I ain’t gonna pretend I can remember every word of the conversation I had with the strange, velvet-trousered bloke on my doorstep that night, but it I’m pretty sure it went something like: ‘So you got a gig for me then, Terence?’ ‘The lads call me Geezer.’ ‘Geezer?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘You taking the piss?’ ‘No.’ ‘As in “That smelly old geezer just shit his pants”?’ ‘That’s a very funny joke for a man who goes around calling himself “Ozzy Zig”. And what’s up with that bum fluff on yer head, man? It looks like you had an accident with a lawnmower. You can’t go on stage looking like that.’
