C.W Stoneking: 1920s Jungle Blues...Astor Videos

C.W. STONEKING LIVE, Love Me Or Die from b-uncut on Vimeo.

C.W. STONEKING LIVE - 'Don't Go Dancin Down the Darktown Strutter's Ball' from b-uncut on Vimeo.

Here are Lawrence Whiteley's atmospheric Videos of CW Stoneking at The Astor in Deal. Click They are really classy... worth a squizz...

CW Stoneking - Jungle Blues

C W Stoneking at The Astor, Deal.

C W Stoneking, originally uploaded by petercocks.

Seasick Steve's other mate, Australian cult blues artist CW Stoneking took a dog leg in his European tour and came to Deal a couple of weeks ago. The enterprising Smuggler, Will Greenham, stuck his neck out and booked CW on a Monday night and filled the Astor.
I mentioned to Steve that CW had gone down a storm...Seasick had played the BArbican with him earlier in the year. Steve shook his head. "Strange Guy," he said.
I don't think he was talking about me.

Seasick Steve 'n' Me

David Shrigley - Dead Cat. Tate Britain. Rude Brittania

Conrad Butlin.

Securitity at Andrew Lamberty's Shop, Pimlico Rd.

Seasick Steve 'n' Me, originally uploaded by petercocks. "Sorry Steve, we're fully booked. What about Feb?"

Reader, whadda week! Phew.

Following the runaway success of Private Widdle's first Social Club meeting (and my lurking grief from the untimely death of friend Frank Sidebottom) my old pal Seasick Steve was on the blower, trying to book in for the next Pte Widdle meeting (pencilled 2nd October, Astor Theatre, Deal 7.31 [sharp] ). I said I would meet with him at the BBC, where he was lounging around smoking and drinking red, waiting to be abused by Jonathan Ross.

Of course, I know Steve from my days with "Brian J and the Westerneers" when we used to play on the same bill in the CIU clubs along the Thames Estuary. Steve once invited us over to play in Tennesseee, but we could not afford the train fare to Wales. Of course, I know Jonathan Ross vaguely, too, having beaten him at arm wrestling at his more famous brother, Paul's, wedding.

It was fortunate for Steve (Sicky..or Steve or SSS, as I call him) that I was at the BBC on Thursday, promoting my daughter, Rusty O'Hara's, documentary idea for a pop talent show featuring stripping fourteen year olds. Sadly they didn't bite, but showed great interest in developing mine and Mark Billingham's new idea for a new kid's sitcom 'My Gay Grandad'.

"I think we're ready for our first gay kid's show," the producer said. "But can the grandad be from a minority?"

Apparently gayness alone doesn't cut it at the BBC any more, Grandad needs to have a gene pool from at least one sub-continent and, preferably, a missing limb. I will contact Richard Pryor's people: he's been dead for 5 years, too, so he should be a shoo-in

The other downer was that I had to blow Seasick (SSS) out for Oct 2nd as I am getting so much interest from other acts. I said I may get back to him for next winter's Private Widdle meeting but, let's face it...he only plays one or two strings whereas I have acts that can play the full six strings, and other instruments including the kazoo and ukelele.

He said he was playing a festival somewhere near Glastonbury. I will watch how well he does and proceed on that basis.

Later that evening I went to the Pimlico Road antique dealer's annual jolly with my London boyfriend/walker, Mr Sprake. We were allowed into Mr Andrew Lamberty's chic emporium: "I sell James Bond furniture to Blofelds". We gave the correct password and were ushered into the inner sanctum by the Top Models/Ukranian pornstars he employs as security.

Inside there were Blofelds, Blo-drys and Blo-jobs a go-go. Amongst them, Nicky Haslam and Viscount Linley (my old friend from retail) and Ms Anoushka Hempel. The place was crammed to botox-bursting point: my wrinkles disappeared just breathing the rareified air, and my gentleman's ball-purse looked like a six year old's party balloon (pink) on my release.

