Followers of the band will have picked up on the fact that none of us are the kind of hit with the ladies that our status as megastars and rock icons deserves. Bassist Juan Tusrifor is prone to fits of melancholy, dreaming of the love he left in his Andean homeland, while the unrequited love of guitarist Dee Sharpe for a barmaid at the Ship Inn in Broughty Ferry has been well documented elsewhere. So too have the romantic travails of alto saxophonist Aldo Sachs and drummer Kit Bashir. Only our notoriously lecherous keyboard ace, Gene Poole-Skimmings, is immune to the melancholy that inspired us to write this song one rainy evening in the living room of Dee’s Granny’s house, a mere stone’s throw from the tavern where the object of Dee’s intense longing stood pulling pints and flirting outrageously with the clientele, one of whom was Gene himself. That’s why he doesn’t come in until the second verse.