The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed. 

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble. 

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career. 

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him." 

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.    

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him. 

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. Jeremy Corbyn's success is a direct reaction to this.

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed. 

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble. 

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career. 

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him." 

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.    

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him. 

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. Jeremy Corbyn's success is a direct reaction to this.

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed. 

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble. 

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career. 

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him." 

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.    

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him. 

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. 

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts and has just received its Irish Premier. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed. 

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble. 

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career. 

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him." 

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.    

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him. 

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. 

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts and has just received its Irish Premier. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

Prince: my tribute

My Brother has just Whatsapped me a link to a story confirming Prince’s death from an overdose of painkillers. His commentary was, “What a cliche.” I can’t say I see it that way necessarily. If you’ve ever had to endure persistent pain any kind of relief seems like a blessing. I’m biased though. I thought Prince was amazing and so naturally I’ll always cut the brother a little slack.

I didn’t start out a fan though. The first time I encountered Prince I was in the bedroom of my then girlfriend’s girlfriend who lived over by Lyme Park in a very swanky abode. We four - her boyfriend was there too - had spent a lovely summer afternoon chatting and sipping lemonade. 

At some point we repaired to my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s bedroom to flick through her music collection… It was clear the afternoon was winding to a close - no-one has music taste as good as mine - and so I tuned out. I remember wondering how we were going to make the journey back to Hazel Grove: hoping that my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s Mum, who looked extraordinarily like Dudley Moore, would give us a lift, when there was a scream. A prolonged, piercing note which made me wince. What the-? It was my girlfriend emoting dramatically having unearthed a rare Prince single, namely Gotta Stop (Messin’ About). 

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodi’lldoanythingi’llkissyourfeetpleeeeeeaaaaaseletmehavethisilovehimilovehimilovehim!” I have had many occasions to look back on my relationship with this unhinged sociopath and experience regret and not a little embarrassment. I would say this is one of the 5 highlights from that particular reel. My girlfriend’s girlfriend looked puzzled and appalled, prised my girlfriend’s clawing fingers from her left ankle and eventually said, “Yes. Sure. Have it,” shooting me a look which seemingly asked the question: “Are you that desperate for regular sex?” I was.

On the long drive home - Our Dud was a particularly cautious driver - I examined the sleeve and was repulsed by the fop in the black, groin length stay-ups, posing pouch and red scarf under his black jacket. He had brown eyes like those of a baby deer and ostentatiously relaxed hair. He looked ridiculous, but for some reason my girlfriend was still shaking with excitement, her chest heaving with emotion.

A few months later we were lying on her bed and a song came on with a truly thrilling guitar solo which threw shards of light about the darkened room. I sat up. “Who’s this?”

“Prince.”

“Are you fucking joking?”

“No. And he’s playing all of the other instruments…”

“Hmmmm…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A grudging respect for his musicianship was flowering, but I still had a pathological aversion to this weirdo. Perhaps a year or so later and the short-arse was playing Wembley. Fine… I’ll go if you want. Same damned thing. She’s normal. She’s normal. Prince finally appears on stage and she loses her shit. Like completely and utterly. She’s elbowing past other concert goers and security guards to get to the front whilst screaming as if someone is ripping her left ankle through the top of her skull. 

I sigh, gather her abandoned effects from her seat and make my way more politely forward. I can see her form bopping away down the front. Somehow she’s hopped a security barrier and she’s having the time of her life. I look around the venue and everyone else is too. I look at the stage and Prince, in an effortlessly stylish yellow suit with oversized buttons is doing his best James Brown impression as he teases rhythmic chords out of a Hammond organ. Occasionally he’ll pirouette, perform a push-me-pull-you with the mic stand before dropping into the splits as he cues a horn break. Holy fuck!

I look around Wembley Arena. 10,000 people are smiling as they dance to a non-stop, machine-tooled groove. It’s simply the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever experienced. Transcendental. Magickal. He slows the proceedings just long enough for us to bear witness to him bringing his microphone to a shuddering orgasm. Oh, Lawd… I was officially a fan. I eventually split up with the crazy screamer, but for a while the only thing that kept us together as a couple was a shared affection for Prince.

