• Tom - vocals, guitar
• Kirsty - bass
• Ben - drums

Once upon a time there lived a jerk called Tom. He was a girl. After a rather miss-spent youth listening only to Tina Turner, Abba, and Will Haven he decided “Goddamnit! I want to form a band!” However- there was one small problem… He didn’t have any friends. And so night after night he would cry himself to sleep, inconsolable. How could he be a part of the most groundbreaking band since Vanilla if he couldn’t find anyone to join forces with?
“Calm yourself Thomas,” his sister would say. “Don’t dirty your knickers. The task is clear. You must scour the land in search of people who will join you at your table”.
“But where can I find such lousy jerks?” he would plead.
“Please – do not torture yourself my friend. For there are people suitable for this position,” she croaked, “but you must look hard to seek them out,” she added, cackling incessantly, before inexplicably exploding in a cloud of pink dust.
“You crass bitch!” Tom would scream, while lashing out at nothing. “You must tell me where I can find these persons!” But alas, Tom’s sister had meatamorphosised into a crème brulee and so it seemed that there was no help at hand. The task would be a lonely and arduous one.

Over the coming years Tom would think long and hard about what it was that he wanted. The first conclusion was simple. “A girl must be found!” he said aloud, proudly. “With blonde hair and big tits.” After a rather ill advised period spent toying with German lesbianism Tom experienced a kind of spiritual epiphany. As if out of nowhere appeared a girl who wanted to fuse the melodic brilliance of The Bangles with the subtle complexity of Shellac. Her name – Kirsty. Alas, she didn’t have blonde hair. But her tits were certainly big enough. And so these two rather silly bounders went about forming a band.
“Under what name shall we be known?” commanded Kirsty.
“Hmm,” pondered Thomas. “I cannot be sure. Have you any ideas?”
“What about ‘Black people don’t sell magazines’?” she replied.
“Well I certainly like that idea,” Tom mused, “but I’m not entirely sure. “What do you think of ‘Frottage’?”
“It’s got a nice ring to it,” thought Kirsty, “but doesn’t it sound, well, a trifle silly?”
“Perhaps,” replied Tom. “How about The Patty Winters Crème Brulee?”
“Again,” said Kirsty, “it does possess a certain charm. But I fear it may be a little long winded. How about The Patty Winters Length?”
“Or The Patty Winters Face?” Tom added. “I don’t know!” said Kirsty frustrated. “We may as well just be called The Patty Winters Show!”
“That’s wizard!” said Tom, ejaculating in his pants. “That must be the name of our band! Kirsty, you are a rock!”
“Well I’m all for it,” said Kirsty.
“My!” said Tom, “If I wasn’t such a raging homosexual then I may just bally well eat your pants!”

Later…
“This is just silly,” Tom found himself saying. “We cannot carry on without a drummer. This machine that we are using is simply vulgar.”
“Yes,” mused Kirsty. “I too am sick of this drum machine. We need someone who can hit things in time with our melodic yet dissonant post-pop anthems.”
“Yes. Someone must be found. And they must be real.”
And so The Patty Winters Show embarked on a perilous mission to find a drummer. They knew that it would not be easy. But, alas, life rarely is. All that they could hope for was that any potential candidate did not like the Red Hot Chilli Peppers or, worse still, favour them to the extent that they refer to them simply as ‘the Chillis’. Could there be anything worse? Hunger, disease, rape… All such problems fade into insignificance when confronted with this particular pseudonym.
Anyway, after months of searching, a suitable person was found. Their name - Ben! And so The Patty Winters Show was born!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The rest, as they say, is the future.