ROYSTON BLAKE ON BREXIT

I been doing some thinkin' on this Brexit wossname. I hears the Prime Minister went over Froggy Land and gave em what for about how the true Brits voted, and they was mean to him and roughed him up and that, telling him he can take his Brexit and shove it up his fuckin' Shexit. We got a contract with em and we better carry on coughing up, they says, else they'm sending over the Euro top boys to jemmy it out of us. And we're talking vikings, nazis, wop footy hooligans, Ivan Drago and a bunch of vampires and zombies. Well, much as I'm up for a rumble (and if you been harkin' me you knows I can handle vampires and zombies and werewolfs and the like), I got a better plan. See, I been havin' a good old gander at a map. Of the world, like, not just the normal one of the Mangel area including Tuber, East Bloater and the Deblin Hills. And I made a bit of a discovery that changes the whole fuckin' game. A tyre-changer, I hear they calls it.

Britain ain't even in Europe.

See, there's this big river thing flowing between the arse end of Britain and the tit end of Europe. Says here it's sponsored by the English Channel, although I spent a good five minutes flicking and I can't for the life of us find that one on my telly. But what it means, right, is that we don't have to do all this begging shite. Prime Minister Farage or whatever don't have to go cap in arse and apologise and ask em to be nice to us even though we reckons em all cunts. No, all we gotta do is push ourselves out a bit.

I mean, fuckin' literal like.

Get a massive pole, ram it into the side of Paris or whatever and heave-ho, off to the deep water Britain goes. That's the beauty of being an island, see? And if anyone says we ain't got no poles long enough - have a look down the back of the hairy factory. There's some fucking massive ones there even if they'm rusted to fuck. Stingers growing all over em too so wear some gloves.

And why stop there? See, if we makes a couple of massive oars and all we can row ourselves all the way to America. Fuckin' imagine that - Britain becoming one of the United States, along with Texas and, erm... Hey, we could run up them Rocky steps and everything. We could track down Paulie and give him a good shoeing for the way he treated that watch Rocky gave him! I'm talkin' America, where you don't have to wear helmets on motorbikes... where the coppers have all got proper caps and not fuckin' tits on their swedes... where you can gun fuckers down and not spend eight years in Mangel jail for it, like Jason Roper from the dole centre when he shot that burglar in the arse with that shotgun he nicked from that farm out by Barkettle... where...

Hang on, can you get Embassy Regals in America? And what about kebabs?

Fuck it - I ain't riskin' it.

Your mate,

Blakey

"Six months off for bad behaviour"

Eh up. Royston Blake makes a guest appearance at Brit Grit Alley, delicately tackling the sensitive issue of "special needs". Check it here.

Also check this footage of some 18 year old kid electrifying the world in 1998. One moment of magic like that (against Argentina of all teams) makes up for all the years of injury. Enjoy your retirement, Michael Owen. Try not to buy a pub.

And in case you haven't heard, MADE OF STONE is out.

You thought I could get through a whole post without mentioning that?

Royston Blake on the royal pregnancy

I heard the Queen is pregnant, or summat, and she's off work for a bit cos of puking up in the morning. Personally I ain't buying that. I had a few high-up positions in major companies in my time - including being head doorman of Hoppers and head of summat at the Wossname Centre - and if there's one thing you learns to do when folks is ringing up sick in the morning it's this: check what day it is. If it's a Wednesday or a Thursday or summat, fair play, they might actually be a bit ill. But if it's a Monday, which is the case here with the Queen and her sicknote, they'm lying. No one gets proper sick at weekends - every fucker knows that. What has happened is they have gone out on the razz. Maybe on the Saturday, and got so caned they can't even face the world two mornings later. Maybe on the Sunday, which I personally don't agree with. Sundays was declared in the Bible as the national day of rest, out of respect for door staff and other folks who works in piss houses right up until the early hours of that day. So it seems to me the Queen has been raiding the drinks cabinet at Buckingham Castle. Or maybe she went down the Prince of Wales, which is a pub on the Barkettle Road owned by her son, Prince Charles, rumour has it. Mind you, I ain't sure I believes that rumour. I mean, if he did own it, why didn't they name it after him instead of some cunt from Wales?

