Your humble correspondant having spent the weekend "undercover" at Butlins, posing as a unattached percussionist enjoying a weekend listening to bands, is now able to reveal to you evidence of a shameful underground racket involving the trafficking of innocent non contesting percussion players. The predators and peddalers in this shocking expose of human misery are the people known in this shady trade as "Musical Directors" or more commonly in the street slang which I have been able to pick up "Little Hitlers". These power crazy megalomaniacs cruise the dark corners and seedy bars at Butlins late at night in search of new victims. They prey on the innocent and the unprotected, the lonely wide eyed dreamers, who are at Butlins simply to get a whiff of Sheona Whites perfume as she glides through the trade stands. This, dear reader, is the type of person I was attempting to pass myself off as in order to expose this cynical, ruthless, heartless enslavement of the unsuspecting and highly sought after commodity, known as "unsigned percussion players". During the daytime these so-called "MD's" put up a very convincing front, charming, affable, avuncular. Clean shaven, smartly turned out, the kind of bloke your Mum would be happy to have round for tea and battenburg cake on a Sunday afternoon. But do not be fooled dear reader! once the days contesting is over,the sun has gone down, and the nights frollicking and revelry begins, they are transformed in to sleazy, smooth-chatting monsters, with one thing in mind, snaring their next unsuspecting victim. The levels of cynicism and premeditation involved are chilling. They lurk, crawl, shmooze their oily way round the taverns and bordellos of Ingoldmells, sniffing out possible targets like Jack the Ripper. But they will not strike yet, not this early in the evening, not nearly enough alcohol has been consumed by the choosen victim. They circle like vultures, waiting for the first signs of distress from the intended victim, such as becoming unsteady on his feet, slurred speech, smiling inanely at any passer-by. Other tell tail signs are a larger soaked shirt front, a tendancy to bore people with highly improbable stories of past contesting glories with obscure bands, and having started to attract the attention of beady eyed door staff who, are getting impatient with the poor victims inability to walk round a table full of drinks rather than straight through it. Now,......now is when they strike, just as the bouncers start to move on him....suddenly, a friendly voice is heard through the infernal din of "Jaks" night club, a welcome arm round the shoulders, and you hear the calm voice dealing smoothly and deftly with the boucers..."its ok lads, take it easy, I will sort this out ok lads?.....cheers, here, have a drink with me". You find youself whisked off in to a dark corner of "Jaks", bearly able to stand as you try to focus on the silky patter of the "MD" who now has you cornered and ready for the kill. You start to hear familiar words and phrases slowly permeating your drunken stupor....."friendly happy band"....."progressive"....."ambitious"........"all one big happy familly"..........."refreshing lack of petty politics, unlike the other bands".......... Well dear reader the rest is a familiar story to some of you, i finally heard myself uttering words "yes I can do the "area" for you mate, your my best friend in the whole world you are Wilko,.....I love you Mark Wilcockson". In the cold light of Sunday afternoon, your humble correspondant is of course forced to repent at leisure having been sucked in to this murky swamp of endless rehearsals. Action needs to be taken against these wax moustachioed, oily lounge lizards, prowling the seedy back streets of Ingoldmells in search of fresh meat. I think all "MDS," should go on a register, so we all know who they are and which band they are with, the general public needs to be protected. Where is Shirebrook?.....anyone know?