The House Of Horror

The first ever Rock 'n' Roll Big Brother has been a resounding success, I'm glad to report, raising a sum in excess of £13.73p for the campaign to free Moose Manmountain from Sing Sing Prison.

Moose, the legendary roadie who has worked with the likes of the the 'Heep, the 'Tull, the 'Ash, the 'Speedwagon and Riverdance was the entirely innocent victim of a bust in New York City shortly before Christmas. Tipped off that the Feds would be coming through the window at any moment, I shovelled up all the illegal drugs in my hotel room, deposited the lot in a pillow case and then called Moose into see me.

Handing him the knotted and audibly rattling sack, I told him it was my dirty laundry and asked him to hold onto it for a while because it was bringing "negative energy" into my room. "Sure thing, Sam," said Moose pleasantly, his innocent child-like expression betraying the lack of anything remotely resembling a coherent or adult thought in the vast, empty space between his huge cauliflower ears. You won't be suprised to learn that they call 'ol Moose "the gentle giant", although that's because he also roadied for the 'Giant back in '72.

Anyway, I hadn't acted a moment too soon. Moments later, the Feds were swarming all over my room, overturning furniture, ripping pictures off the wall and unscrewing all the electrical appliances. Old Moonie would have been impressed. However, when I saw that they were putting batteries in torches and trying on marigold gloves for size, I knew I had to act decisively. "Hey, guys," I whispered, tapping my nose and winking furiously, "I ain't sayin' nothin' here but if you were to have a look in Room 342 I wouldn't be at all surprised if you were to discover a pillowcase full of brain rattling drugs. Just say 'we're here to do the laundry, sir' and I reckon you just might get a result."

Y-Front Skidmarks

Well, to cut a long story short, barely one week later the papers showed pictures of a forlorn-looking Moose Manmountain being lead away in chains from the courthouse to begin a 786 year sentence for possession of everything from skunkweed to angel dust, Judge Clarence J. Thudfucker having failed to buy Moose's heartfelt plea that he didn't know there was a a law against "skidmarks on y-fronts".

Needless to say, I was horrified that an innocent man should have to suffer in this way, which is why we came up with the idea of raising consciousness of Moose's predicament through a rock 'n' roll version of Celebrity Big Brother. Or as Lance Turnpike put it: "Fuck the big bollocks, let's have fun".

Thus it was that, one week ago today, myself, Lance Turnpike of southern-fried boogie band Foghat, rock god Ted "The Fuckin' Nuge" Nugent and ambient composer Enya, moved into the Big Brother household watched by at least 12 people on web-cam and hundreds of Interpol officers.

Surprising many who considered it "a match made in hell", ethereal songstress Enya lasted much longer in our company than expected, only leaving the house after a whole seven minutes had elapsed, during which time she had stoically endured her housemates engaging in a who-can-piss-the-highest contest, five rounds of spin-the-bottle and The Fuckin' Nuge inadvertently setting fire to her Mellotron whilst endeavouring to light one of his own farts.

The degree to which the experience will impact on the future direction of Enya's work is difficult to predict but there may be a clue in reports that her next album bears the interesting working title 'Borne Aloft On The Celestial Stream By A Two-Timin' Good Rockin' Motorcycle Mama'.

Back in the Big Brother mansion, meanwhile, us boys had to contend with the subtle but profound shift in the dynamic of the house caused by the departure of the lone female in the group. Or, as Lance Turnpike put it: "Shit, who's gonna cook shit and sew shit now that the chick's gone, shit?"

Elephant Tranquillisers

Matters got even more tricky on the food front when we discovered that all the chickens had been slaughtered with his bare hands by The Fuckin' Nuge. Asked why, he replied philosophically: "Because they were there, Sam".

With poontang entirely off the menu, there was nothing for it but to spend our food allowance on elephant tranquillisers which had the desired effect of sending all three of us into a week-long coma, enlivened only by the occasional raucous snore and the ceaseless munching sound of Ted eating his pillow.

Unhappily, this failed to work fully as a tv spectacle with the result that our website enjoyed just two hits in seven days, and both of them, it turned out, from foreign students who thought they were clicking onto a George Orwell site.

When we left the Big Brother house, it was with the sense of liberation and releif known to anyone who has ever awoken froma bad dream. Or as Lance Turnpike put it: "Hell, at least we weren't inside for 768 years, like that big thick fucker Moose."

Guffawing heartily, we decided that, all things considered, it was best to forget about our old friend and spend the £13.72p at the off license instead.

Your ever lovin' Samuel J. Snort Esq