Unhappy at never receiving a thin penny for either recording or shows and reluctant to tour again under the same fund-free agreement, Jayne County dispensed with my services as drummer - using the N word as the ‘phone was slammed down. I didn’t care. The live reviews confirmed what was glaringly obvious: she was the weakest link in her own band. I wanted to do something else and got together with Peter Turner who was as into KISS as me and we fulfilled our Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons songwriting fantasy. After that I played with a guitarist who was in The Fall for two weeks and then toured Europe with Vicious Rumours. Upon my return I wanted to see if I pull off a Prince and do it all on my own instead of relying on other people whose priorities and values weren't aligned with mine. 

I borrowed a keyboard and a drum machine and wrote a couple of songs which were very Prince-like in nature, drawing from his synth-heavy Minneapolis sound blueprint. One of the songs sounded like a riffed up version of Control by Janet Jackson, whilst the other was essentially a re-writing of Prince’s acclaimed B-Side, Irresistible Bitch. I took some birthday money and booked a day in what is now Courtyard Recording Studio. I played everything except the guitar which I brought in Peter Turner to play. As became de rigeur for Pete, any time he had to leave his bedroom to play his instrument he froze. It took him an unbelievable 2 and a half hours to lay down an 8 bar lead break. In order to finish the session I had to rush a little more than I wanted and cut some corners, but the lack of polish added a vibrance to the tunes which means they still sound pretty good today actually.

I searched around for musicians to bring the songs to life, which was pretty tough in Stockport, but I told everyone we were going to be so good as a live band that there was no way we wouldn’t get signed. They were my Revolution and we rehearsed hard, making sure we had harmonies, gang vocals and on point choreography which set us apart from every other band on the live circuit. We’d go down to London and blow away all these bands that we’d read about in the weekly music mags.

We started getting a lot of press ourselves and I whizzed a copy of the demo over to Dave Roberts at FM Revolver inviting him to a gig at The International. He came up to me afterwards beaming. “I’ve no idea how to describe what you do, but that’s the best gig I’ve seen in years.” He signed me on the spot. I was elated because they were the label that had released The Stone Roses’ Sally Cinnamon. So cool. 

We had a photo shoot for the EP. It was all a tad untidy with everyone dressed differently and disparately. Eventually Dave dismissed the band and instructed me to take my shirt off. That was the cover. The chaps and chapess who included: Gary on drums; my Brother on percussion; Des and Clifford on keys, Greg Curley - who I’d played with in Vicious Rumours - on guitar; Mark Pearson from Jayne County on bass; and a singer named Shairon who set her predatory sights on our ingenue drummer, were disgruntled. What can I say? I was a lithe adonis back then before the steroids (for health reasons) and the piling on of muscle, and my perfect form demanded to be captured for posterity. I didn’t see the irony at the time, but I had just become Prince on the cover of Gotta Stop (Messin’ Around).

The 3 song EP was supposed to serve as a teaser for the rip-roaring album which would feature all of my best songs including the first two songs I’d written and set closer Rock This House which ALWAYS brought the house down. The album was recorded at Twilight Studio in Salford, and sounded incredible. We'd slimmed down to a 4 piece with me handling drums and vocals and my brother playing keyboards and the live bottom end contrasted with the machine operated rhythms we'd had before. Typically, as we delivered the album to the label Dave got poached by Nude and there was no-one else at the label who got what we were doing. The lesson is, of course: never save your best stuff.

After that first Wembley gig I followed Prince and his work studiously. I saw him 15 or so times in concert and have all of his albums. Even the ultra rare Gold Nigga. When Wireless signed to EMI in addition to my pristine Beatles box set, Gordon managed to secure me a promo copy of Emancipation. 

Eventually, disillusioned with the lack of suitors and benefactors the band morphed into Shake Babies who became Damaged Gods and are now The Xtraordinary Gentlemen, but the blueprint has always been that laid down by Prince. The motivation to recreate that feeling I had when I slowly panned around Wembley Arena and then looked at the stage to watch Prince doing stuff I’ve never seen before and never will again. 

I had a quick scan of iTunes when I heard about Prince passing and found that FM Revolver had reissued the EP. Half the globe away he inspired me to believe that I could manifest a world from my own imagination and have musicians help me build a gleaming edifice that others would enjoy. 

The day after Prince’s passing my Bro’ and I (who have always channelled that louche Morris Day/Jerome Benton vibe) played our first TXG gig in ages supporting Professor Elemental and Cosmic Rays featuring Charlie Adlard (The Walking Dead). I didn’t tell anyone, but as we teased smiles from strangers and demanded their enthusiastic participation in creating a thoroughly immersive experience, that was my tribute to Prince: His Royal Badness.