Get well soon Buster!


I do not profess to be a Daily Mail reader, but the following story about Buster Bloodvessel’s demise is a worrying development. Get Well Soon Big Guy!

Buster rushed to hospital link

In my last year at Kingston Poly the Summer Ball/Leavers Bash was an outdoor gig which took place on a temporary stage at one of the self-catering halls of residence  The headline act were Bad Manners and it was a big deal . From memory the tickets were rather pricey, so a gang of us decided to go to the gig the cheap way. We strolled down to the off licence and got a stack of beer. Then we trekked to Surbiton Cemetery and stumbled past the graves to the back fence. Once the obstacle had been gate vaulted and the beer slung over in carrier bags we were in the grounds of the halls of residence.

It was very dark and disorientating at first because the point at which we had pitched up was at the back of the temporary stage. We slowly felt our way around to the side of the stage where we came against the wall of a portacabin. It seemed an appropriate place for a team pit stop. The four of us lined up and had a well-earned piss against the wall of the hut. Gavin, who was a very tall bloke, shouts out an expletive as he can see the goings on inside the portacabin through the window he is facing. The rest of us scrabble around to the stairs to the fire exit and lean round to take a squint through a window by the fire exit door. Inside we could see the band getting ready to go on stage with a few of the Student Union Politburo darting here and there trying not to panic whilst attempting to lend a hand. Amongst the chaos was Buster Bloodvessel who was sitting on a plastic chair in the centre of the room deep in thought, cool as a cucumber. He had a piece of paper in his lap and a black magic marker in one hand. In the other hand he had a roach the size of a saveloy. He took a big draw on the thing and furrowed his brow as he thought of what to write next on the set list that he was generating.

We could not resist so we knocked on the door and got let in. It was not quite Martin Sheen meets Marlon Brando, but you know what I am getting at in trying to set the scene. We all had had a skin full so we just stood there a bit star struck blinking in the light.

Someone piped up “Hey Buster, can we have your autograph?”

“Yeah, got any paper?” he replied.

“Er…. No.” was the answer.

“Come here then” he beckoned us forward and signed our foreheads with his marker pen.

We looked a right bunch of numpties when we later snuck into the gathering crowd, but we did not care.

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