This man smacked the meanest flams you'll ever wish to hear. After six months of drum tuition Dude knew more than his drum tutor did in all his life. The man told Dude he could teach him no more and Tommy Aldridge's place would be up for grabs the moment Whitesnake heard the boy with the daftest haircur this side of Nagasaki.
There was an occasion Dude, Fabes and I were in Johnny Roadhouse's shop on Oxford Road in Manc when the rat like drum salesman gave us his rendition on a new Sonar kit. It was good. Then Dude asked if it would be ok for him to have a go. Ratboy said it was but he took his sticks with him and there was a solitary stick left. Dude began beating his rhythm and Ratboy looked on from behind his counter, eyebrows raised. After a minute or so I went over to rodent features and said: "He's good isn't he?" Ratboy nodded enthusiastically. "Any chance he could have another stick?" I asked. The rodent-faced oaf almost choked. Dude had slaughtered poor Ratboy's rendition with only one stick.
Dude drummed with us on the Rockworld gig and a couple of others but he was mainly the friend who'd come round after work or college and jam with us into the early hours. Just as well he was one of the neighbours, really.
Since leaving the Lloyds, Dude went and joined the Foreign Legion and drank himself into a fight every weekend for ten years. Since then he's been in the Priory for recovering drummers who fight too much and has got his life back on track. He plans to write a book about his experiences, of which ther have been far too many for me to write about here. If you're reading this, Dude, I could be your ghost!