The Amelia Project - Episode 59 - Thuggy Trashmouth (1979)

Episode Date: October 7, 2022

"We don't make music for old hippies." Featuring Laurence Owen, Alan Burgon, Julia C. Thorne, Hemi Yeroham, Erin King and Jordan Cobb. Written by Philip Thorne with story editing by Oystein Ulsberg Brager. Sound design by Adam Raymonda and music by Fredrik Baden. For full credits and transcript, check our website. Website: https://ameliapodcast.com Transcripts: https://ameliapodcast.com/transcripts Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/ameliapodcast Donations: https://ameliapodcast.com/support Twitter: https://twitter.com/amelia_podcast Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ameliapodcast/ Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/ameliapodcast Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Summer's here, and you can now get almost anything you need delivered with Uber Eats. What do we mean by almost? You can't get a well-groomed lawn delivered, but you can get chicken parmesan delivered. Sunshine? No. Some wine? Yes. Get almost, almost anything delivered with Uber Eats. Order now. Alcohol and select markets. See app for details.

Summer is like a cocktail. It has to be mixed just right. Start with a handful of great friends. Now, add your favorite music. And then, finally, add Bacardi Rum. And there you have it, the perfect summer mix. Bacardi, do what moves you. Live passionately, drink responsibly.

Copyright 2024. Bacardi, its trade dress and the bat device are trademarks of Bacardi and Company Limited. Rum, 40% alcohol by volume. This episode is dedicated to Heat 312, who will disappear in an orange blaze during a fire-breathing act and return as a swimming instructor in Milton Keynes. Enjoy the show. Listen, Alvina. What?

Listen. Beautiful. Beautiful. After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music. Who's that? Albus Huxley. What music do you like, Alvina? Oh, you know, a bit of everything. Leonard Cohen, David Bowie, Amy Mann, The Clash.

The Clash? You sound surprised. Well, I didn't have you down as a punk, is all. Well, you should have seen me in my teens. No way. Combat boots, studded belts, skull earrings, a denim jacket with no future scrawled on the back. You dark horse, Albina. It's hard to be a rebel when you go to school on an island with fewer than a dozen people,

but I did my best. When I finally went to the mainland, I discovered punk had been dead for, like, 20 years. Yes, it must have been hard growing up in a tiny island community like that. Oh, in some ways it was wonderful. Especially as a small kid. But, yeah, being a teenager was hard. And when it comes to pop culture, we were definitely cut off. The Baker's son had a cassette tape of the Sex Pistols' Anarchy in the UK. I made a copy and

listened to it under my duvet with my ear pressed against the cassette player so my mum wouldn't hear. It was the most shocking and transgressive thing I'd ever heard. Oh, yes, that's definitely the way to listen to punk rock. At low volume, under a duvet. Shut up! What about you? Oh, yes, me too. No, I meant what music are you into?

Oh, um... Oh, wait! What did you think I meant? I thought you were asking me if I was also a punk. And you were? Well, it seems I have the capacity to surprise too, Alvina. What? No, you're kidding. I'm not.

I've never seen you in anything other than a three-piece suit. Time for another story. A time for another story. The Amelia Project. Created by Philip Thorne and Øystein Ulsbeck-Braga, with sound direction by Frederik Baden and sound design by Adam Raimonda. Episode 59. Thuggy Trashmouth. 1979.

I'm ready for you. Across the room, you can see a bookshelf. Walk towards it. Look for Last Flight by Amelia Earhart. Once you find it, pull it. This is going to be interesting God, that's good shit. Oh, come in. Come in, Dears. Welcome to the Amelia Project.

Grab a seat. What's shaking? Fuck me with a barge pole. It's nifty contraption, isn't it? No, I mean, turn off that old shit. Eh? Oh. All right. Suit yourself.

I don't believe this. Eh? Oh. All right. Suit yourself. I don't believe this. What? I didn't know I was meeting a fucking hippie. Oh, I'm hardly a hippie. Oh, yeah. I think you need to take a chill pill. Your hair's down to your arsehole. Speaking of hair, I dig your mohawk.

