Out of GAZ - the Old Goat Plays a Gig in Klute

Greedy for more work, Gaz Crooker declares, "I could bust a gut on any high note any time, so I best be performing as much as possible before it happens. I don't have quite so much money saved up, after that, uh, MAZ incident. You know, with that Fish guy.

"The problem is nobody likes my music much. Or my kind of brackish voice. Even when I sing old R&B numbers, and bring in Clapdick, hardly anyone shows. Happily, Butlins will have me, if I work with somebody more famous. And the other night, a much despised club in Durham booked us!"

US...means his wraggle taggle collection of fanboy amateurs who can stock any pay-to-play club with their friends and relatives. It was quite a strange bunch who formed "Out of Gaz."

Gaz looked at the photo.

"No, I don't even try anymore, do I? I just show up looking seasick, vomit in my hat, put it on, and try and get through a 45 minute set. The indulgent old fans shout out lyrics if I miss them. I'll lapse into "Poison Ivy" or "Bad Blood," which is what's usually the diagnosis when I go to the doctor.

"You want to know who was playing? Mental lapses are frequent. I am not sure. Next to me was a fat woman named Amy. She played percussion, slapping together two of her old, crusty sanitary napkins. Next to her was one of the staff, ready with a mop in case Bill overflowed his diaper.

"This Bill Hoobastank is supposed to be an influential manager from America. Hell, I have a bad manager already. At first all he did was gurgle. Mostly I mumble, since I'm usually drunk. It wasn't much of a conversation. Finally he talked slowly and said my opening act should be an underage Irish bint who has a shaved twat. He said it resembles my face. Yes, that's why I usually keep a gristly goat-like beard on my chin! When I open my mouth on a high note, I'm sure some audience members think it's a yawning twat.

"Most of the time Bill was looking toward his sister in the audience, shouting, "Take pictures of me with Gaz!" Cheap bastard, afterward I charged him a twenty per flash! I told him if he didn't pay up I'd sue!

"Oh, that skinny weasel with the silly beret? That's Uriah Heap. He runs the website free, and organizes little parties where I can get drunk and have a bit of an ego trip as everybody shouts "SHINE ON" at me. A right kiss-ass weasel, that one. He has a cover band that always plays at these events, and he even sells that cover band's crap on my website. Well, I get a free site out of it, so I don't care. He's a pompous twit who is a music teacher or something, so he can play a keyboard ok. He's always toadying to get on stage, which is a relief since mostly I'm too drunk to play.

"In the corner picking his nose is the other webmaster. He hardly speaks English. I keep forgetting if he's a drunken Dane, Fin or Swede. He's from one of those sad depressed countries that still invite Boko Haram to play once in a while. But really, we're very busy in Nigeria raping black women."

Gaz keeps getting weirder in his old age. From handing Uriah some old tat to sell on eBay, to stumbling around and falling on his face, to accepting gigs in places most anyone else would rather die than visit, he shows all the signs of Alzheimers, Parkinsons and Watneys. Way too much Watneys.