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

Mr Griffiths was born in Wales and oddly enough, did have a choice.

As a child the following things obsessed and hypnotized him - lamp posts, car washes, windscreen wipers, imported and dubbed European television drama serials, potato-stamps, cowboys, roundabouts, abandoned quarries in high-up places, the cold spray of the ocean, cigarette adverts in glossy magazines, people with false faces, scientists who turned into monsters, women who dressed up as birds, brains in jars and little circles of revolving black plastic which unfolded panormas of wonder in the corner of his sun-dappled bungalow bedroom.

Mr Griffiths was an only child, and realises now that even his favourite, most precious games were really just a form of solitary time-killing. Then one day he switched on the TV and saw a man with long hair playing guitar on a five-bar gate. The man wore wellies and his song was swathed in a drone of bagpipes. A bomb exploded in Mr Griffiths' young welsh mind, and to this day he is still trying to recover while all around his friends mock mercilessly.

Lost amid past-painted deserts, Mr Griffiths stares at the flickering embers of a fire which never quite flickers out. Not unhappy, he spends most of his time wondering how things could all have turned out so very differently.