Royston Blake says "God Bless America"

I heard they got a new prime minister in America. Personally I liked the old one, Arnold Scharzenegger. At his best he were like the biggest bastard of a headmaster you ever got caned by, except with a shotgun instead of a cane. Also he had that arm with robot shite under it, which he could pull the skin off whenever he wants to shite people up. I heard he had a special operation to have all that put in, and it's seizing up now with rust and that's why they had to get the new prime minister, played by Apollo Creed out of Rocky I, II, III and IIII (until he gets wasted by Ivan Drago). I like the bit at the end where Rambo goes "If I can change, and you can change, every fucker can change. Maybe even Fat Sandra down the arcade, who still reckons I'm banned even though I ain't tried going in there in three years." As everyone knows, that film is all about communists and the Iron Beef Curtain. So here's to hoping Barracks Wossname can finally end all that and bring a new kind of curtain to them Soviets. One made of velvet, or summat. Or just a nice Venusian blind.

Your mate,

Blakey.

AudioBlake

Royston Blake here, letting you know that they have turned my book Deadfolk into an audiobook. Fuck knows what one of them is, but the Writer reckons it's true so I gotta tell you it. If he's spinning me a line of shite I'll twock him, I swear.

They'm also doing the other books I done, and you can see em here if you're a Yank or here if you're from Mangel. Watch out mind cos they got a photo of the Writer on them pages and he ain't half so handsome as meself. As everyone knows, I'm the fucking spit of Clint Eastwood but with the body of Ivan Drago.

 By the way, it ain't me reading the stories out. It's a feller name of James Clamp. I think he's from East Bloater.

Royston Blake on the Olympics

Been watching them Olympics on the telly. What's all this about the hammer throw? That ain't a fucking hammer. Try pinging a nail in with that and you'll put your fucking skull through. Also had a gander at the runners doing the 100 yards. I swear, over 40 yard I could murder them cunts one and all. But 100 is way too much. I ain't built for long distances.

Nah, the one I'm waiting for is the Paralympics. Neil Coates from school were in the Paras, and he telled us afterwards that the training is the hardest a man can do. They had strong fellers chucking their guts on the roadside out of pure pain, and one or two even carking it from sheer knackeredness. So you can't blame Neil for deserting - he'd have been dead after a few weeks of that, what with him being a streak of piss and a bit ginger. Paras is the hardest regiment in the world, and it stands to reason they gave em a special Olympics just for them.

Can't fucking wait for it.

Your mate,

Blakey

Guest blog: Royston Blake

Dear bastards,

It has come to my wossname that not enough of you is buying my books, either in the non-Mangel parts of Britain or in America, which is famous for being where Rocky comes from. And that can only mean one thing, far as my thinking goes: you ain't got enough love for old Blakey.

Now, there's two things I can do here. Number one, I can try and make meself more popular. In my experience, the one surefire way to get your arse right to the top of the popular tree is to get a job as a doorman. Failing that, bouncer. There's some cunts who don't like members of the dooring and bouncing communities, but that's because they'm jealous. Or they had their arses kicked out of a couple of places and they got a grudge against the brethren. But them sort is worth shite and ain't even worthy of being used to wipe my arse with. What counts is the decent folks out there - the birds who like to feel my biceps and the fellers who crash us fags and don't cause too much trouble, unless it's out on the street where I can have a laugh. And I'm figuring you're in that camp, and that you'll respond by shelling out for a couple of my books if I don the doorman regalia once again. So that's one way we could go.

The other way, I come out into the world beyond Mangel and crack some fucking Outsider swedes.

Up to you.

Your mate,

Blakey

Goodies

Got lasagne in the oven, beer in the fridge, books to read and films to watch. And hey, I got a couple of things for you too!

Have you read ONE DEAD HEN, Royston Blake's latest fouth-mouthed hurrah? No? Well you can check out a big sample of it FOR FREE to see if you like it or not. I just had a quick look myself and found it too sweary for my tastes. Really, why do these writers have to swear so much? Do they think they are impressing someone?

Goodie number two is this guest blog of mine on Heath Lowrance's PSYCHO NOIR blog. Is there a better-named blog in the blogosphere? If I owned a bar it would be called Psycho Noir. If I had a school I would call it Psycho Noir.

Looking back, I can see that these two goodies don't really stack up next to beer and lasagne. But hey, the beer is only Tetleys, which is very far from being a favourite of mine. And I'm probably going to burn the lasagne. All in all we're pretty even.

