Daddy wouldn't let him take his gap year until he'd done a resit of his history A-level (that C would mean Durham was off-limits), but it was worth the wait: while at a full moon party in Thailand, the TFT had a life-changing epiphany. There's more to life than the fascist ratrace, he decided, as a 66-year-old rat-tailed cockney called Aurastarbeam handed him a pair of bongos. On his return to civilisation, weighed down not only by the total harshness of the modern world but also by an arm full of ragged festival wristbands, the TFT decided to dedicate his life to travelling the nation's parks, serenading sunbathers with his heartfelt ballads about economic meltdown and wars and bad stuff. “Stop the banks, halt the tanks,” he trills, strumming his battered acoustic guitar, as a stray frisbee hits him on the head and knocks him into a fountain, extinguishing his giant spliff and ruining his iPhone.
One of ten music tribes commissioned by Q magazine. Art direction by Daniel Knight / Salman Naqvi.
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