sleeves are: | Mr Chandler | Mr Follows | Mr Griffiths |

Mr Chandler was born in London, but he didn’t have a choice. The 70s were rumbling on and were glittery with lots of boot stomping. Then the pogo of punk was puked and there were spikey-haired brothers and sisters posing for postcards with old people. Mr Chandler liked this and he smiled as he ate his ice cream in Trafalgar Square and wondered where it would all end. He bought some two-tone trousers and listened to some Two-Tone music, but still sweated to Saturday Night Fever, because that’s where the girls were.

When the dancing stopped and everyone went home, Mr Chandler liked to listen to some of the songs again, on his brother’s turntable. He listened to some songs many, many times. He asked himself why this should be so and he answered himself that it was the words, the words it was, as it were.
Some records were issued on coloured vinyl. They had good words too.

Mr Chandler started to write some words of his own, he sung them into a little tape player. He found a friend at school, who was rough but with a heart of sterling silver. They sang in class and they sang by the A10. Mr Chandler liked the words – he let the songs take care of themselves.
As trousers lengthened and bubbles burst, Mr Chandler wrote more and more words. He wrote with his brothers, he wrote with the kid from the shop, he wrote with fat people, he wrote with thin people. He wrote and wrote and wrote. Some of the words became structured in a verse/chorus format. Some were shouted into a microphone late at night, others were buried.

He’s still writing now, that Mr Chandler. He’ll never stop.