We were to perform "Product Perfect", our glib, little piss-take paean to excessive consumerism. We'd already decided this would be the title track of our soon to be recorded first album. After a bunch of gabbing by the personable Toyah, a few models strutted up and down in front of the cameras. For the most part, if you were to have asked me, which sensibly no one did, they looked like rejects from bad Dr Who episodes, but then I knew and know as much about haut couture as did these designers about slotting reggae breaks into punk songs. To each his or her own, innit? So then we were on, and a right nerve-wracking time of it we had. As Miki had foretold we were told in no uncertain terms that we weren’t allowed to play too loud, on account of this was TV. Me, I didn’t see the difference and neither did Mulligan, Dick or Miki. Thus, following a run-through where volume levels were as BBC sound engineers deigned they should be, we cranked everything up and walloped "Product Perfect". Apparently there was much hair-tearing by said sound engineers and we were later threatened with all sorts of dire consequences mainly revolving around a ban by the BBC (something no one convinced they were on their way to the top wanted) but then again everyone we later spoke to who saw the show said we sounded just fine, very strong, and after all was said and done that was the idea. To cap a perfect evening I was snubbed by all three of the models I tried to pull, and duly went off home to a cold and lonely bed. I whiled away the insomnia hours with ever more lurid and unrealistic visions of what I would do once I got my hands on an unsuspecting record-buying public.