Personally, I would have opted for a slightly paler shade of green, but, you know. I ain't taking fashion advice from a geezer wearing flares and a poncy red velvet jacket. Well, you should. It's very comfy. It's 1979. You look like a fucking relic. And you look... Yes?

Pretty damn terrifying, if I'm being honest. Good. Doesn't it hurt? What? All those metal studs in your tongue. Yes. Oh. I feel we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.

Why don't I offer you a nice cup of cocoa and a little something to smoke, perhaps? Stories are best told in a state of total chill. Just the drugs. Right. Would that be the dope or the cocoa? What the fuck is wrong with you? I find the combined effect of THC and theobromine hitting the bloodstream creates the most exquisite high. I'll stick with the dope.

Suit yourself. There you are One for you Just watch out, it's very strong Yes, lovely So, your name is Thuggy? Thuggy Trashmouth. Nice. Well, they tell me you're a musician. That so?

Yes, Grandad. Well, tell me about your music. Pfft! Oh, I'm very sorry, Thuggy. Are you offended that I haven't heard of you? Well, don't be. Because this ageing hippie hardly gets out of this office. I mean, the last time I attended a concert was seven years ago at Glastonbury Fair.

Now, Fairport Convention, gong, pink fairies. Well, we don't make music for old hippies, alright? And who is we? The shit stains. The shit stains? I love it. What? Hearing posh fuckers like you say it.

Oh, do you? Thuggy, do you want me to help you or not? I don't know. I'm starting to think coming here was a mistake. You might not want to be so quick to judge. We've hardly got to know each other yet. Nah, I'm bang on about you. Oh, really?

So, who am I? You look like you stepped out of a production of Hair. You really think so? Not a compliment. Oh, I know. Now I saw Hair when it opened on Broadway ten years ago.

Of course you fucking did. It is a brilliant musical. It's a sell-out piece of consumerist shite. Oh, let's give it a decade. What? Until they start making musicals about you. Bubble gum bitch.

Pissing on the union jack. I want to puke on you. You can't make a musical out of that. Today's Underground is tomorrow's mainstream. Fuck you! And I'll be in the front row moshing to Monday Morning Wank. You fucking won't. You wouldn't know fucking music.

Wait, how do you know about that? I didn't tell you about Monday Morning Wank. Perhaps I know more about you than I let on. Er, told you not to be so quick to judge. Didn't I?

No, you see, Thuggy, I am a man who has undergone many changes in his life. I reinvent myself constantly. God, I just happen to love the 60s.

The flowery prints suit me. I dig the stimulants and music, and I dislike going to the hairdressers, you know. Besides, I can't keep up with every fad and fashion, now can I? So I just reckoned I'd stick with the flowers and flares until something new grabbed my fancy. And I must say, I am tempted. What? How do you get your hair to stand up like that? No, no, no, no, no, no.

Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes. You know, I have a leather jacket here somewhere, and I'm sure Kozlovsky could help me with the piercings. Nah, forget it, mate. You're too old. No, I can do something about that, too. Isn't this supposed to be about me? Yes, all right, yes. You're right, of course, yes. I'll turn to my wardrobe later.

So, Thuggy, what brings you to the Amelia Project? Yeah? See these scars? Yes, it's hard to miss them. Now, how I got them, I assumed it was part of the look. Got bottled off stage in Camden last night. Um, sorry, is that a good thing or a bad thing? What the fuck do you mean? Well, you said that you didn't want to be co-opted by the mainstream,

so the longer you're bottled off stage, the better? No? I mean, it doesn't get more legit than that. Ah, now, now. You're missing the point. And what's that? The reason they bottled me off stage. Oh, yes.

