A blast on the trombone, the wistful strains of a violin, and into the circus ring lurches another vaudevillian cockney geezer from the songbook of Gorgeous George. The next three minutes will be like punch-up at an unlicensed Eastern Bloc horse race, as the band sets off at a lung-busting gallop, melodies and rhythms flying from innumerable instruments like the screams and pistol fire of a drunken gypsy crowd. And in the midst of it all, a slyly observed tale of life, love and wrongdoing (or aftershave and football results) will emerge, sung in perfect South London council estate cockneyese.