When it came to rock and roll, chaos was pretty much a given. An occupational hazard, the less creative writers might call it. A de facto dream-state one regrets come morning only to crave desperately at night, so say the more clever ones. And say they did! The people needed answers after all—what car does he drive, which obnoxious radio DJ can't he stand, what was he thinking when he wrote that one specific line in that one specific song?! ... It was miracle work, it was. A reputation pieced together until there was enough he said, she said to make it worth reading. Rock and roll was life written on the backs of cigarette foils and train tickets, petrol receipts and takeaway menus—anything one happened to have on them when he began talking about one specific line in that one specific song! ... And he never made things easy either; for a breed that made their living off of such rhetoric, rock stars sure seemed to hate microphones. Or maybe they just hated reporters.

We know what he's doing now, they'd say; We wanna know what he did before!

Easier said than done. The subject in question was locked up tighter than a nun's legs on Sunday, hadn't gone on record in years. Anything before 1980 was a mystery.

“I’ve got a source that says he was seeing some girl named Wendy back then,” one would say.

“Nah, the girl’s name was Cathy,” another would chime in.

"I heard it was Tannice. Tannice Wiggs."

"The one from Romford?"

"No, Bermondsey. Romford was the twin sisters."

“Bleeding Christ, someone call Rita bloody Skeeter already. We need the real scoop!”

Those poor sods, they’d never get it right. It was too messy and there were far too many different accounts. By that time daughters would be discovering their mothers’ old diaries in the attic and wondering why the name ‘Remus John Lupin’ sounded so familiar. Eventually they’d connect the dots when an old song came on the radio, or Pops showed a throw-back special from the early 80s. He looked better then—shinier and brimming with hope and promise. Handsome even, in a ‘he snogged my mum’ sort of way.

“Mum, you really dated a rock star?” They’d ask.

“For a day,” she’d reply, if she felt like being honest.

Marauders had staggered to fame in the late 70s. Fresh out of school and brimming with expectations the media lapped them up in a torrent of love, hate and chaos. They’re tour in America had been going superb, and with a fresh new face in the industry opening their shows they were all anyone could talk about