Right. So we just finished Monday morning wake. You know, wakey-wakey. Yeah. Hands off Snakey. Gotta go to work for a stupid jerk in a tie and shirt fuck you and your way of life I wank on you and I wank on your wifer I wank on you you pathetic man I wank on your poodle and your pension plan Wank, wank, wank, wank, wank, wank, wank Yes, yes, I told you I'm familiar with the song

Oh, right, yeah So, we end the song Sid picks up the drum kit and smashes it on Johnny's head Craig pukes into Jason's mouth, you know, the usual Quiet And then it's time for me to sing Ratbag Rage So Johnny passes me the microphone, and I swivel my hips and wiggle my pelvis.

You what? Craig gives me this weird look, but I think I've got it under control. I clench my muscles, grip my teeth and stop my hips from moving. Reined it in, I think. Focus, Fuggy, focus. I think of Craig's puke trickling out of Jason's mouth and how the rotters in Westminster are screwing over the working class. I'm in the zone.

I'm ready. I'm ready to launch into ratbag rage. Right. I clutch the microphone Open my mouth And out comes Love me tender, love me sweet What? At Elvis Presley So

Never let me go The crowd starts booing At for my darling I love you The first bottle hits me head Then bottles are coming in from all sides. By the time I reach, I'll be yours through all the years, Johnny, Craig and Jason join in. With the song?

No, with the throwing of the fucking bottles. Thuggy, why on earth did you start singing Elvis? I didn't. But you just said you sang Love Me Tender to a room full of punks. That wasn't me! Then who? Him! Who? Him! Who's him?

The motherfucking king! The motherfucking... Wait, what? It's true. The actual Elvis Presley? Yes. Oh, um...

Um... I don't know how to tell you, but... Yes? Well, you see, I happen to know for a fact that Elvis is dead. Well, the rotter might be dead, but he's still messing with me. What? It started a week ago

in the backstage bogs at the King's Anus. The King's? What? Yeah, King's Anus. It's a pub on Tavistock Road. We play there every weekend. Oh, right. So you're in the loo? Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I'm in the bogs taking a dump. Lovely. My foot starts tapping. Next thing I know. I'm in the box taking a dump. Lovely. My foot starts tapping. Next thing I know, I'm in blue suede shoes. I'm so embarrassed I lock myself in the cubicle and stay there till it's over. Jeepers creepers. And then the rest of the night, I have this weird fucking urge to shake and twist and strut. It takes all my willpower not to break into all shook up.

I get home at three in the morning and it just explodes out of me. All shook up? All shook up. Jailhouse rock. Devil in disguise. Heartbreak hotel. With all the moves. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. So you're saying you're what? Like, possessed? Well, seems like it. Well, cover me in bling and call me the king. This is a most unusual case. Can you help me? Let me get this straight. You want me to make Elvis disappear?

Yes! We play the Hammersmith Odeon tomorrow night. Our biggest gig ever. I have to be rid of him by then. Hmm. Can you help me? First, I'll need to speak to him. No! Why not?

I'm not letting him take control of me again. Can you feel him now? His beat in your veins, his bounce in your hips. He's in one of his more melancholy moods What do you mean? I mean I'm trying very hard not to sing I'm so loathsome I could cry Let him

No fucking way Oh go on, let him, come on You having a fucking laugh? I'm Fuggy Trashmouth of the Shitstains I do not sing about the moon and stars of Weeping Robbins Yes, alright, but it's not you, is it? I mean, it's him. Using my voice.

Listen, thuggy. No, you know what? If I'm going to help you, I am going to need to talk to him. No way. You know what? I'm starting to think you're yanking my chain. What? Why would I do that?

You're joshing me, aren't you? No, it's true. It's not. It is. It's not. It is. It is. It's true. It's fucking true. It is. It's true. I don't believe it. It's true. It is true. It's true. It's not.

I don't believe it. It's true. It's true. Well, well, well. Elvis, we meet again. Well, isn't this a surprise? How are you, pal? How am I? How are you? I mean, I'm keeping it real, man.