Amongst the party-titterati, I bumped into my old friend , male model, dicker and diver and man-about-shoreditch, Conrad Butlin (no relation). I had not seen Connie for fifteen years, but he looked great; gold-toothed and buff. Three bottles of Veuve Cliquot under (it was a hi-tone evening...what recession?) I rambled on to Conrad about our days down at Greenwich DHSS on the Enterprise Allowance Scheme (Maggie T's £40 quid a week beer allowance to do market stalls.) Conrad and I used to spend it in the pub and then buy silly things that didn't sell.

Into my second hour of rambling, Conrad looked over my shoulder (again) and insisted that he needed to 'mingle'. I assumed that this was cockerney rhyming slang for 'scoring pussy-cats'-which is the term I generally use. However, having reluctantly posed for a photograph, he took his similarly gold-toothed majordomo, who was on day -release from Belmarsh, and who had insisted on 'no publicity - no photos' and swanned off into the night.

See you in another 15, Conrad.

I took a rickshaw back to my brother's in top London suburb, Stockwell, where I slept off the excitement and, la manana, having feasted on eggs and bacon, locally and seasonally sourced from 'Sainsburys 24' in Clapham, I took in the Tate Britain show of 'Rude Brittania' the following morning.

I was blown away by a dead cat.

Paul Foot - Private Widdle, the morning after his first time.

Posing as Keeley Cheescake, Ellen the Spy seamlessly infiltrates Uncle Meat and the Highway C hildren. She sang two songs with them...when she didn't know the words to 'Let's Get Sticky' she was finally rumbled and poor Ms Cheescake was untied and rescued from the small lavatory at the Tom Thumb where she had been imprisoned.

Mr Foot takes the stage with Mr Varley

Ellen, foreign Spy.She goes to Dover from Margate on a 49cc moped every day. She interviews illegal immigrants in Russian, Serbo-Croat, Albanian or any other of the ten languages she speaks. She heckled Mr Foot with medieval slavic curses. It is clear from her seductive hairstyle and Marlene Dietrich cigarette that she is a RUSSIAN SPY!
Paul Foot, originally uploaded by petercocks. ...astonished by the sheer volume of balloons at The Tom Thumb.

The morning after his triumph up The Astor, Mr. Foot, who had been lodging with Will Greenham and the Smugglers ( in Olly's bed, where he found some chewing gum) made his way to Margate with the musicians. The Smugglers and associates were playing a free benefit at The Tom Thumb Theatre, the smallest theatre in the world of Margate.

Having been promised a father's day roast lunch, President Paul dined with his new friend, Will Varley in the Old Town.

I found them struggling uphill above the lido, their tubby bellies full of roast. I took Mr Foot to look at the Walpole Bay Hotel which boasts a gramophone and 78s in every room. He would like to stay there for his next visit, or even for a holiday. He enquired of the manageress, whether they had sepia porn channels or 'What the Butler Saw' machines in the rooms. They don't.

Back at the Tom Thumb, the afternoon's lineup included The Boxing Octopus, Uncle Meat and the Highway children and Will Varley and others.

Mr Foot did an impromptu set, featuring a (spoken) mime on the theme of antiques roadshow, involving a woden leg, heart attack and urinary disorders.. Paul correctly pointed out that mimes are very difficult to follow unless someone talks you through them. Which he did.

Afterwards, the Red Arrows kindly put on a display in support of The Tom Thumb and a spitfire flew past (my booking) in honour of Mr Paul Foot's triumphant weekend.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/petercocks/sets/72157624197683487/

Frank Sidebottom Obituary, The Guardian

Frank as Frank and Woody (Stephen Taylor Woodrow) as Freddie, Maidstone Studios c 1995.

Obituary : http://gu.com/p/2hpyc

A life in pictures: http://gu.com/p/2hpcj

The Private Widdle Social Club. Inaugural Meeting; Mr Foot's Royal visit to Deal.

Miss Pussy reduced the burly backstage boys to jelly with a glimpse of mangina, not shared by the audience...