Many thanks to Heath for inviting me to do the guest post, and putting the idea of Psycho Noir Elementary School into my head.

GUEST BLOGGER: Royston Blake - "Blakey on tour Part One"

Like I says, I ain't been in jail. Mangel jail is a place for proper scum, not community pillars like me who sometimes fall a bit foul when they cut a corner in the name of doing the right thing. No, what I thought I'd do, following the success of my campaign wossname and in celebration of my forthcoming memoir, is go on a nice holiday. And by that I don't mean camping in Hurk Wood - I mean a proper, fucking expensive holiday.

In a caravan.

I had it all sorted as well, had me eye on a decent caravan and everything. Nice white one it were, only one previous owner so far as I knew and he were still owning it at the time. What's more, he were always out all day during the week and I knew how to pick the type of padlock he had on the gate, meaning I didn't even have to pay for it. All I needed were summat to pull it with, and we all know the best type of caravan pulling motor, don't we? That's right - your 1983 Ford Granada MkIII hearse. And it just so happened I knowed where they had one.

(Update: this post spun off into a novel, most of which I wrote here on my blog. But I took it down when I had to start going back and making little changes. Hope you get to read it when it comes out. But it probably won't be called "Blakey on Tour")

Guest blog: Russel D McLean

A REAL CHARACTER
Russel D McLean

With thanks to Royston Blake and Charlie Williams – but in particular, and because he’s bigger, Royston –for allowing me to guest blog here today.

My name is Russel D McLean, and I’m sure you’ll have heard me say some nice things about Williams and Blakey before. Neither of them paid me any money, I assure you. Neither of them has any money to pay me. I am, if you can’t tell by the accent, Scottish, and right now I’m pimping the US release of my second novel THE LOST SISTER by running rampant on the blogs of some of my favourite authors.

But don’t worry. While I hope you do buy either the US or the UK editions of either one of me books, I’m not going to shove it down your throat by saying how good they are. Instead I’m going to talk about something that interests me.

Character.

See, Blakey and Williams have an interesting author/character dynamic. In that Blakey seems able to exist almost independently of the man who chronicles his life (hence why Blakey once invaded my blogging day over at the multi-author blog, DO SOME DAMAGE).

This kind of character independence doesn’t happen that often, and so far I’m glad it hasn’t happened to me. After all, J McNee – who features in both THE GOOD SON and THE LOST SISTER – seems to have a habit of bringing doom to those around him. Not his fault, at least not all the time, but in some sense he’s a lightning rod for bad news. Which is maybe good news for readers. At least those, like me, who like to see their fictional characters tormented and tested.

But while I don’t usually allow McNee to roam free of his own accord or have his own facebook page, it doesn’t mean that he feels purely fictional to me. Its an odd part of a writer’s psyche, I guess, that we can feel our characters as real people, that we can know the way they speak and react in much the same way (and maybe more so) that we know the way in which our friends and relatives will behave in certain situations. And its even stranger that I can know so much about a man who doesn’t want to talk about his past.

When McNee first came into my head, when I first started hearing that voice, his rhythms and patterns, I started to ask who this man was and who he had been. I knew he’d been a cop. From the outset it was clear that his fiancée was recently deceased and that he’d quit the police force after an “incident” with a superior officer. But he made me work for all that and seemed to be making a concerted effort to hide certain aspects of his past. I’m still not sure about his family, other than odd references to parents (are they still alive? He talks about them in the past tense) and maybe his gran (but then, he could just be having me on). He was a reticient fellow and yet every so often he’d let something slip. A hint. A clue. An idea. A half truth.

It was enough to keep me fascinated. After all, I’ve a history, as a reader, of loving characters who don’t reveal all about themselves. Richard Stark’s thief Parker only ever existed on the job. The Nameless detective was… nameless. And the copper in Derek Raymond’s factory novels gave away as little of himself as possible. And yet there was enough in all of these characters to give you a sense of who they were.

And that was what attracted me to McNee. He revealed himself in momentary glimpses. Letting him talk was like letting a stranger tell you a story and hoping by the end of that story you might know this man better. In short, I found his voice fascinating. Getting to know a character becomes like getting to know a friend. I suppose it’s the grown up version of the invisible friend you had as a child.

