"Der-ner-ner, der ner ner ner, der der der, der de der," screamed Tuppence at the top of his lungs, while he played air guitar. "Smo-o-o-oke on the wa-a-a-a-ter..."
"Shoot him," whispered Geoffrey. "Put him out of his misery. Not to mention the rest of us."
"Besides," added the T-G sagely,"It's not even proper prog."
Geoffrey and I looked at each other in amazement. "Since when could YOU tell prog from a Ginster's slice?"
"I enjoy a bit of Rick Wakeman from time to time," he said loftily.
"Oh yes. Which bit?" we sniggered.
"FY-ER IN THE SKY..." Tuppence continued, whirling his arms like Pete Townshend.
"I must say though, this acapella version is a bit much. And all the appalling gesticulations. Where's his usual instrument of choice?"
"The moog? Bottom of the Bay with any luck."
"Ginster's slice, anyone?" offered Stormy proferring a plateful (yes, we were in the Puff Inn, and it was the Friday lock-in...)
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