It's great to see you. Well, I gotta be honest. I feel I owe you an apology. What? Why? Well, the whole heart attack thing. I mean, you fixed it so beautifully. Oh, no, come on now. That was the easy part. Getting you out of the country and setting you up as a fisherman on Saipan, I mean, that was the tricky bit. Right, right, but I mean, you know, you dotted every I and crossed every T, and then three hours into my new life I cut myself on a worm hook and bleed to death.

Oh, well, I mean, well, yes, I mean, that was quite unfortunate, yeah. After all that trouble you went to, I mean, I am sorry about that. These things happen, you know. Well, but you know what? I think life as a fisherman weren't for me. In retrospect, it does seem that a profession without hooks might have been a better choice. No, no, no, no. I mean, I wasn't ready to quit.

What? Come on, Elvis, you said you couldn't stand the fame. You said that you would just... But I've realized that I still need the music. I think my best work is still ahead of me. Ah, well, you see, that's what I need to talk to you about. My music? I seem to recall that you're more a Beatles kind of guy.

Kinks, actually. Kinks, my lord. Well, look, in any case, your music isn't any of my potatoes. It's the fact that you're using my client as a vessel. Your client should be thrilled. Yeah, well, I'm with you, but he isn't. He's angry. Yeah, he's always angry.

It's kind of his thing. Yeah, but, you know, now he's really angry. He's, you know, stressing out. I mean, come on, you've got to understand that you're undermining his style, right? What style? Yes, well, you know, I must admit his music isn't exactly my cup of cocoa

either. It's just noise. I mean, come on, the lyrics are restroom graffiti. Right, but then why did you choose this chump as your vessel? I don't understand. He's got so much energy. I love his rebellious spirit. And most importantly, he has a terrific voice.

Does he? Well, you wouldn't know the way he yells into the microphone, would you? But yes, it's real special. Huh. I have to say I'm surprised. It's so sad that he's screaming himself hoarse like that and wasting all his energy on smashing up instruments. Eh, I think it's intentional. I'm here to help harness his energy into dance moves and teach him how to sing. And together, he and I will create something very special.

Don't you think another vessel would be better suited? I mean, there are thousands of musicians out there you could possess. No. No, it's his voice I want. It's inspired me to write songs again. Right. What? Really? New songs? Sure. You want to hear one? Hell yes, I want to hear one. Then let's rock and roll.

Let me be your lover, man. I swear I will be true. Let me show you that I can. Cause I'm in love with you. Let me show you a good time. The stars are shining bright. Honey, it would be a crime to waste such a lovely night.

Let me be your lover, man. That will be true. Are you that? Fuck yeah, that's enough of that garbage. Well, actually, I was quite enjoying it, really. You should have heard the... You shut your fucking mouth or I'll skin you alive. Right, yes. Well, actually, I was quite enjoying it, really. You should have heard the people... You shut your fucking mouth

or I'll skin you alive. Right. Yes. Look, Thuggy, I understand you're upset, but... What are we going to do about this? Well, you know, I think the easiest thing would be for you to make peace with the situation. Are you absolutely

shitting me? Well, most people would kill to channel Elvis. I mean, it's Elvis. My friend Roger, for example. Now, he's an Elvis impersonator. His physical resemblance really is remarkable, but his voice, I mean, God, it sounds like glass in a coffee grinder.

Why? Why are you telling me this? Well, Thuggy, how would you fancy a new life as an Elvis impersonator? Are you serious? Absolutely. Yes, yes. I mean, it's a booming industry, really. And you'd be the king of it. The king. I am this close to ripping your fucking guts out, mate. Chill, Thuggy. Chill, chill.

Don't tell me to chill. I've got fucking Elvis in me. Yes, all right, all right, all right. Thuggy, chill, chill. Don't tell me to chill. I've got fucking Elvis in me. Yes, all right, all right, all right. Thuggy, you're losing control again. Thuggy, look, focus, focus, focus, focus on the sound of my voice. Let me show you that I can, because I'm in love with you. What do you think? I think it's groovy.

