The Clash arrived.
Okay, not the real Clash, who even if they turned up, ( I mean, just the living ones - the dead I'm sure I might sort of be startled by), wearing Clash tour t-shirts and playing their greatest hits, I probably wouldn't recognise them from Graham Rawle who is coming in tomorrow. I think I was asleep in the late seventies, or at least, if not asleep then doing the' euphemistic' sleeping with a long series of unsuitable men who didn't listen to the Clash, meaning therefore, that neither did I - while I was comatose, pregnant, or both at the same time for all of the eighties. So instead of their autographs, I'd probably just ask them if they wanted tea or coffee and tell them to sit down in the lobby.
Luckily it was the Clash book that arrived then. Lovely, lovely, lovely - big, glossy, fully illustrated and in a cover that shall henceforth be known as 'Clash pink' throughout the Pedantic Press universe. I'm taking a swatch of the cover straight to Homebase and getting it made into a paint sample immediately. I can see a new colour scheme at home developing like a Polaroid in front of my eyes.
