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[B]'Go Mother-er Go!'[/B] and Waurgh! [B]'Snake Eyes'[/B] might give good [B]Motvrhead[/B], but in a world where penicillin and the motor car are now part of daily life, it's like discovering

Lord, those chicks are hot. So damn hot, the firemen come runnin’ to put out their flames. Oh yeah, baby. Feel the heat. Mmmm-hmmm.

And so on, in a way anyone with a special fondness for Channel 5’s late-night output will recognise. Tonight was always going to be sold as the last word in molten sleaze, but it’s still a shock arriving to find fire engines throbbing outside the venue. As it happens, glamorously-named support The Toilet Boys torched the joint indulging delusions of [a]Gene Simmons[/a], but you can still see the audience’s eyes lighting up in the street. They know the truth. It was [a]Nashville Pussy[/a]’s guitarist Ruyter Suys combusting lustily in her leopard-skin man-made fibres that caused the conflagration. Uh-huh.

Let’s get this straight, and white, and male – Nashville Pussy are part rock’n’roll band, part classic porn set-up. Ugly blokes with bad facial hair. Statuesque blondes in cheap underwear. A bottle of champagne shaken over the crowd to leering applause. A spot of ersatz lesbian titillation as Suys and bassist Corey Parks (6ft 9ins, stetson, attitude like a post-coital praying mantis) share a quiet Bowie/Ronson moment amid whoops of male delight.

And for the laydeez? Singer Blaine Cartwright, a man who looks like a failed cryogenic experiment on GG Allin, who stomps like Rumpelstiltskin at a line dance and bellows like his breakfast grits are lodged in his oesophagus. Oh yesss. They make The Cramps look like a post-graduate seminar in gender theory. They sure are classy.

Southern-fried like Lynyrd Skynyrd eating Krispy Kreme donuts, this really is the band time forgot – or maybe just repressed deep in its poor tortured psyche. ‘Go Motherfucker Go!’ and – Waurgh! – ‘Snake Eyes’ might give good Motvrhead, but in a world where penicillin and the motor car are now part of daily life, it’s like discovering a tear in the very fabric of evolution. The singer tips champagne down Ruyter‘s cleavage. The crowd go wild.

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