Except if you said he was an invisible friend and you were over the age of sixteen, you’d likely be locked up. Or maybe drugged by a friendly GP. So what you do is you say that he’s a character and you become a writer so that you have a legitimate reason for getting to know this non existent person.

The truth of the matter is, McNee fascinates me as a person. He’s an angry, bitter bastard and yet beneath that there lurks the heart of someone who just wants to do the right thing, who wants a kind of justice in the world and yet has been trained not to expect it. He’s a man of contradictions and bad habits. He infuriates you and fascinates you at the same time. One of my favourite reviews ever said, “You don't know whether to hug him or punch him” And I’d absolutely agree with that.

As authors, we can let our invisible friends out so that other people can get to know them as well as we do.

And the best part?

We can’t be called insane for doing so.




Russel's The Lost Sister is out from Minotaur Books in the USA this month. It is published in the UK by Five Leaves Press. Check out his website and his Friday bloggings over at Do Some Damage. He once took the night bus from Dundee to Bristol and lived to tell the tale.

GUEST BLOGGER: ROYSTON BLAKE "I believe I can fly"

The FREE THE MANGEL ONE campaign has now hit 373 members, which is pretty fucking not bad at all. A few more and we'll be on quite good. But you know what level I'm aiming for, don't you, blokes and gentlemen? I'm aiming for top fucking banana.

Ain't there a plane called a 373? A Boing 373 or summat. I ain't been on a plane before but I have been on a helicopter. There was one up by the East Bloater Road once, a big red one parked near a recent road accident, by coincidence. Me and Finney were out there having a laugh in a borrowed Cosworth, pretending like we was American and driving on the right. Mind you, the feller had plenty of time to see us coming so I dunno why he swerved off the road like that, smashing into the bus-stop. Anyhow, me and Fin were alright, parking up behind some trees and coming back a bit later to see if there was anything worth seeing, sticking out bones and stuff. It was Finney who saw the chopper. Engine idling, no one in it. I mean, that is a fucking gift, right?

We got about twenty yards, and it was Finney's fault. I should have taken the wheel, I know. Or the rudder, or whatever the fuck it was. Why did I believe him when he said he'd drove one of them things in the army? Fin wasn't in the army, for fuck's fucking sake. He's a fucking gyppo, for starters, and I'm pretty sure they ain't allowed to join. Not that the bloke chasing us knew that. Fin could have been a general in the SAS for all he knew, the twat. So that's why it was his fault, really, when Fin veered sideways and took some of the bloke's head off with the blades. Just a bit, at the top.

But the main thing to know is we got away and no one saw us. And everyone was alright in the end. Except the bloke. And whoever had to put out the chopper, after we jumped out and it crashed into a conker tree, blowing up a bit. But I ain't ever been in a plane, no.

Not yet anyhow.

Guest blogger: Royston Blake

People sometimes ask me what I look like. I find that a bit odd, considering they're sat right next to me at the time. Then I recall I'm in the caff up by the blind school, where they does the cheapest bacon butties in town so long as you can trick em that you're blind.

But other folks want to know what I look like as well, folks with odd names like Svetlana, sending me computer letters and asking if I'll bung em some wedge so she can come over here and have sexy fun. And all I can say in response is what I say to them blind ones, as I'm slying a bit of toast off their plate:

Picture the body of Ivan Drago from Rocky 4 and the head of a young Clint Eastwood. With a tash.

That don't mean much to them up at the blind caff, because they don't get to watch films like normal people (I think it's cos them white sticks are a menace in the cinema), but you'll know all about it. I really do look like that, and it's how come I never have to make no effort at all with the birds. All except the blind ones. And let me tell you, there is one bird up there who is fucking quality. I'm munching on my toast and watching her, picturing us in the vid for that Lionel Richie song called "Hello, is it me you're after?" But the tragedy is that she won't ever be mine. I'll never win her because she can't appreciate how handsome I am, and won't ever see me on the door at Hoppers or wherever, knocking heads and booting arses and proving yet again that there ain't no cunt harder than me in the Mangel area. So I just swipe a couple of her sausages instead.

And put a fiver in an envelope for Svetlana.


