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cheeky parts

Ladeez and gennulmen, we'd like to introduce the Making Music fortune-teller, Madame Grizelda. She regularly visits our office to do general Astrology and Crystal-Gazing, but this month bursts into print by turning her attention downwards to the revealing subject of underclothes.

WELCOME to Madame Grizelda's Tent Of Fortune, dear readers, and straight away I have to give a strong warning that you must not cheat if you wish to take part in this great psychic experiment. Please to follow CAREFULLY the preliminary guidelines set out below. If you do not follow the guidelines totally then I'm afraid the patron saint of underclothes, the much-feared St Michael, will mete out punishments the like of which you have never experienced before.

1. You must not go and change your clothes at any point as you read this.

2. You must not fib to yourself at all, not even a little bit.

3. You must not remove your underclothes (or, you know, touch yourself at all).

4. You must not read this while trying to drive the van to the rehea... look out! Blimey! No, no, I know you're a good driver, it's those other maniacs you have to look out for. Where did he come from? He couldn't have been looking at all, you know.

5. You must not paint, scratch, tear or otherwise alter the design and appearance of your underclothes in any way whatsoever.

Now, with those guidelines firmly in mind, you may proceed to the main revelations.

You must now examine carefully your underpants. Immediately! Wherever you are! Lose no time!

So, what have you got on? Follow Madame Grizelda's easy chart (right); your fortune will be laid before you like so many £20 notes after a record deal.


You have an obsession with cleanliness: you always use noise reduction and abhor fuzz pedals. There is a person in a white coat coming out of the mist, he holds a digital recording machine, and he is screaming, "The future is besmirched by brown bread!" You and your group must avoid health food shops, and write at least two songs praising red meat.


In your near future there is a dark city street. There is a stage door. Inside the theatre lobby, someone is saying, "I'm sorry, you can't possibly bring that cauliflower in here." You explain that it is an essential part of your act, and if they book you, they book the cauliflower. "But what is it for?" they demand. You says it is your spare head, and that if you're feeling at all uninspired during your one-man Complete Works of Jimi Hendrix show, then you slip on the cauliflower. "You're having me on," says the voice, a mere instant before the lobby turns into a Top Of The Pops studio and a man with a cauliflower for a head is introduced with the words: "Yes it's number one, it's top of the pops..." Crazy times ahead, for sure.


There is a red shape coming slowly into focus, and you are getting close to the red shape. You merge with the red shape; I can see you through the red shape in small glinting squares of iridescent colour. There is a sound, close up, of bells. You hold a darker shape to your ear. "Will you get off the bleedin' line," screams a sudden voice, "I'm trying to sample the sound of a ringing tone for the opening track of our new album! Now piss off!" You are destined always not quite to appear on a famous band's record.


I see damage, I see tears, and I see much argument for you. There is a large gentleman in my vision, and he is not too polite. He is... a guitar repairer! And he is explaining to you that he couldn't possibly have done this job. He says you must be mistaken. He suggests you have a faulty memory. You say no, that's the keyboard player. He says that he would never paint a stripe down the back of a guitar neck to hide the fact that he's shaved too close to your truss rod. He has hit you with the guitar, and you are crying. Oh dear.


The gods laugh at you. They are happy but restless gods. "I think I'll give him the lost chord to fiddle around with for a while," says one. Zappow! And here it is, lurking right now in your brain. Pick up the nearest instrument you can get a chord from, and play the first chord that comes into your head. Is it not similar to the first chord in 'Anarchy In The UK'? Use it well, for your destiny is linked forever with this heavenly team of chiming tones.


I see another large gentleman in my new vision, but he is in a different room. The room... hold on, hold on... is cold and damp, it has no window, it is miserable, it smells funny, it is... a rehearsal room! And the gentleman is explaining that you owe him some money. "Icamelpit ifslyk vergrave inere," he explains, "I've toljerbefor, if-yawaneetin, s'gonna costyamor." And how you have piled all the drums in the middle of this room, and you have set them alight, and there are blue flashing lights, and... oh no, I don't like these visions any more. Stop! Stop!

Oh dear, Madame Grizelda doesn't feel too well. The last time she was like this, things were so bad we heard a Gary Numan track followed by a Des O'Connor track on the radio, and we know it was her doing it 'cos she was moaning on about feeling vibrations in her aerial or something. Anyway, readjust your clothing and go about your business. And remember, don't mess with St Michael. Catch you later, private part peepers.

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Making Music - Copyright: Track Record Publishing Ltd, Nexus Media Ltd.


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