I am in the basement of a public house, a room in which informal poetry readings are held.

Tonight is special as there is rumoured to be an appearance by poet/singer, Morrissey. We wait in eager anticipation of seeing and hearing the great man reading out lines from his classic songs.

There is a commotion in a room to my right: the pub's kitchen. We hear what sounds like the quacking of a duck. It is a duck and it waddles under the swing doors, swiftly followed by Morrissey, chin jutting in anger, holding a meat cleaver above his head, and screaming at the top of his voice, "THEY ALWAYS LET ME DOWN!"

This horrible scene is cut short by a hefty bouncer's knee connecting with the duck hater's groin. The cleaver drops from the singer's hand and misses the terrified duck by a mere three inches.

As Morrissey is bundled into the kitchen, the MC climbs onstage and says, "Sorry folks, I'm afraid tonight's gig is cancelled."

We all boo like cows with bunged up noses, but the MC calms us down with the following words:

"But a little treat for you next week. Keep this under your hats, but next Saturday the one and only Ted Nugent will be reading Under Milk Wood."

We whoop and whoop and whoop.