Prose poem about the post-modern, post-ironic crisis inherent in a Jools Holland appearance.

the unending strain of trying to do something truly anarchic and spontaneous in our slot on later with jools holland. it never leaves us.

noise solos dont even work cos he has like jazz shit on all the time and so it's just normality to him.

how do we make the man sweat, is it really impossible

i could wear an eccentric dress

you could sing along despite not having a mic, like it's one of your fav songs and you'd sing along no matter what you were doing

it never leaves us

can't trash the stage; too obvious, contrived.

the stage is a prison and we can never be truly free. never fly. jools our overlord and protector.

like feudal peasants we both love and resent our paternalistic ruler, but we lack the means to rebel.

we resign ourselves to fate, for now: the opening single-chord collaboration intro. we pretend it's our own choice

but in the back of our minds the guillotine looms large.