Bulbs flashed, teeth gnashed, tongues lashed and crash barriers smashed as 20,000 screaming pop kids ran riot in London's Trocadero Centre desperate to touch, smell or steal a piece of their idol -the young and beautiful Vicki Fuzzbox.

As she and her band ran for shelter across a tiled floor made slippery with fan-lust and urine, the sexual excitement exploded. It cracked and whiplashed like blue lightning between the sultry STAR and her panting public. Though disguised in Banana Splits shades and a Princess Margaret scarf, the unbridled and ambiguous sensuality of La Vixen - a heady mingling of the raging hormones of the young Elvis and the feline grace of Terete Trent Derby - churned the atmosphere into a maelstrom of teentrouserfury and pre-pube boobtube lust-thrusting that was only emphasised and exaggerated by the hideously ugly and unattractive nature of her mystery backing band.

Amidst raging rumours that she had ditched the Fuzzbox to seek solo fame, Vicki had flown in that very morning from LA to make a video of her shock contrib to the soon-come NME Elvis tape - a storming versh of that flicknife-in- the-eyeball leather jacketed hoodlum anthem 'Evil'.

But, true to her red Brummie punk roots, this was no megabuck poncerama. This was no champagne-guzzling, coked-up pig out. No, the woman who personifies to millions of little people the very concept of "STAR" was here to make a video with a total budget of . . . wait for it ... 24 pounds and 95 pee ....

Uh-huh, so the yanks have long been able to ride their alligators in straight off the crack-addled sidewalks of New York and whack out a cheapo vid - witness the brilliant Vietnam hamming of Sonic Youth's 'Addicted To Love'. Remember Quantick's video mindf--with the young savages of Fairground Attraction?

And now UK kiddywinkies can pop along to Star Trax in London's Troc and, for the price of a dole cheque, mime along to a song whilst poncing about with geetars and become INSTANT VID STARS! Several wannabe major label acts (Sign me! Sign me! Coke City here we come!) have already availed themselves of this service, figuring that the slavering pigs of A&R will be unable to resist sinking their yellowed teeth into spotty faced and ugly visuals. The process is painless. You bring your own audio tape or choose one of hundreds of backing tracks to which you can lip synch or dub your own screechings. You can choose the exciting "London Street Scene" backdrop (very popular with the tourists) if you wish and "special effects" are thrown in free.

KERRANG ! It's the pug ugleee Manc metal merchant Kevin Cummins on geetar! KERSPLAT! Its the insane wobbling hips of Steven Wells on bass! KAPOW! It's the robotic sex-machinery of Steve "sticks" Lamacq on drums! HUBBA HUBBA! It's the demented wobbling of Mr Banana on backing vocals and . . .

AKSHUN !

The cameras roll and Vix ATTACKS the mike like a speed crazed Red Army tank regiment! THE boys with guitars RAM great slippery lengths of mucus membrane down each other's throats! Vix THROWS shapes previously thought impossible outside the tents of carnival contortionists! Wells gasps the first of many orgasms as Cummins rubs his Vaselined guitar neck across his throbbing crotch! In his twisted dreams he is copulating with the rotting corpse of Jimi Hendrix!

But it's all eyes on Vicki and Mr Banana as their traded choruses reach a devastating crescendo of barely restrained go-go dementia not witnessed since Travolta tangled with Olive Neutron Bomb in the slippery depths of Grease.

WELLAH WELLAH WELLAH HUH! The room stinks of sweat and howls with the satanic death whinings of rock 'n'roll as we know and despise it. AAARGH! In some festering hellish cesspit Elvis suffers another Big Mac heartattack!

CRUNCH ! A by-now sexually out-of-control Cummins, his neck a festering ocean of red suck marks, has landed with both feet on the big toe of Wells and SMASHED IT TO BLOODY PIECES. But they don't care . . . the rock 'n' roll is just too frantic, too fast, too crazy. Vicki is lost in an entire universe of her own and this is not a universe that recognises ANY of the physical laws that govern our own.

La Mack Attack has drummed himself into a glassy-eyed state of total SEXZEN ! His lithe form jerks and spasms as the rock drug penetrates his pleasure centres like a red hot surgical needle and trashes his already splintering nervous system with seemingly endless waves of CLlMAX! UH! UH! OOH! AH! AAAAAAAAAARGH!

Splat!

And now, suddenly, it's over. Vicki is not even sweating. Coolly she leads the hobbling, limping and groaning rockboys out to view the fruits of their insanity. As we watch and sip wine coolers in the plus velvet VIP lounge the video is blasted onto the screens that adorn the Star Trax facade.

Silence crashes over the chanting, foot stomping crowds as they turn their eyes like one vast, drugged animal to the gold lame'd Vicki who dominates the vid's first flickering image. The noise of London's traffic stills even the 500 or so cops who link arms in front of the now-stilled mob seem to realise that they are about to see ROCK HISTORY.

The video crashes to its last frame. There is total silence. Then people begin to sob. A scream rips through the crowd. A frenzied mob bursts through the police lines. No! The police have joined the mob !

the door of the VIP lounge crashes in! Ken Russell is at the head of a screaming mass of humanity.

"Beautiful, darlingsah!" he screams before he is trampled underfoot by the frenzied DM's and Kickers of the multi-limbed and thrashing beast behind him. The two score or so of specially selected celebs panic and push themselves against a wall. Liz Taylor starts screaming uncontrollably and waving her bejewelled arms like a deranged Buddha. But it's not her the mob have come to worship.

It's too late. Vicki and the mystery backing band are long gone in the WEA real leopard-skin seat psychedelic Roller, having destroyed the rock video as a valid form of expression.

The BBC haven't just banned this video, they have hired three dozen mutant Ninja assassins to exterminate the perpetrators. They sweat, these fat mandarins of the visual image. There is no reason why everybody should not rush out NOW! and become THEIR OWN rock star. An industry creaks and then topples into the trashcan of history.

Punk as Nemesis is finally realised. Goodbye EMI! CBS! MCA! It's been shite knowing you!