One very lucky listener whose ears fell upon our exquisite songs proclaimed 'This is the Sound of Screaming Heseltines' and thus the legend was born. One bitterly cold february night in two thousand and three as Thomas and Chesoir lay head to toe in a rather busy little room on Aged Street, drinking the finest teas salvaged from the notorious Boston party and celebrating Chesoir's recent inter-railing escape from a concrete prison of the south coast to the warmth of London's ample bosom, Thomas' wedgewood cup rattled chimingly onto its saucer and the extent of his rhythmic, bone china upon bone china, genius became clear. No more than a couple of days later, one knows not exactly of the date, Chesoir's cravat found itself quite uncomfortably snagged on a loose brass fitting. Paradoxically this rather nasty misfortune blessed Chesoir with his angelic singing voice. A proud Thomas and a rather shaken up Chesoir immediately agreed that it was imperative a musical group was formed. Half a baker's dozen of wirey, taught, melodic, metal strings and several sticks carved from the finest Japanese oak later and the quintessential sounds of the english cricket green filled the air. Hail Heseltine. Hail Heseltine.
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