Guantanamo Bay City Rollers

The world is changed. I can smell it in the vomit. Much that once was, is lost. For none now live who remember it, such was the partying that took place. It began with the dishing out of the cheap wine. One cup was given to Pete Taylor, oldest and wisest of the troupe. One to the grind lord Cheese, grindiest of all grindy men with lovely hair to match. One was given to Chappy, the most raucous and naked of the group. Two cups each were given to Mike and Gardy, hairiest and strangest of the lot. And one cup was given to Jon … but for Jon, one cup was not enough. In the land of Torrensville, in the fires of Mt Goon, the grind lord cheese in secret forged a shitload of grindy tracks, and into them, he poured his anger, his lust for Jemma Jamieson and some left over Pantene. But there were some who resisted. A last alliance of Jon and Pete tried to make the music more punk, more old school hardcore, for the music was too grindy for them. “Get fucked” said the dark lord, and made the group play blast beats, in secret always knowing that Jon couldn’t quite keep up. And so, the Guantanamo Bay City Rollers were formed.