Mr Paul Foot staked his claim and crowned himself new King of Deal (and Sandwich)

Ukelele Gangstas, frightened the horses with their talk of drive-by shootings: as hard-hitting and political as ever...


Hector, the Human Beatbox, a (not) surprise HIT of the evening.

Uncle Meat scared off the nans with their psycho-folk/punk...

Sara Pascoe charmed with a smile that concealed her dark centre...

Click to enlarge: photos © Peter Cocks and Laurence Burns

Private Widdle is delighted to announce that his first go up The Astor was a resounding success and, lubricated by Gadd's local ale, didn't hurt a bit.

The event sold out by close of play on Friday and tickets were changing hands around Union Street market on Saturday for as much as £11.50.

The talent came from far and wide...some from as far as Walmer, but Sara Pascoe and Mr Paul Foot even made it from Lon-Don, the big place at the very, very end of the seafront.

Uncle Meat and her Highway Children were reputed to have driven their magical bus from a place called Man-Chester, but few locals were convinced of the existence of such a place and thought they may have crawled out from under a stone, such was the state of their dishevellement on arrival.

Mr Paul Foot, or President Paul as he likes to be styled, arrived on the 3.14 (pm) from St Pancreas via Ashfag International and Ramsgatte. He was dressed, ready for semi-showbusiness, in his trademark grey leather bomber jacket, floral tie, pale grey hi-waisted (lightweight) gigging pants and silver brogues. He was met at Deal Station by Volvo limousine where the driver put his shopping trolley in the shooting brake.

The Deal Kazoo and Comb and Paper orchestra, who had been booked for his arrival, were still relaxing in The Railway Arms. They considered him a Lon-Don showbiz fop who would arrive fashionably late at 3.16. (am)

They were wrong.

Mr Foot is a punctual man.

Missing the reception committee, and having complained in a thespian fashion all the way on the 100 yard drive to theatre, Mr Foot was somewhat mollified by a visit to Deal's dedicated Golliwog shop, Mummery and Fudger. Mr Foot produced his own Golly from the shopping trolley and enquired of the lady manageress (Mrs.) whether she had another in his size.

Unfortunately, she only had the medium size in stock (Paul is a large Golly) at £12.99. She offered no trade discount.

Unable to buy a Golly in the correct size, Mr Foot was amused by the enamel golly badges available at Mummery and Fudger, particularly the Sikh Golly Badges and the Golly Robber and Golly Policeman.

The manageress, although denied a sale, was flattered by the visit of such a celebrity from Lon-Don and voiced her approval that Paul really understood Gollies. He even travels with his own.

"We get a lot of complaints," she said. "From middle class gaymen and lesbianists who troop down from Lon-Don in their chiffon scarves and comfortable shoes banging on about my Gollies not being correct, or something. They don't even live here," she said. I don't think she was talking about the Gollies by this point. She ignored the fact that second home-owning inverts, provide the much-needed pink finance that enables the smart end of the High Street to flourish with fish, cakey, caffe lattes and spray-free vegetables.

Mr Foot, although uncomfortable with the gushing endorsement from the lady, nodded his tacit agreement.

"In Deal, we call a Golly a Golly," she said. "I was born here. I've lived here all my life. A hundred years," as if qualifying her ownership and authority on Gollies, life, and Deal.

Back at the theatre, having discussed the running order at length for two minutes, written it down on a digestive biscuit (locally sourced, seasonal), Mr Paul Foot greeted the rest of the company: Paul Hendy, TV personality (Wheel of Fortune) author (Diary of a C-List Celeb) and pantomime mogul. Plus, Miss Pussy d'Amour; The Ukelele Gangstas; Will Greenham, the Smuggler's records impresario; Sara Pascoe (a friend of Mr Foot) and Jonathan the Piano - though strange, not a stranger, simply a friend who he had not yet met.

