The Ayers song that touches us all... Why Are We Sleeping's poet COLIN SPEIGHT managed to clamber aboard the Time Truck and travel across the Stereo Highway between the headphones... Luckily there was room for us all to peep out from under the tarpaulin on his lyrical journey.

The stylus descends - Track One, Side One. May I?

Perhaps one day somewhere, an old man cradling grandchildren, spellbound in the firelight, reflects.....'You hear that then, that lorry? The real world motoring across the speakers? All gears and pistons rumbling and grinding, pumping clouds? Young, potent, oiled, proud to be a lorry just doing the business... You hear that lorry (sniff) ? Well that's me that is.'

Upon which sur-reality, a dodgem of questions crowd for young expression.

More likely perhaps we shall never know the man nor he his integral contribution to a seminal record, as they pass together into rock legend. Lost in the swirl of time, and possibly chauffeuring now for Lord Lucan and Mick Fincher, rock authorities refer to him prosaically as 'The Unknown Driver'.

But wait, is a double-bluff being played here? From the obscure heavy automation does a familiar 'soft machine' emerge? Really?

OK then, we'll just occupy the back of the truck. The speakers scramble the silence and we're off. For a brief countdown we're exposed to the ever transient now, before slipping into the Pre-Cynicalite Era of exploration and loon pants, tagged 1970 AD. It's as well to be 1970, blissfully unaware of the anger and guilt to come. With Our Kev at the wheel you can still spy a small cafe, stray inside, see a girl and start to say

'May I sit and stare at you for a while?.....' without CRAAASSHHH!! from a 1995 squad of Dalek Sisters on a Search-And-Correct, chanting crazed and mechanical 'T.h.a.t. w.a.s. a. p.a.t.r.o.n.i.s.i.n.g. r.e.m.a.r.k. D.o.n'.t. s.t.a.r.e. a.t. h.e.r. y.o.u. s.e.x.i.s.t. m.a.n.i.a.c. p.i.g. E.x.t.e.r.m.i.n.a.t.e., e.x.t.e.r.m.i...'

Oh dear, what a wretched year to be in. Fortunately it isn't (here) and we can still approach eachother without armour and say that sort of thing - especially when the band waft in with a soft jangly seductive envelopment; M. Ayers basso profundo charm contriving to be very French, and definitively English at the same time.

'The sunlight in your hair, you look so good just sitting there'

And then, as in one of those dreams where all things are familiar, and yet, intangibly strange, from behind the counter a saxophone steals, and through which and the smoke, and the soon Car-parked space, the flinty figure of Lol Coxhill looms and sways, casting shadows to chase acrfoss the room, shading all eyes agape - save the stricken somnolent stranger in the T.M.E cap, apertures off duty and sounding at will, ever ignored by posterity.

Unravelling without revealing, Lol snake-charms a riddle, allowing: 'This is me being easy. Take it or leave me...' Coralling beneath this cool, majestic swell, a voicely presence performs remote subliminal massage of the lady's psyche. Merely intrigued, she will please herself.......and listen.

'You don't have to say a thing, cos you're the song that others sing.'

Then the dream - shape changes. A reassuring return and repetition of innocent intent. The affably sincere young man explains.

'I just came in off the street, looking for a place to eat...'

But perhaps more than this... '....the company of your smile'.

That's all. No nonsense. No hidden charges.

'And....romance?' inquires her raised eyebrow.

'Well....'eyes avert, and return glinting......'what's wrong with that?'

'Ummm.......'.inspects the flavour......'nothing'she blinks.

Confederate smiles.

'You don't have to say a thing.....' Having had the company of her smile, the romancer drains his cup, and, alerted by some tiresome schedule, levers himself away from the chair. Turning at the door, he burns one last brooding immortal promise into her memory, and on a trailing note......is gone.

Snapshot smiles and might-have-beens ripple and clear. Somewhere an engine starts.

If we could, would we stay? - making stealthy moments so as not to disturb history too much, and become ever so wealthy speculators? Actually compose Bohemian Rhapsody, Imagine and, er, Stranger in Blue Suede Shoes?

Well, maybe, but maybe the sensual shock of old toys, warm tears for old loves, turns to impatience with old ways and old news.

'May I sit and stare at you for a while?'

So farewell then, and a feel of lorry-ness, briefly unloading now on the road back to then, then muted, and darkening - away.

All that's kept, is a mood raised and exposed, picking up tangential images. Slight, but important, they shape you.

Moments of richness from a man in a creative elite.

Pause, for thought.

COLIN SPEIGHT