If all that crap were ‘the price of fame’ © Fokker was soon bored – a lifetime’s ambition burned up in weeks nearly – the stupid turd growing old before his time, not really liking life. So what if his ‘new record’ was number three (3) in a chart or if some big lawyer and quantity control bloke from Mexico wanted to see him. On a typical day he (a) could not get his TV to sit straight on the lilo, (b) got a leak in his waterbed and (c) spent all night riding thru rain in some dickhead car looking for a big rave in a field what turned out to be cancelled.

One night at his house and at the height of his boredom and fame an angel come to Fokker in a dream and told him he had to go to LAZARUS, a club in Rotherham where a bloke had died and then come back. Lazarus was a DJ now it seemed and played slow beats slower than the devil himself.

Guest list, stretch pants and shirt by Stephen Berkoff Fokker got a black cab to LAZARUS where he got out of the door (of the cab) and put each of his feet on the pavement, one by one, lifting them and then putting them down repeatedly and thus moving forwards until he got to the door. Sometimes it seemed now that even the simplest things were difficult for Fokker.

Kids in the club recognised Fokker but were too cool to say owt, whispering the name of his band and latest crap-concept album. In centre of the room a gang of 1st Div. footballers in elaborate glam drag were dancing round a pile of handbags belonging to their wives or girlfriends. This were a strange scene indeed, made stranger by the lightening all of a puke greenish hue. At edges of the room were more dancers on scaffolding and a booth where the DJs were. Inside that booth which was mentioned before an old looking Japanese bloke was talking over the music (never a good thing in a DJ), and describing at some length his experiences on August 13th 1945 in Hiroshima – the way the bomb blast had shook him and the way his skin had seemed for a moment to be of translucent colour and how he had even seen rite thru his bones. Of all this talking no one batted an eyelid at it but Fokker couldn’t quite get hip to the beat – maybe the Jap rapper was all part of the LAZARUS idea he thought – other blokes who’d nearly died doing PA’s in the club or something, the odd all-nighter in a mortuary, Fokker didn’t know anyhow, and, being German, had no sense of humour whatsoever about anything.