So we run into a friend in the middle of the night, and next thing we know we’re on a stage in a forest, with people TP-ing in from all over the Grid just to join the groove! Above an impression of the scenery and the people, below the fold a little poem (or something like that, anyway) which we feel is appropriate for this lovely evening.

I am the Big Shot.
You heard me right the first time. Name of batchelor Johnny Cool. Occupation: Big Shot. Occupation at the moment: just having fun. What a party that was – the drinks were loaded and so were the dolls.

I narrowed my eyes and poured a stiff Manhattan. Then I saw… Hotsie. What a dame. A big, bountiful babe in the region of 48-23-38. One hell of a region. She had the hottest lips since Hiroshima: I had to stand back for fear of being burned. Whiskey wow wow. I breathed. She was dressed as “Biffo the Bear”. In that kind of outfit she could get rolled at night… and I don’t mean on a crap table.

It’s kind of revealing, isn’t it? Revealing? It’s positively risqué – I like it. She said: “You’re a man with a thousand Gs, right?” “A thousand what?” I quipped. “G-men, girls, guns, guts. You’re my type.” “Wrong, baby” I slapped her hard. “I’m a `L’ man: strictly liquor, love and laughs.”

She stared over my shoulder: “Play it cool, Johnny.” Play it what? I flipped. “Listen, I fought my way up from tough East Side New York. Lead-filled saps and sub-machine guns, like this.”

She said: “Johnny, this is a deadly game, have a few laughs and go home.” I shuddered. Normally I pack a rod in pyjamas – I carry nothing but scars from Normandy Beach. I said “Wrong, baby, you can’t fool me.” She spat playfully. “I’m ahead of you, Johnny.” I studied the swell of her enormous boobs and said: “Baby, you’re so far ahead it’s beautiful.”

“You, you are, you are eccentric, I like that.” “Electric cheri, bonk off my rocket, tu comprends?” We spoke French fluently. Our lips met again and again. “Yeah, yeah yeah” I slobbered. Hotsie said: “You’re slobbering all over the seat, kid.”

I went home late. Very late. What could I say to my wife? “Darling, I’ve been beaten up again.” Let’s face it: she’s credulous as hell.

A punk stopped me on the street. He said “Have you got a light Mac?” I said: “No, but I’ve got a dark brown overcoat.”

[The Bonzo Dog Doodah Band – Big Shot]