Pocket Rocket is dead. Long live Pocket Rocket.

So my recent attempt to up the frequency of rehearsal and the level of commitment to Pocket Rocket resulted in our drummer leaving the band.

Last week, Nigel called me to confess, that after much thought, he didn't think he would be able to make the level of commitment that he knew I wanted from him. He is a creative director at an advertising agency and can't be sure he will always be able to finish work in time to make weekly weekday evening rehearsals.

He lives in Surrey; and we play in London. If he plays a gig on the weekend, it's seven (sober) hours out of his day spent driving in and out of London, loading and unloading his drum kit, for 30-40 minutes of performance. He is also currently going through a divorce, so he needs to be with his kids on the weekends, not with his band.

The knock-on effect of all this is that my life-long friend and stalwart bass-man, Michael Wilson and I are going to go back to the musical drawing board for a while. (So much for cracking on! - Ed).

We have already dusted down the Phantom Limb, our old faithful drum machine. We're going to get some new songs together. We do plan to build a new band. An electric band. But possibly a sedentary one - I don't know? I fancy sitting down for a while. Maybe it's 'cos I'm tired. Maybe it's 'cos I'm pissed off. Maybe it's 'cos I'm tired of rock-posturing. Maybe it's 'cos, temporarily at least, I want to get away from the four-piece, in-your-face, alt-rock thing, that leaves us feeling in no-bands-land between the blues men and the indie kids.

"I can't see myself missing Nigel any more than I might miss, uh, Ross MacLochness, Ronnie Pudding, or Denny Upham, or Danny Schindler, or any of those..."

I will of course miss him dearly.

But the band must go on.