Pre-theatre supper was at Yon-Sea, a crumbling, Georgian money pit (owned by the author) on the High Street. Dinner was a local Deal speciality; Chilli-con-carne with fava beans and potatoes that had been baked - in the local style - in their skins. The meat was locally sourced from Rook's and the potatoes local from Sainsburys. All the assembled acts, now happily fed and belching the local chili sauce (Somerfield) returned for the theatre in a state of almost near excitement.

Sound checks done, a forty five minute call was given backstage, by me. Perhaps a little early, but I was nearly excited.

"Forty five minutes, boys and girls," I squeaked. "Overtures and beginners, please." I have no idea what it means, but I enjoyed the strange words tumbling from my mouth.

The lights were dimmed and , at 7.15, (pm) a quarter of an hour ahead of schedule, a platoon of local nans, all with their hair done, elbowed in and nabbed the best tables. A multiple 'nan event' was unexpected and not really caterered for by the Management (Paul and Me.) Special seats were reserved at ringside for local dignitaries and celebrities including Lord Justin de Villeneuve, the man who invented Twiggy and his lovely designer wife, Professor Sue Timney.

Also at ringside, freshly returned from filming with Matt Damon and Clint Eastwood and from having given her magnificent 'Helen' at the RSC and being David Tennant's mum in the 'Dr Who Hamlet', Penny Downie (Jr.) added fragrance and beauty to the assembly. Penny, a veteran of 'Prisoner Cell Block H' - and quite a honey - hotly followed by Deal's sapphic enclave, was not averse to throwing in the odd Australian heckle, much welcomed by Mr Foot who is a master of running with the off-the-cuff remark.

Local artist and family man, Mr Paul Claydon, gave Mr Foot his most challenging of heckles. Quoting the 'Sexual Pistols' he shouted 'Bollocks' quite a lot and enjoyed a two-way riff with Mr Foot. His lovely wife, 'Black' Dalziel Douglas, local entrepreneur and family woman was in the bar, with me, hiding and discussing the lighting.

Glamorous Lon-Don antiquarian, Mr Stephen Sprake and his delightful wife, Paul, added glamour and antiquarianism to the front row.

Mr Mark Hutchinson, Lon-Don PR supremo and fluffer to both Nigella Lawson and JK Rowling, was also at ringside, clearly on the lookout for more divas to fluff.

Did he find any?

Safe to say, the open spot was dominated by a blonde diva from the Belgian Congo, Miss Karin Jamotte, whose post-modernist, abstract interpretation of 'How Much is That Doggy in the Window?' had the crowd baying for more.

The other acts?

Reader, I am not a critic - and far too closely involved with Private Widdle to offer a dipassionate and objective viewpoint. However, I think it went jolly well, and the fat Sunday papers the following morning probably tell you all you need to know about property prices on the South Coast. I didn't read them, I never read notices.

One review, however, did sneak its way through to me via he-male, and I reprint it here in full in its original font and funky colourway:

I came to the cabaret evening yesterday, Saturday 19th June and while the entertainment was acceptable I am not sure the same can be said for compliance with the regulations regarding public safety.

I would be very interested to know how many people were allowed into the hall as compared to the numbers it is licensed for. Most village halls have a notice quite prominently displayed stating the capacity - I could find nothing on display last night. It certainly seemed very overcrowded with very little room available between tables and at least one of the fire exits blocked by the seating arrangements. I imagine a fire safety officer entering the main hall last night would have been very troubled by what he saw.

I wish the theatre well, it is really good to see it back in use and much improved and I hope it has a great future, professionally run and in compliance with all appropriate regulations.

Trevor Skelton
18a Harold Road
Deal
KENT CT14 6QH

I would call that a RAVE review of 'acceptable entertainment', but I was tempted to tell him and his beige slacks to fuck right off and not come back, as a mark of respect for his free-wheeling, hippy world view. However, The Astor were on the phone to Mr. Hendy and myself by 6.00 (am) the following morning to call together another meeting of Private Widdle's Social Club in the near future. Proposed date. October 2nd. 2010. (Doors,7.30 (pm) )

As they say down here," Watch this space." Usually when they are trying to park their car outside the Golly Shop.