If you dig Blakey, please join this Facebook group and remember he exists in book form. If you don't dig him at all, still join the group, please. Then he'll leave you alone

Guest blogger for Easter: Royston Blake

Brothers and sisters, today is Good Friday. On this day in history, in 1066, Pontius Pilot and his brothers did a number on Jesus Christ, snatching him off the streets of Bethlehem and carting him out to Calgary (in the back of a horse and cart version of the Meat Wagon, like as not). And do you know why they done that, friends of mine? They done it, right, cos they deemed him to be a danger to the status quo.

I know what you're thinking. 'What the fuck has Easter got to do with heavy metal?' you're asking yourselves. Well, status quo ain't just them headbangers who done "Whatever You Want" and "You're in the Army Now", it is also a French word meaning, erm... hang on a min.

Alright, status quo means "the existing state of affairs" (according the Nathan the barman, so if he's wrong you can take it up with him). And Jesus was a danger to that, Pontius reckoned. See, Pontius was shagging a lot of birds behind his wife's back, and Jesus found out about em and was about to spill the beans to all and sundry, thereby getting Pontius in the shite with her indoors. But there was another thing as well, the thing what made up Pontio's mind to get some of the lads together with a few beers, a couple of pitchforks, some nails and a massive cross...

Jesus told things like they was.

Wherever you found him - down the market, the pub, the arcade... anywhere - you'd always find Jesus talking to folks, opening their eyes to matters and showing em how wrong they had it. And he weren't being nasty about it. He done it in a nice way, calling em his lambs and giving em fish and chips and glasses of wine and that. Because it weren't their fault that they had things wrong in their heads. It was the fucking powers that be, weren't it? And we're coming back to the Pilot brothers here.

Now, I want you to look at my current situation. The powers that be are trying to shut me down, just like they was with Jesus. Instead of the Pilot boys I got the publisher bloke and his cronies. It's cos I'm doing just what Jesus done, telling the truth to all who will listen, pulling the scales off their eyes with a quiet word, a loud voice or sometimes a slap, if they're a bit slow. Only difference is that they're too fucking scaredy to having a go at crucifying me. Folks have tried similar things before and they don't work on me, and every cunt knows it. So instead, right, they're refusing to publish my true story, WRONGUN. Jesus got nailed to the cross, I got my book held back.

It's the same fucking thing, separated by about two hundred years.

But Jesus rose again, didn't he? After forty days and forty nights, on May bank holiday or thereabouts, Jesus got up and went walkies, scaring the shite out of most folks I would reckon. And I can do that as well - Royston fucking Blake can rise up from the dead, in book form. And you can help me, brothers and sisters, by joining this here Facebook thingio.

Your mate

Blakey

FREE THE MANGEL ONE

MAKE HER GAG FOR IT

Hello there. Danny here from FrotSoft. First off, that's bollocks about Engelbert Humperdinck and "The Last Waltz". Keith must have started that rumour, and it don't surprise us one bit. It is true that I have a couple of Engelbert records in the cupboard at home, but they ain't mine. They're me mam's, and sometimes I gets em out and gives em a spin or two. I sit back with a glass of Baileys and close me eyes, thinking about her. She used to play that Last Waltz song all day she did, right up until her liver packed up on her. So what d'you say for yerself now, eh Keith? What d'you say now you knows why I had that song on when you walked in (without knocking) the other week? Proud of yerself, making out like I'm a poof?

No, me actual favourite song, since yer asking, is "Please Release Me", by Engelbert Humperdinck. But I ain't got time to talk about the whys and wherebys of why it's me favourite. I got bloody shedloads of work to do. Always the same it is - Keith dumps the work on me desk and off he fucks. Aye, muggins here does every bit of it. You know what? I don't even reckon he's ever even touched a fucking keyboard in his life. I tell yer, if I called in sick he wouldn't know what to do. Actually I knows what he'd do - he come round with the computer and set it up next to the bed for us. He's a right bastard, I tell yer. And one of these days I'll show him. I'll fucking show him I will.

And it ain't even like he's bringing proper web desining work in. I can't even remember the last time I desined a web. Course, you knows why. It don't take much head work to notice that no one in Mangel has actually got a computer (besides us), and so putting up a site for Gromer Wines & Tobbaco won't actually bring in much custom. Even Keith clocked onto that in the end, thick though he surely is. I reckon our web site desining days is over.

But do you know what he's gone and done now? He's only gone and changed our sign out front to FROTSOFT INTERNET MARKETING. Aye, so what he does is he goes round shops and businesses and that, telling em he can increase their rollover by hundred percent, or summat, by harnessing the unharnessed harnesses of web harnessing, or summat. Course, they just tells him to fuck off.