Oh, thank you very much. Am I the first person to hear it? You sure are. God, I mean, what an honour. Well, I will share it with the world tomorrow. Oh, um... Oh, you're going to hijack Thuggy's gig at the Hammersmith Odeon? Hijack? No, no, no.

I'm going to save the poor boy from himself. Right. How so? I'm not going to let him get up on that big stage and make a fool of himself. Well, this is an important gig for him, I think, Elvis. Don't you think he should get to play his own music? You call that music? Well, you must have noticed what happened last time you possessed him on stage. I mean,

love me tender, love me sweet. Ah, the crowd went wild. Yeah, throwing bottles. Well, they used to throw their panties, now they throw bottles, kids, right? Well, I think you're embarrassing him. What?

You're calling my songs embarrassing? What? No, no. Oh, good Lord, no. Yours are the best. You're the king, man. You're the king. No, no, of course not. Good, because I've got some fine new tunes up my sleeve. Memphis Sunset. Tears of Honey.

Got a load of loving to do. I'm especially fond of that last one. You want to hear it? Um, yes. Yes, I do. Well, got a lot, lot, lot of lovin' to do. To-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo-da-loo- Make this stop. Make this stop. For fuck's sake, make this stop. Right, yes. Look, I'm sorry, Thuggy. He really likes your voice.

No fucking way. No fucking way. Thuggy, focus. You're losing control again. I am not going on stage tomorrow and singing got a lot of fucking loving to do. Why not? I think you should, actually. You what? Great musicians often do the unexpected. What the fuck do you know about music? Hear me out, thuggy. Hear me out. I mean, remember Bob Dylan in 1965 at the Newport Folk Festival?

That's ancient history. I was there. We were all expecting acoustic guitar and harmonica, but he plugs in an electric guitar, turns up the amps and roars like a rolling stone. The crowd went bananas. Pete Seeger ran on stage yelling, Give me an axe and I'll chop the cable right now. I swear, I thought it was the end of Bob's career.

And look at him now. You listen to his last record? Yeah, Slow Train Coming. Fuck has become a bored-again Christian, singing about Jesus and redemption and shit. So, that only proves my point that great artists constantly reinvent themselves. I mean, they take their audience by surprise.

As will you, Thuggy. No. They may not appreciate it at first, but give it a few years and they'll call you a genius. This, this is not a step forward. It's a giant fucking leap back. Fuggy Trashmouth doesn't prance around singing about love and tears.

My music is the real raw deal. I'm the voice of the tower block trash and the suburb scum. I am the first person to take a shit on live TV. I've got You gotta love the kid's spirit, hey? shit on live TV. I've got to... You've got to love the kid's spirit, hey? Look,

man, I'm doing my best to mediate between the two of you, but if neither of you is prepared to budge even a teeny weeny bit... He can keep his wardrobe. Sorry? He can keep his wardrobe. I was going to get him groomed tomorrow, but I'll be honest, the sparky look is starting to grow on me. Oh, yeah, me too.

I mean, I'm going to get one, really. I just can't decide what color I want my mohawk to be. I mean, would it be orange, yellow, pink? You are... Oh, Thuggy, you again. Right, listen, we're making progress. Oh, yeah? How's that? Well, he's agreed to let you keep your outfit.

What? You can keep wearing studs and leathers. I should fucking hope so! Well, you came this close to turning that mohawk into a slicked-up quiff, swapping the torn T-shirt with a high-collar bowling shirt and ditching the Doc Martens in favour of penny loafers. Now, now, now, look, look, look. I know this is difficult, but as long as the two of you are prepared to compromise a little bit,

I'm sure that... Compromise? I was thinking we could strike a deal for the gig at the Hammersmith Odeon tomorrow. He performs a song, you perform a song. For example, he sings Let Me Be Your Lover Man, and in exchange you follow it up with Pissing on the Union Jack. I'd rather eat a live rat. Well, look, I'm doing the best I can in a very unorthodox situation.

Are you? I came here because word on the street is that you fake deaths. Yes, we do fake deaths. We're the best in the business. Then that's what we do. What? Fake Elvis' death? No. Again? No. It didn't work well the last time. No, we... No. What, we fake your death?

