An Invisible Touch

The news was met with dewy eyes and much contrition: a light went out forever as Phil Collins announced his retirement from music, starting with immediate effect. Like Leaded Petrol and Michael Barrymore, the Big PC has struggled to find a relevancy in the digital age; outmoded and irrelevant he has spent the past few years driving his massive yacht around Lake Geneva, polishing his head and counting his Nazi Gold, unable to recapture the greatness that gave the world such hits as the vaguely menacing ‘Billy, Don’t Loose That Number’, the haunting meditation on tramp banging ‘Another Day In Paradise’ and my personal favourite Su Su Sudio (in which our snatch-eyed protagonist atones for his inadequacies as a Father with some really shit hot flam work). Art-Rock Drum Twat turned reclusive millionaire Collins, who won the hearts of millions with his borderline rapey performance in Buster, has avowed to spend his pudding years building the worlds largest collection of memorabilia from The Alamo. As Littlejohn would scoff, you really couldn’t make it up.

As sad as the news may have been, it wasn’t going to stop me from living La Vida Russy with a Bank Holiday on the horizon, so with best brogue forward I wiped my peepers and took myself uptown to watch a band and nurse a scoop or two of the black stuff. Quite fortuitously I ended up at the Scruffy Bird night at The Star of Bethnal Green, the musical distraction laid on courtesy of The Invisible.

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