigs Page !)

One or two other cuts haven't met with the sort of approval we'd ideally like, either, "Right Pile o' Crap" and "Utter Box o' Wank" being some of the less offensive comments, even if they were amongst the better tunes, so rather than foist bad shite onto good friends, we'll put the whole deal on pause.

Mickey keeps threatening to bring his latest Magic Box to record us with, but you already know how much trouble he has just bringing himself to the odd gig, so I suppose we'll have to make a 'pointment' with him, eh ? But still there's hope that we'll eventually get the odd flukey diamond out from in between the usual stuff - (someone could always unplug Dave) - and see 'The Project' through to completion. It's only been two years so far . . there are old Bones involved, and that archaeology game's not a two minute job, (unlike most of mine today so far) . . is it ? - No, is it heckers like !

"R-K-O-logy ? Hardest game in the world mate. Thirty years I done it, man and boy. Diggin' an' brushin' from mornin' 'til night. Dead geezers in bandages everywhere mate. Sand in yer sandwiches, vipers in yer VIP tent, asps in yer 'ammock, spiders in the karzi, parchment for bogroll and curses, curses . . . more curses than you could poke a stick at. Had to give it all up in the end though mate, the bottom dropped out o' me trousers and I got taken by one o' them armoured dildos . . . .

If you want more good news, read the Gigs Page. We bring you Good News ! - GO ON !

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And afterwards, as in the days, weeks and (possibly) months thereafter, you’ll only be able to see the BONES under exclusive contract to MacRory’s Bar, (work it out for y’selves, eh ?)

As things turned out, no-one did (turn out, that is), so it was curtains. The guy needs to make a living after all. Blame it on Midnight – Blame it on El Niño – Blame it on Timmy, if you must, but hold onto the thought that we’ll meet again, don't know where, don't know when, but I know we'll meet again some sunny day . . . . .

Dark Star crashed . . . So Sad. - (That Andy KNEW it was coming. . . Dintya ?) - What say you now, Soothsayer ? - (I bet he says "Sooth !" again . . . ) - We cannot afford to go Sooth, Man . . .

So buy the bloody T-shirts & posters !

Yeah, 'course you will . . .

Just like always !

Poor Timmy cries himself to sleep

after every gig. He still dreams of

having two proper sticks one day !