Even out here at the unfashionable end of the galaxy of stardom, where we very rarely brush the hem of the garments of greatness sported by the pantheon of stars around which we shyly orbit, I do occasionally come across the odd morsel from the high table. Last night, for example, I was in a meeting* with someone who used to be in a beat combo who you’ll probably have heard of. He, in common with many members of groups who have become ex-members not necessarily of their own volition, was still clearly narked by the nature of his departure. “There was a book about the band” he gruntled “…and I actually read it hoping that it might explain why they wanted me out. ‘It was all going well’ said the singer ‘And I don’t know why he left’ it said. I’ll tell you why I left – because your fucking manager rang me up and said ‘Howard wants you out of the band’!”
*The Pub.
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