Yes. Hmm. Interesting. But, um... How does that help you? The only way he will leave me alone is if he thinks I'm dead. Right. Yes. That could work. Yeah. I've always wanted to fake a death during a concert.

Jason could smash the guitar over your head with lethal force. Or you could stage dive to death. But then what? Won't you give up? Abandon your career because of Elvis? No. I took you for a fighter. Yeah, well, no. I wait.

Wait for what? For Elvis to get bored. Move on, find a new vessel. Once he's some other geezer's problem, I return from the dead and freak everyone out. It'll be funny. Ha ha ha. Don't waste your time with that silly plan. What?

Elvis, you've been listening? Well, of course. He can play dead for as long as he wants. I can wait too. And I'll be waiting for him once he's ready to rock and roll. It's not going to work. We can't keep secrets from Elvis. He can hear what you say even when he's not possessing it.

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh, come on, this is no time for singing. I wasn't... Listen, thuggy, I have an idea. You do? Yes, it's very simple, really. Tell me. You know why Elvis chose you as his vessel, don't you?

It's because of your voice. I've always hated my voice. Well, that may be so, but Elvis has a good point. You know, if you look past the rage and profanity, your voice is actually quite beautiful. Oi! Shut it! Shut it right now!

I meant that as a compliment. It's fucking beautiful. Shut up your arse. I've tried everything. Tried smoking 80 cigarettes a day, screaming for three hours straight, drinking whiskey for breakfast. Well, then you have an indestructible voice. I mean, even putting it under severe strain can't get rid of its unique character.

Well, I hate it. If I could get rid of it, I would. That's exactly what we're going to do. Hmm? What? We're going to operate on your vocal cords. Really? Really. I mean, without your vocal cords, Elvis won't be

interested in you, will he? Of course! Yes! You're a clever fucker, aren't you? Shred those motherfuckers! Yes, shred them! Wait, wait, wait Will I be mute? I've still got to be able to scream Oh, no, no, no, no, no

It would be a crime to ruin a voice like yours No, no, it must be preserved What? But I thought you just said you were going to No, no, no, no, Kozlovsky, our surgeon will perform a transfer A transfer? Yes, a vocal cord transfer.

I'm swapping my vocal cords with some other gazer. Yes, you are. Who? My friend, Roger. Who the fuck is that? I told you, he's the Elvis impersonator. Oh, him.

Didn't you say the fucker's got a voice like glass in a coffee grinder? Yes, he's an atrocious singer. I mean, is that a problem for you? I fucking love it. I have a feeling so will Roger. Now, hold on a moment. Elvis. Don't I get a say in this?

What's not to like? Well, for starters, I don't know this Roger. What's he like? Like you. Like me? Oh, spitting image. I don't know. It feels kind of weird.

Weird? Incestuous, you know, like possessing an impersonation. It's messed up, man. Elvis, Elvis, oh, come on, this is perfect. Oh, yeah? Yeah, I mean, you were right. You're not cut out to be a fisherman. You never were.

You're Elvis. You're rock and roll. You can't just quit music. Yeah. Right? But you've had enough of the limelight. I understand. You want a life without reporters and photographers,

without screaming fans and security following your every move. Yeah. Becoming your own impersonation gives you just that. I mean, you can keep your style and songs and charisma, but without the baggage. You can continue being Elvis Presley without being Elvis Presley. I mean, I suppose. Oh, it's perfect. You can keep doing what you love without destroying yourself.

Yeah. I guess you're right. Right? I am. Yeah. And I'll come and watch you on the first Friday of every month at the Five Bells pub. They have an Elvis tribute night then. You'll put every other Elvis impersonator out of business. Oh, man. Oh, that's good. Right?

I love that. Oh, it's brilliant. Well, you know what? I think this calls for a toast. Yeah, I've got a bottle of Veuve Cricot here somewhere. Oh, yeah, that's the good stuff. There we are. There we are.

