Projectile Pondering...

The Beater (guitar):
"I used to watch the twats who were chuckin' stuff
and point them out to Nevis. He used to sort em out...
Well, as long as I pointed out the little blokes.
Why did they chuck bits of pig?
Everytime we went near bloody Liverpool- thwack!
I get a pig's cock in me face.
Pigs are filthy animals who eat shit...
No wonder we call them pigs."

Muttley (bass):
"They can chuck what they like. It doesn't hurt, and you can't see it coming...so- fuck it.
The only thing I wish they wouldn't throw is lager and lime.
Chuck all the piss you like, it all washes off. But lager and lime is dead sticky.
Its like trying to play in mittens.
...Of course I don't know that, coz I've never worn mittens. Or even seen any. Ever. ....Right?"

Mussolini (roadie):
"One Xmas gig. Slimy gave us snow sprays and party string.- You know, - aerosol cans.
He told us to spray them in the air when the Lads played the encore. Fuck that!
There was this little shit down the front winging coins at us all night.
Me and Mungo grabbed him in a headlock.
Mungo forced his gob open, and I filled his mouth with Crazy Christmas Foam, or whatever it was.
It was fucking great."

Winston Dread (drums):
"Rass clat inna Babylon. Riddim brudda, respeck."

Slimy Git (manager):
"No, no, no, no! There is absolutely NO truth in the rumour
that I encouraged the audience to throw their beverages at my boys.
Nor is it true that I signed any deals with the licensees of the venues...
It is true that there were record bar receipts everywhere the Lads played,
but I received NO cut of the profits whatsoever.
None. It is simple arithmetic.
Our fans bought a pint to drink and one to throw every time they went to the bar.
And the Liverpool business?
No! That was NOT me selling pig's ears outside the Royal Court.
I know he looked like me, and yes, I do have a cousin who runs an abbatoir,
but this evidence is circumstantial."

Phil 'Fast Fret' McCavity (vagrant):
"I liked it when they threw coins.
Once I collected enough for two bottles of meths."

Lockstock (lump):
"That smoke bomb at Leeds had to be the worst.
At the end of the album you can hear people shouting: 'Get some fucking lights on.'
Proper smoke bomb that: - blacked the place out good style.
I couldn't see the end of me belly.
I tried to find the back door to let some air in. Fell off the stage,
crashed through a window and lacerated me arm. Big gash right up the vein.
Blood everywhere.
Slimy told Barrel to get me to hospital quick. It took three hours to get there.
There's loads of chippies in Leeds, you know."

Chorley the Hord (pansy):
"I didn't mind what the bastards chucked at us.
I spent all me money on cymbals.
By the time I left, no cunt could see me any road.
I had a 'hedge' of cymbals.
In fact it was a forest, a really big forest. Hundreds I had.
In fact it was a jungle.
Anyway, whatever they chucked at us,
it wasn't half as bad as what we chucked at them.
Me and Beater used to save all our piss
and take it to gigs in bottles.
We had to hide it from Knobby, mind.
The gobbing was fuckin' amazin'.
Like playin' in a blizzard.
I'd be so tired after a gig, I'd crash out the minute I got back.
I'd wake up of a morning, an' me hair's stuck to the pillow.
Big, hard, sticky greenies kind of weld your hair to the pillow case.
Ee, them were great days."