It wasn't until I'd finished my second lunchtime drink that I remembered the 1989 TV series 'Tutti Frutti'..I looked it up... and the lead guitarist played by Maurice Roeves who set himself on fire while playing guitar at the end of the last episode. It was a staggering image which my visitor was obviously attempting to re-enact in the most absurd way possible, but only suffered superficial burns instead of being reduced to charcoal.

The tales about managers and agents are legion and in a way rather wonderful. Benyon  often said he knew he was in the process of being ripped off but couldn't stop himself agreeing to do jobs that he knew he would never  be paid for. New magazines were just the same 'if you do cartoons in our first issue for free we will pay you double in the next issue'. Of course there was never another issue and the he was often being promised sixpence in the pound by the liquidator of some publication or another, which never appeared.

The guitarist went off this morning and I don't need to say the guitar burning never resulted in a half decent picture of a flaming fender against a backdrop of wild midnight surf. But he wasn't too badly burned, although the tattoo on his arm was partly blistered which pissed him off to a fair degree. But believe me it's an improvement. If he ever sobered up he would  realise that a man of his age looks ridiculous with an ugly blue coloured sexual act  on his forearm. It looked okay in the late 70's but the man has children, somewhere. The misdirected lighter fuel has probably done him a favour. Actually it was a retro rock'n'roll experience which has left me with a touch of elation. Erk Alors, alone again, c'est fabbo!



I keep posting these gags but the stack of drawings in the corner doesn't seem to go down and it's impossible to edit them. It takes time and I have a life, well that's a bit of an overstatement, but my visitor, who has been staying with me for too long, hasn't exactly helped. Fortunately he's been promised a series of gigs and with any luck he'll be off to stay with someone else. I believe it's a limited tour or 'stagger' around the west country and possibly Spain, which sounds like a fantasy of his agent. I doubt they'll get further than Penzance.

He has asked if I'll photograph him tonight on the beach playing a guitar which he is planning to set fire to. Bugger, these things always go horribly wrong but somehow it's difficult not to get drawn into the plans of the deranged. For me, anyway.

Riots and looting are cyclic. Best done when the Tory's are in power because it provides a petito justification. No future maaaaan! We don't riot much on this stretch of beach just drink too much cider and scream into the wind at midnight. I'm pretty, pretty vacaaaaant! You could get really, really cynical about Punk and Mclaren in particular. But I remember talking to Chris Salewicz who had  interviewed Sid and Nancy for the NME, he raised  his eyebrows and looked at me saying "I told  Sid, you look tired, why don't you go to New York for a holiday" and the rest is history. If you've got that issue under the bed, it's all in the copy. Salewicz also wrote some stuff for the Thin Lizzy programme and Benyon claimed the late Gary Moore had a go at him at Abbey Road where they met later on during the ill fated Greg Lake project, because Salewicz had written that he drank battery acid. Which in fcat he hadn't - he just looked as though he had.

Ah, Bruce! Forever the future of rock'n'roll and yet in retrospect a rather show biz kind of dude, jamming with presidents, as one does. Baby we were born to run...for the Senate. Unfair? I guess so and have to admit I played his first album until the grooves had grooves. But I saw him years later at Wembley and it was a bit like experiencing a West End musical, so very choreographed, so very Saturday night light entertainment with every sharp edge filed down.

Sigho, I sound a bit of a miserable sod but it's damn cold this morning and my visitor is still here and drinking his way through his life story.

I really would rather have Meatloaf screaming about hearts flying out of dead peoples chests (wouldn't that be good in NCIS) in a strained mock opera than Born in the USA as performed in the White House.

I'm certain that Benyon had no idea of how many 'drug' orientated strips he wrote over the years but it comes as no surprise. He always thought of himself as a moralist,  and pointing out  the damage drugs can do, like  destroying lives, deleting minds and killing people. The highway to hell thing becomes less attractive as friends, colleagues and family slide out of the fast line and into a fleet of oncoming trucks. But if you were taking a swipe at rock music you had to include the drugs, drugs, drugs and drugs.

I can remember working in an office where bets were being taken on which rockstar would be taken next by the grim reaper. Keith 'how is he still alive' Richards was hot favourite but Benyon who was visiting shook his head 'Phil Lynot' he muttered. Evidently he had been working on a programme for the Thin Lizzy no Sleep 'til Hammersmith tour and he had been face to face with Phil and seen the problem. He never placed a bet but sure enough Phil, very sadly, was the next to go which upset him a lot because he really dug that double album. He had also been to the last Hammersmith gig which he rated but complained about being deaf for three days



Well, more Band Aid and I guess one or two dudes did very well from it. Queen had an immense impact from a magical set that was perfectly pitched. But the idea that managers and agents suddenly become saints in these situations is tosh. Just like that tedious programme 'Location, Location' showbiz is all about 'Promotion, Promotion' which Gaspo! or 'How to make it as a rock star' was all about. Alas, Promotion, Promotion has become 'Self Promotion, Self Promotion' and very tedious it is too with everyone from footballers to 'Artists' scrambling over each other hoping to force their vacuous lifestyles into our homes via every medium possible. Sigho! Even three feet thick of cottage wall fails to stop the constant waves of mundane flotsam and jetsam seeping into my life.