Here's the first of our Turnkey Competition entries: as promised, we'll be publishing several of them over the next few months, not only the winners and runners-up but other good entries as well (and there were a great many). The prize itself, a Teac A3440 system complete with passive mixer, mics and everything else will be presented at this year's APRS Exhibition in the Connaught Rooms, Great Queen Street, Kingsway, London WC2. The exhibition will take place between Wednesday June 20 and Friday June 22 (open 10.00-18.00 Weds and Thurs, and 10.00-17.00 Fri). On the Sound International/Studio Sound stand there will be details of when the presentation will take place (it hasn't yet been finalised).

So this month, competition winner Steve Hill of Reigate presents a little tale of life on the road...

Six in the evening, and I feel like Alice in Wonderland in a biscuit tin as we career through the commuter crowds, box van blind, clinging hopelessly to the unanchored 'aircraft' seats, feeling sick.

Morale is at rock bottom since we discovered three miles out we'd left the drums behind. Not bad going since at one-gig-a-fortnight our bid for fame and fortune is orchestrated like an expedition to find the source of the Nile. In practice, most of us can't find the lavatory.

If we're late the main band won't let us on the stage. Soldering iron, hairspray, plasters, cans of beer, grommets to hold the rickety keyboards together. The Semi-Pro Syndrome.

You only have to glance at the annual company report of Barchord & Plectrum Ltd, importers of Japanese guitars, to see that there are half a million lunatics out there, all scrambling (or sitting in their bedrooms dreaming of scrambling) for one perspiring, 45-minute spot at the Marquee.

They don't all wear red tights and play a six/four (quite well, if I'm drunk) or even sing in tune, is what I told myself for the first five years.

Then one night, as I croaked and bellowed in exhaustion into the mic at a certain now-closed Nite Club at 3 am, knowing I'd have to hump the home made cabs, pilot the tranny 30 miles home and still be back at the desk at 9 am I decided to join Barchord & Plectrum and their ilk.

Now, somewhere deep in a Surrey cellar, dozens of sausage fingered hopefuls play faltering reggae version of Honky Tonk Women nightly beneath the two inches of sand that separates them from the plush opulence of my bedroom while I count the grubby fivers that will buy me a new PA and the 4-track we've promised ourselves by Christmas.

Last year, we finally seemed stable, with a gay drummer and a New York Jewish guitarist, ten numbers and a tape which, retrospectively, sounds like Petula Clark and Pink Floyd getting it on in a vat of porridge. But we were happy. The first gig was in a suburban pub with a stage the size of a dining table. The PA didn't work at all, not once. The bar staff, with a corporate IQ of four, wouldn't let us in to set up until opening time.

The drummer was so nervous he sounded as if we was building a garden shed for the Guinness Book of Records carpentry section.

A member of a well known BOF band attended, to our utter horror, invited by the Jewish member who had puttered round to the unfortunate rock star's address on his moped and managed to convince him we were worth a look.

But our mums liked it. Two uninvited 20 stone gentlemen from Eire didn't because we couldn't play Val Doonican's latest hit. They weren't impressed with the electric cello and square cymbal; the live tape features mostly Gaelic swearing where the singing should be. Were we downhearted? D'you wanna bet! We were gluttons for punishment, and decided to promote another DIY, this scaling the heights of masochism.

It took place in a condemned Victorian Town Hall, and cost about £300. The PA still didn't work. The destitute Jewish guitarist who had been home, arrived at 3 pm after a night in a Heathrow Immigration cell, insulted the dep drummer (the gay one had quit in despair a fortnight before) and promptly got deported — leaving us with the bill. This time, our mums didn't like it.

Desperate, our manager, a hyper-energetic lady who would simply terrify bookers into giving us gigs, went into top gear, and we embarked with the abandon of Hara-kiri, on the London 'prestige' circuit. Over the next six months this was to systematically destroy our bank balances, our mental health, and our faith in human nature. Forever.

We've had our high spots of course. We had 'em tango-ing in the Speak, rockin' at the Rock Garden, and once, someone even came up and said they liked us!! But we've been physically assaulted by female punks, had our gear stolen twice, been used by bookers and ignored by record companies, we've been sacked for sleeping at work, lost our voices, one marriage, our friends and our minds. Now it's someone else's turn.

Hey, son, d'you wanna place to rehearse? Record your demo? Coffee's 5p — and we can get you a gig at the Fox & Jackplug. For a small commission...