Coming soon: The Morning After Private Widdle's First Time...plus more Social Club-related pictures.

This article did not appear in the Deal Mercury.

Frank Sidebottom as Chris the Gimp on Endurance UK

SIDEBOTTOM UNMASKED

A Chris-Eye view of Tara King after one of the gimp's more successful attempts at undressing her...Click on picture to augment.

SIDEBOTTOM UNMASKED, originally uploaded by petercocks.

I trawled my archive for a picture of Chris Sievey, Frank Sidebottom, without the head. The best I could find was Chris in my German helmet and leather shorts, covered in tattoos. The real, wheelbarrow tattoo was under his boots.

In the show, he emerged from a box and then spent the whole time on his hands and knees, stroking and licking Tara's leg or trying to squeeze her bosoms.

It wasn't a bad job in semi-showbiz, but the money wasn't great...about £20 per show, but that was all he could afford once he'd spent the rest on beer, snails and nose candy.

In the clip, Chris is seen stroking Tara while we feed the contestorants Knicker, Knacker, Knocker Glory...a confection made from fried worms, liquidised pig testicle and cream.

We were doing this disgusting schtick in 1998, years before 'I'm a Celebrity...' and when Ant and Dec were still called PJ and Duncan. I believe that we were also the first show to ritually humiliate losing contestants, telling them to "GO HOME!", rather than blow smoke up their arses, ask what a lovely day they'd had and send them home with a consolation prize.

Other Endurance specialities were the Pubic Chair, Bollock Beer and The Vindaloo Hat.

The studio smelt of vomit after every show.

Frank Sidebottom aka Chris Sievey,

a personal Obituary.

A beautiful June day has turned into a sad one as the death has been announced of

Frank Sidebottom, one of the few people who can truly claim the title of comedy genius.

I first met Frank, Little Frank and their alter ego, Chris Sievey working in children's TV in the late 1980's.

On meeting him, one was immediately immersed in Frank's world, seeing everything from the perspective of a papier mache head from the garden shed world of Timperley.

One of my first experiences with Frank was hauling his Bontempi organ from Maidstone to a gig in Kilburn. He was dressed as Vegas era Elvis. Driving back, we stopped at the Kentucky Fried Chicken in the Old Kent Road where Elvis/Frank ordered 100 pieces of the Colonel's chicken in buckets which he ate all night and continued to eat, live on air, on ITV Saturday morning show,"What's Up Doc?" the following morning.

A day spent with Frank meant leaving reality, normality, time and a sense of security behind.

I spent his 40th birthday with him in The Maidstone Hilton Hotel. He ordered 40 snails to celebrate the day. Once he had eaten them all he said,"Thank you very much, I'll have another forty of those." he then ordered another 40, and then another. The kitchen defrosted all their remaining snails until he had eaten enough.

I think I can say that I am one of the few who have worked with Frank's alter ego,

Chris Sievey, without the head on. As a dummy Frank, I have even tried one of the early papier mache heads on, and very smelly it was, after endless, sweaty gigs. His children Stirling, Asher and Harrison believed that 'that man Frank' lived in the spare room as they had seen his head in the wardrobe, even though Harrison at eighteen months had appeared on the show with him as, 'the baby'.

Chris played characters on 'What's Up Doc": Sir Bernard, the Censor, for which he shaved the top of his head and sported a Bobby Charlton comb-over. His wife later asked him who he thought he was? "Fucking Robert de Niro?'. On 'Endurance UK,' - a more-warped version of the Japanese gameshow - he was a near-naked, nazi-helmeted, Hitler-moustached gimp, advertised as 'Something for the Ladies'.

There is a photo somewhere...http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=2454151&id=646768222

Chris was at least twice as mad and creative as Frank; entertaining, random, storytelling, leaping into disastrous adventures with a true English eccentric's appetite for bending a dull society into his skewed world view. While Frank was a teetotal Mummy's boy, Chris was, in obituary euphemism, a dedicated 'bon viveur'.