Right. There you are. One for you. Thank you very much. One for you. Thank you very much. One for me. And good to see you again, man. Cheers. Cheers.

What the fuck is this? Piss. Hey, hey, no, no. The Persian rug. It's voove-clee-coe. Vove what? Vove-clee-coe. Vouv what? Vouv Clicquot. Vouv, Vouv, he fucking...

Don't you have any lager? No, I don't. Well, stop wasting time. Let's get me under this scalpel. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Not so fast. It's still the matter of payment. Oh. Yes. But you know, I'll tell you what.

You'll owe me some styling advice. Um, okay. Okay, then. Plus ten percent. Ten percent? Of what? Profits for the Shit Stains musical. I told you that ain't going to happen, ever.

Oh, I think it is. It bloody ain't. Well, I'll take the gamble. You're lost. Definitely going to happen. What was that? I said let's raise a toast to great music. All right.

To music. To music. Oh, to music. Right right. To music. To music. Oh, to music. Right you are, you are. Have a hit on that, old boy. Mmm, yeah. Stay tuned for the epilogue, but first the credits. This episode was written and edited by Philip Thorne, directed by Philip Thorne and Einstein Braga,

with story editing by Einstein Braga. Sound design by Adam Raymunda and music by Frederick Barden. The episode featured Lawrence Owen as thuggy trashmouth Alan Bergen as the interviewer, Julia C. Thorne as Alvina, and coming up Hemi Yeroham as Kozlovsky, Jordan Cobb as Jackie Williams, and Erin King as Mia Fox. Production assistance by Marty Patival and graphic design by Anders Pedersen. If you're supporting the show on Patreon, thank you so much. We could not do this without you. If you'd like to become a supporter, we'd be delighted. And you'll get access to a heap of bonus content,

including the new bonus episode, Villa Bianca, which we released last week. You can get hold of that by supporting us from just $5 on Patreon. Visit our website for more details. A shout out to our super patrons, that's Heat312, ZeeGreet, Rodney Dulligie, Ella Silver, Kevin Rowland, Sophia Anderson, Jem Fiddick, Alban, Asant, Amelie and Alison, Stephanie Weidenhiller, Raphael Eduardo Vifas-Varastaki, Ashlyn Brand, Alison Thro, Patricia Bornwagner, Megan Mighty, Dr Insanity, Yeti13, Grace Column and Cliff Hazinger. Info on how to support the show on our website, ameliapodcast.com.

And make sure to follow us on Twitter, Tumblr and Instagram for Amelia News, peeks behind the scenes and the occasional clues and riddles. And now, the epilogue. What happened with Elvis and Roger? Did they have a good career? Once the vocal cords had healed, they went straight on stage. When Roger, or rather Elvis, started singing, the crowd went wild, throwing underwear and screaming like teenagers. It was like the good old days. Hmm. But then...

Yes? He performed Let Me Be Your Lover Man. The audience didn't like it? But from the way you described it, it sounded like a classic Elvis tune. That was the problem. It sounded that way, but it was not. I don't understand. I swear I will be true, the crowd starts booing.

At I'm In Love With You, the first bottle hits his head. By the time they reach, the stars are shining bright. The bottles come from all sides. What? But why? An impersonator never sings an original song. It is the unwritten law of the impersonator. One of the bottles was still corked. It hit Roger so hard he died on the spot. That was the last we ever heard from Elvis. But one

day, when a boy is born with just the right voice, I am sure the king will be back. From the team behind the award-winning best fiction horror podcast Nightlight, a new audio drama that brings the southern folklore of True Blood and the cosmic horror of Lovecraft Country to your ears. You don't hear that, do you? Afflicted is a tale of hoodoo, a demonic book bound in human flesh, and natural disasters that are anything but natural. Which grave did you get the dirt from? Which grave? Afflicted, a horror thriller audio drama,

coming this Halloween thanks to our Indiegogo supporters. Subscribe now to get notified the moment the first episode drops. It's a blame.