"LISTEN, listen! Can you hear the tunes? Yes, I can. Can you?"

When modern man first stopped being a monkey and found himself a home made of rock, there was only one thing, this was the first thing that he was thinking and wanting - food. Meat. He and his ones needed to fill their hungry little men. They were on about meat, food and meat. Then, after they got that, some music.

When I'm in the house on my own, or at least if it's just me and Mr Belnoire and he's quiet usually except when he's in his cups - then, oh hell, he's rowdy! Oh hell. Hell. - I wonder about the cavemen.

When they first started finishing up the grub and laying back and, well, all the farting and that, how did their music? And what sound did it have? Possibly, I'd say, they clicked, say, a big bronto-bone against a pterodactyl's tooth-tits. Yeah, and perhaps they played a little fiddle on all the whiskers of my sabre-tooth. And they always probably made a clever trombone off a triceratops's organ. But them's the insturments - yeah! In my mind! - but not the sounds. We can never - probably, dunno, don't even ask me why I care anymore - swing to the beats of the originale caveman's band.

But if you were not even born then, or since, or in the future - as long as you had enough time to step into the later eighth of the second half of the previous century's nineteen seventies, you might catch a glimpse of back-prehistoric apes tunes - in the Punk.

For too long, say our very staring, nervy friends in all the bondage, Top of the Pops - which was said to be a forerunner to ITV's The Chart Show, I don't know what that means - is full of some blonde git singing a song on a piano and his jumper on and glasses, all about 'I love you' and 'Come back here'. These men were no good, said Jonny Rotter of A Sex Pistol. These were making youths boring, listening to it. It was all, said his dead mate Sid Viscous, a "pack a'crap". And, to be honest, them singers that wore sweaters at a piano when they sang remind me now of Mr Belnoire, when I do see him, going to the toilet in his cups, when my bladder does let me down very late from my sleep, on the top landing, me cold, him bold, both of us shuffling because of the narrow, a terrible draft up the stairs, quite a fright he is.

Do you want to see all Mr Belnoire killed though? Nor the singers espoused as hatred-nothings by our pale, jumping friends-in-the-whizz? Well - heh heh! - maybe! No, just cheeking. That's all. Them boys who told their girls to call them punks from now on had no urges really to put fire to old boredom on the juke or up your stereo's walls, but to make the jawbone click-to-click from prehistors, and jump a glut of spit on your best bassist's arm - because you bloody like him! - and all this you've got to do while listening to what must be a rumble coming up frum a four-ape group banging branches on a Woolly Mammoth cunt.

Then, a year later, they all went for a wash and did something else.

Mind you, I would too.