Don’t Call Me

Followers of the band will be familiar with the mostly sad story of our lead guitarist Dee Sharpe. Not only did he lose his left hand due to an infected llama bite on the shores of Lake Titicaca during our ill fated tour of Peru, leading him to develop his unique one handed guitar style, but his love life is a catalogue of disasters, mostly stemming from his unwise and unrequited attachment to Moira, the barmaid at the Ship Inn in Broughty Ferry, who spurned him for a shady mortgage broker known to all as Slick Dick.

Well, for once I have some good news. Fortune has finally smiled on Dee. He’s only gone and won the lottery! I won’t say how much, but it’s a lot, and it was certainly enough to give Moira a change of heart. Since then, she has been pestering him with calls and messages, but Dee is having none of it.

The other night, we were waiting to go on stage at one of our sold out stadium concerts when she called again. Dee had had enough and he let her have an earful. After the gig, he got me to block her number – iPhones are hard with only one hand -and we cracked open a couple of beers and wrote this song. We recorded it on the way back to our hotel in the fully equipped studio bus that Dee very kindly bought for the band with a portion of his winnings, with Gene Poole Skimmings really getting into it on the piano, despite some hard bends in the road and Aldo Sachs stubbing out his unfiltered Gitane and wandering through from the smoking section at the back of the bus just in time to deliver a sax solo.

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