Arriving on the 10 am in Manchester for another birthday, Chris was waiting in the bar with pints to galvanise us for a day's adventure; drawing, writing, playing pool etc. and planning lo-fi TV shows that would never happen, let alone be remembered on the train back to London.

Again, at the Maidstone Hilton, I found him at the reception desk with his trousers around his ankles, waving a box of tissues at the flustered receptionist and complaining about the poor quality of reception on the porn channel.

His wife , Paula, was, is, a lovely - and long suffering - woman...

Working with Frank a couple of years later, he had returned from a Manchester City game abroad.

He had something to show us.

He had been chided by his fellow fans for not sporting a Man City Tattoo. Frank, underneath the head, was a sensitive, artistic soul not given to the crude tribalism of tattooing. However, after several gallons of beer and the egging on of fans and his son, Stirling, Frank headed for the tattoo parlour.

"Right, I'll show you," he said. "I'll get the worst tattoo you've ever seen."

On a brown envelope, with a thick black marker, he drew a wheelbarrow with a punctured tyre.

"Tattoo that," he said to the tattooist. "Exactly as it is. On me shin. At an angle."

The tattooist brought out his fattest needle and, as instructed, tattooed the crude black drawing, at an angle on Frank's scrawny, white shin.

"Thank you," he said in his nasal voice. "Now, underneath, write 'sand'."

The tattooist did so, in crude capital letters. Frank inspected the handiwork and said:

"Right, now cross it out."

The tattooist inked a line through the word 'sand'.

"Now, beneath it, write 'gravel'," Frank said.

The tattooist did as he was told. Frank inspected the work.

"Now cross it out," Frank said. And the tattooist crossed out 'gravel'.

"Now write 'cement'." Frank said. The tattooist did.

"Now cross it out," Frank said. Another inky line was drawn, with some high degree of pain by now through the word.

"Now write 'dirt'," Frank said. He did.

"Cross it out." The tattooist did so again.

Frank inspected the ugly blur of wheelbarrow, with puncture, and four, crossed out words beneath it.

"Very good," he said. "Now write 'Paula', for me wife... because she'll kill me when she sees it."

Having told the story, Chris/Frank rolled up his trouser leg and uncovered the scrawny shin... and the dressing room gasped as he revealed what was, without doubt, 'The Worst Tattoo in the World."

They do not make them like that any more. There will never be another Frank Sidebottom...or another Chris Sievey.

He was a one-off.

Our sympathies are with Little Frank and the family.

"Thank yow."

What wig?

What wig?, originally uploaded by petercocks.

On thursday I went to the Tate Modern and saw the exhibition "Exposed" - Voyeuristic and Survelliance Photographs. I took some photos of the photos. I was pleased to see that they had a rude one by Pierre Molinier, French surrealist pornographer. I have two Moliniers, both too filthy to put on the wall. An old Professor, Dr Robert Short gave them to me when I was at University, he had met all the Surrealist Group including Andre Breton. I know what you're thinking, but I gave him little in return except for a cafe-calvados in a Paris cafe.

Nice man.

After I'd had a little kip in the Tate members caff, I walked across the wobbly bridge and saw this man in the main picture walking along by St Paul's Cathedral.
I asked him if I might take a picture of his splendid wig.
"What wig?" he asked.

Then it was along to the Walker Books 30th anniversary party in Bloomsbury. The kind ladies of Walker massaged my ego until it was lubricated with Pimms and buffed to a deep lustre...they quipped all the while about Peter Cocks-Long Reach. I don't get it, but neither did Michelle Gayle, my fellow author at Walker who has embarked on a sex, shopping and wags novel for older teens. Michelle and I talked about doing sex and shopping events together (as there's a bit of slap and tickle and retail in my book, too), maybe with a bit of singing and dancing as we have been on TV together and are both trained dancers and singers, or at least she is... and I pull funny faces a bit.

I do have the edge with ten years retail experience under my belt as well, but Michelle looked a bit surprised by the whole idea.

Michelle was charming as well as lovely. I am looking forward to our first event together.

BTW, Pierre Molinier is on the top left and should be wearing a wig. Michelle, at the Walker Party is the one on the top right, the one below on the left is a re-photographed August Sander what I done in the Tate of an Explosion Victim. Neither her nor Michelle are wearing wigs as far as I know.

Stephen Sprake, Lillie Rd. London SW6

Stephen Sprake, Lillie Rd. London SW6, originally uploaded by petercocks.

On Wednesday 16th June I visited my friend, Mr Stephen Sprake's emporium for the Lilie Road Antique Dealers 'Fleas and Wine' street party.
Stephen's shop is the smartest and most unusual in London. Nicky Haslam called it 'a theatre of dreams'.
Stephen has commissioned a set of voodoo dollies by a French lady artist which can be seen on my photostream, along with his slightly disquieting gynae-lounge downstairs.
Afterwards, on the street, I bought I giant saw tradesign for my wife's birthday instead of a big eye on a stick. It was a surreal evening...http://www.stephensprake.com

REGENT Cinema, Deal

REGENT Cinema, Deal, originally uploaded by petercocks.

The old Regent Cinema and bingo hall has finally been bought by a small cinema chain. This may save it from midle aged, middle class ladies from trying to turn it into a centre of excellence for mime and may prevent a talentless 'local aritist' from vomiting her imagery all over the doors!

http://www.yourkenttv.co.uk/community/tvpopupnew.aspx?aid=9519&vid=5569

This Saturday, 19th June, is the first meeting of The Private Widdle Social Club, taking place at Deal's newly refurbished and rapidly developing Astor Theatre.

Under the directorship of Esme Chilton and artistic programming of James Tillitt The Astor is coming along as the most unusual and alternative of venues in the South East with the voluntary efforts of experts such as us...

There is already a vibrant music scene happening here, spearheaded by Will Greenham and his Smuggler's Records label.

In conjunction with Will and my friend Mr Paul Hendy, TV personality, author and Pantomime impresario, we have decided to extend the remit to variety with a comedy cabaret soiree.

In honour of Deal's most recently notorious resident, Carry On actor Charles Hawtrey (the place has always attracted the ne'er do well) we have named the evening after his most famous character, Private Widdle.

Hawtrey was geriatric, delinquent, drunk and gay as a yellow duster which well represents the demographic of this peculiar seaside town. There is further information of the scandals of Hawtrey in the fine book by splenetic author, Roger Lewis: "The Man who was Private Widdle".

For the first meeting we have booked a very amusing man called Paul Foot.

He has very clever hair, is life president of the Paul Foot Appreciation Guild and insists on being called President Paul. In amongst his stream of consciousness, we hope that he will present local genius band 'The Ukelele Gangstas' who play gangsta rap on Ukeleles. He will then introduce a charming lady with a sharp tongue, Sara Pascoe who is Time Out's critics choice this year. Mis Pussy D'Amour will provide added glamour, taking a night off from her dining club and stripping for us. Further musical diversion will be added by Uncle Meat and The Highway Children, a psycho- folk/punk outfit who feature a musical saw amongst their instruments.

We have Hector, who is a human beatbox and an open spot which threatens to showcase a young lad with eyes tattooed to his buttocks and who can smoke a cigarette anally.

Any attendee of the first Private Widdle Social Club will be given honorary life membership.

It promises to be a varied evening. Watch this space for reviews next week.

This is the cover art just arrived for my first thriller, LONG REACH.

Set in the badlands of South East London under the shadow of the Dartford Bridge - and counterpointed by the glamour of Bluewater and London's West End - Long Reach follows the progress of 17 year old Eddie Savage as he infiltrates the notorious Kelly crime family.

Making friends with beautiful Sophie Kelly isn't the hardest thing he's had to do, becoming friends with her old man is a different matter and soon he is sunk to the nuts in Kelly business! Coming January 2011.

Number One

Right, let's see if I can get the hang of this...