So what's this shedloads of work I'm doing, if we ain't got no punters?

"Internal work", is all I can say to you.

It's a bit fucking clever actually. And a bit secret and all. If I telled you about it you'd start doing it yerself, thereby diluting our market share. So I can't tell you nothing about it. Not even a clue, mate. But it's fucking great though. This could be our road to riches, I'm telling yer. What it is, right, is that Keith's got his hands on this compact disc wossname. And on it there's all these flipping email addresses of fellers out there on the outside (meaning not in Mangel). And he's got me working on this program thingy that sends em all messages trying to flog em gear, with subjects like MAKE YER COCK BIGGER IN THREE DAYS. And this is where I'm using me marketeering skills, Keith says. Coming up with slogans and that whereby a feller who receives it can no way pass it up, if he knows what's good for him.

Fuck knows what half the gear is though. (What's VAGRIA, for fuck sake? Ain't that like, you know, a woman's... you know, between her...) And he won't get none for me, will he? Says "a salesman never samples his own wares" when I asked him last week.

A salesman never does no actual fucking WORK, more like.

The band had only one more song to play

Later in the week, if you're lucky, we will have another guest blogger here. His name is Danny and he is a talented web designer, working in a small English town. From what I hear, he is going to be talking about his favourite song - "The Last Waltz" by Engelbert Humperdinck.

Here is a picture of Danny, so you'll know him when you see him:

i need a girl who can keep her head...

hello. keith here from frotsoft, doing a bit of guest blogging like. the usual feller has asked us to put summat on here, spice it up a bit for him. and i got just the thing for you, it being valentines and that.

"all night long" by rainbow is widely reputed to be the best song in the anals of musical history. not only does it have a top tune and that, but the words is great and all. it's about a feller who's in a pop group, right, and he's at a concert and there's a bird in the audience who he quite fancies. you can't blame him though cos she's a bit of alright:

I saw you standing there by the stage
Your black stockings and your see-through dress

not bad, eh? anyhow, so he starts singing this song to her, telling her how fit she is and how much he wants to love her all night long, like. it's a master class in chatting a bird up, and i for one have learned a lot from it, playing it over and over before going out on a saturday night. i'll walk you through the different phases, see if i can't teach you summat.

flattery

You're sorta young but you're overage
I don't care cos I like you're style
Don't know about your brain but you look alright

see, what he's up to there is flatterising her. it's a fact well known that no bird can stand much flattery before putting out. so he's feeding her all the lines she wants to hear, making her the centre of his universe. so at this point she's well buttered up, like, but not quite ready for the jam. so he moves onto the next stage:

pity

You're mind is dirty but your hands are clean
You're short of class but your legs are long
I can't stand to spend another night on my own

show me a lost puppy and i'll show you a bird with her heart bleeding. it's plain as the foot on the end of your leg: birds is soft, and they can't walk past a poor fucker in distress. so that's what the feller's doing here - making himself out like a lost puppy. "I can't stand to spend another night on my own" - aaah, bless him. (course, he don't ever spend a night on his own, do he, with chatting up skills like these uns.)

the classics

Hey girl would you like some wine?
What's your name? Are you by yourself?
Are you the one, what's your sign, can I take you home?

no self-respecting ladies' man permits himself to chat up a bird without feeding her the classics. he knows it, and so does she. she respects herself and all, and she'd feel cheap if she gave in without hearing them old favourites whispered all smoky in her ear. and of course, he saves the big one til last there - "can I take you home?" what you got there is him cleverly ending up with a question, lobbing the ball in her court, and thereby leaving her gagging for it.

so there you go - a lecture in love from one of the world's fourmost authorities. (don't say i never gives you fuck all, eh?) take these chicken nuggets of advice, go out there into the world, do yer stuff and see if you can't pick yerself up a beautiful lady before old saint valentine pisses off.

a word of warning
always practice in the mirror before going out. and remember: it's all about eyebrow movement.

Don't know about your brain but you look alright

Later in the week, if you're lucky, we will have a guest blogger here. His name is Keith and he is a talented web designer, working in a small English town. From what I hear, he is going to be talking about his favourite song - "All Night Long" by Rainbow.

Here is a picture of Keith, so you'll know him when you see him: