I remember the Eighties. Driving my '73 VW

smoking Brazilian dope in the Amazonian rainforest. We had the same ideas about everything, Sting & I. He delivered milk as a boy. So did I. He banged a lot of women. So did I. He

was a spirit in a material world. And so was I. He told me to call him by his real name- Gordon. Somehow it just didn't fit, but I did it to please him. Sting -I mean Gordon- & I

sat down to jam together. He told me he no longer obeyed the Western tyranny of 4/4 time - we'd be using 5/11. I mouthed "WTF?" to my pet kangaroo & Sting/Gordon started wailing.

Alla Rakha rose up pounded out hypnotic rhythms in 5/11 time on his tabla. Ravi Shankars ghost rolled over, picked up his sitar & played a wicked riff while Sting/Gordon & I gaped

gapped toothed and smelly. Ravi Shankar's ghost got mad. Then it decided to go into a whole Poltergeist thing. It forced Sting up a wall and on to the ceiling.

"How fragile we are," he whispered. But Sting was swollen with pride when The Who sang "Boris the Spider" and invited him over via the web. "Come hang out with us," said Daltrey.

Sting replied "hey, what's going on?". They broke into song once again, and Sting eventually got the message and came over to hang out with Daltrey. Their spider senses were

making love with their egos, so Sting sucked up into Daltrey's mind like a leper messiah. But Sing was just crass, and Daltrey was the Nazz, until Bowie showed up and became the

special man, licking cats from Japan, with a snow-white tan. He took it all too far, made it too far, but boy could he play guitar (left handed). Then some kids killed him.