Hi. I’m Sonny and Cher. Before being smashed into two bits by a plane crash, I was great pop act - now, the Sonny half of me is confined in my secure mad room, which is now knee high in shit thanks to a fundamental design flaw (see attached figure). I have been in here 10 years, so I am used to the smell - but when my family come to look at me through the thick windows, they look sad. There’s no need to be sad, sweet sister. I am happy here in my room, plotting the death of my rebellious Cher segment.

The music they play to us is a soothing blend of rhythm and blues. This music was originally designed to drain mentally disturbed people of their passion and hope, to leave them suggestible and useless. However, an infected monkey escaped into the congo, and passed on the virulent music form to other monkeys, who started singing in close harmony. When they were found by Sigourney Weaver, she put them on a stage in Broadway, not realising that she and the audience had all caught Rhythm and Blues. To make matters worse, Craig David’s pregnant mother was in the audience...

Rhythm and Blues is the only thing that has stopped me killing myself. It hasn’t made me happy, or offered me enlightenment. It’s just that if they see me about to kill myself, they play Fill Me In over the speakers, and I just deflate.I just can’t be arsed anymore.

Here is my tribute to Another Level, who are the one band more than any other who leave me lethargic and void. Which is a good thing when you’re filled with malign desire like how I am.

Would you like to know more?
Show me Mark, Dane, and Wayne, and Bobak! Oh yeah, and Jackson!